Chapter 21
SAWYER
We’re wrapping up the last take, and it hits me how many of these little videos we’ve squeezed into the time we’ve had together.
I don’t think it was supposed to be so planned, to turn into what it has, and I didn’t expect to enjoy it this much.
Nor did I think, as the time was coming to an end, I’d start to miss it already.
Juliette lowers her phone and squints at me.
“Okay,” she says. “Do it again, but this time pretend you’re not explaining it to a hostage audience.”
I press a hand to my chest. “Wow. Harsh. These seeds and I have built trust.”
Charlie snorts from behind the counter while Juliette bites back a smile and re-angles the phone. We’re standing near the big worktable, packets of seeds spread out like we’re hosting a very wholesome poker night.
“Take three,” Juliette says. “Go.”
I clear my throat and lean casually against the table, like this isn’t my third attempt at explaining soil depth to the internet.
“Okay,” I say, nodding seriously at the camera. “Spring seed tip. If you want your summer plants to thrive, don’t rush them. Prep your soil now. Light, loose, well-draining. Think cozy bed, not gym locker.”
Juliette makes a strangled noise behind the phone.
“I’m not wrong,” I defend.
“You compared dirt to a gym locker,” she says. “Please continue.”
I grin and keep going. “Check the seed packet. Some seeds like to be buried deep. Others just want a light cover. Respect their boundaries.”
“Plant consent,” Charlie mutters, grabbing his jacket.
Juliette lowers the phone. “That’s it. That’s the one. The internet can’t handle more than that anyway.”
Charlie heads for the door, keys already in hand. “Are you almost done?”
Juliette waves his way. “I’m about five minutes behind you. Go ahead, we’ll lock up and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The door clicks shut behind him, the shop settling into its quieter, after-hours version of itself. Juliette starts gathering seed packets, humming under her breath, when her phone buzzes.
She glances at the screen.
Her shoulders drop a fraction.
“Oh,” she says, surprised.
“What?” I ask, because apparently, I care now about the tone of a single syllable. Which I guess I do if it’s coming from her.
“I had plans with my little man to make homemade pizzas tonight.” She types a quick reply, then slides her phone into her back pocket. “But it seems David’s taking Theo to dinner now. He’ll drop him off later.”
“Oh,” I say, mirroring her.
Juliette laughs softly. “It’s not lost on me that the things I’ve run from for so long are all lined up in front of me right now.”
“You mean David?”
“Yes,” she says, stacking seed trays. “And hockey. Going to a game. Seeing a jumbotron, for the love of Pete, and hopefully not having a panic attack or vomiting when I do, since there’s only one memory on that screen that is burned into my brain for eternity…”
I hum, thoughtful. “That’s a lot of baggage to hold onto.”
“Yep,” Juliette says easily. “It sure is. I wish I could let some of it go.”
She shrugs like this is just another adjustment, another small pivot she’s learned to make without complaint. Then she goes back to tidying, stacking seed trays, smoothing things into place like order is something you can create if you try hard enough.
I don’t move.
Because all I can think about is how often she meets the world with patience and grace—and how rarely it seems to return the favor. How solemn the shop feels without Theo’s voice bouncing through it.
“Okay,” I say, decision made. “I have an idea.”
She looks up. I check my watch. There’s time.
“You’re free tonight?” I ask.
Juliette narrows her eyes. “Why do you sound like that?”
I grab my keys. “Because I’ve got a surprise for you.”
She hesitates, then sighs. “That never means what I want it to.”
“It means trust me, and have an open mind,” I say. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Maybe I should have given her a hint.
We walk side by side toward the Birdcage, and I sense the shift in her body before she says anything. Her steps slow. Her shoulders creep upward. She stays just a little closer to me than before.
“You’re okay,” I say casually, like we’re talking about the weather.
She huffs a quiet laugh. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true,” I say, holding her gaze for a moment. Instinctively, I reach out and take her hand in mine. “Hey, I’m here.”
Her gait slows for a second as she looks down at my hand covering hers.
“I know you are.” She glances at me, nervous, yes, but she’s not retreating this time. We stay hand in hand, united, as we approach the main entrance.
The doors are already unlocked. The security guard looks up and recognizes me, and gives a quick nod.
“Evening,” he says, stepping aside.
“Hey, John,” I manage with a nod as I hold the door for Juliette and gesture her through.
“After you,” I say.
She takes a breath and walks in.
The lobby is calm and mostly empty, all clean lines and polished floors, banners hanging high above us like gentle reminders of past games and big moments. The lights are dimmer than usual, everything scaled back, like the building itself is exhaling.
Juliette slows as she takes it in and then lets out a nervous little laugh. “I see what you’re doing,” she says, glancing at me. “Bringing me here to get rid of the jump scare.”
“That, too,” I admit. “But I also wanted to share this with you.”
Her smile softens at that, just a touch. As we keep walking, she bumps her shoulder lightly into mine, like she’s testing the idea of closeness.
I take the opening.
I reach for her hand, slow enough that she has time to pull away if she wants to.
She doesn’t.
Her fingers slide into mine easily, like they’ve been waiting there the whole time.
She glances down at our hands, then back up at me, her smile turning quieter, more real.
“See?” I say lightly. “Totally safe. No scary surprises yet.”
She laughs under her breath, nerves easing just a fraction, and lets her thumb brush against mine as we walk.
We pass through the corridor and push open the next door.
The arena opens up around us—quiet, empty, still. The air is cool and sharp, carrying that unmistakable clean cold that smells like winter and fresh starts. No crowds. No pressure. Just open space.
Juliette stops beside me, eyes wide as she takes it all in.
“This is the place I come when I need to let it all go,” I say quietly while I watch her looking at my arena. I want to see it through her eyes. “When things feel loud in my head.”
She turns toward me, listening.
“I thought it might help you, too,” I add. “But only if we give it a good memory first. Right?”
She nods slowly, then lifts her gaze—and freezes.
I feel it before she says anything. The way her hand tightens in mine. The sharp inhale she doesn’t quite manage to hide.
Her eyes are locked on the jumbotron, dark and dormant above the ice. Just a screen. Just a rectangle of metal and glass.
But I know better.
Her shoulders draw in. Her whole body reacts, like it’s bracing for something that already happened and might happen again if she blinks wrong. The air between us shifts.
I step a little closer, grounding us. “Hey,” I say gently. “It’s only a screen.”
She swallows, then lets out a shaky breath. “I know. My brain just remembers faster than I do.”
“That tracks,” I say. “Brains are rude like that.”
That earns me the tiniest huff of a laugh.
She looks back at me, steadier now, and her smile returns—small, real, a little brave.
“So if we’re going to replace the memory with a new one,” she says. “Let’s please make it a really good one, okay?”
Something warm and ridiculous spreads through my chest at that. Delight, maybe. Or relief. Or the realization that I actually get to be the one holding the steady ground for once.
“Deal,” I say. Then, gently, “Hey. Look up again.”
Her brows knit instantly. “Sawyer—”
“I’ve got you,” I say, already grinning. “Promise.”
She hesitates, then tips her head back.
The jumbotron flickers to life.
And there we are.
Huge. Inescapable. A close-up of the two of us standing far too close, my hand still wrapped around hers, her expression caught somewhere between panic and disbelief.
“Oh my—” She gasps, half-horrified, half-laughing. “Why are we that big…and what is my hair doing?”
“I mean,” I say, glancing up, “I think we look great.”
She lets out a startled laugh that echoes around us, her shoulders loosening as she looks from the screen back to me. “I’m going to pass out. Or hide. Or both.”
“Too late,” I say softly. “You’re famous.”
She swats lightly at my arm, still laughing, and the sound of it does something dangerous to me. The kind of laugh that pulls you in. The kind that makes you want to be the reason it keeps happening.
On the screen, she turns toward me.
Standing here beside me, she does the same.
For a second, everything lines up—the quiet, the cold, the two of us framed together above and below. Her laughter fades into something softer, her breath slowing as she realizes how close we are.
“You did this for me,” she murmurs.
“Maybe,” I admit. “But I wanted to. I wanted you to be able to walk in here and know you’re more than okay.”
“You are constantly surprising me, Sawyer Stockton.” She shakes her head as she takes in the arena, laughing. Her eyes flick to my mouth. Then back to my eyes.
This distance between us narrows without either of us having to move, the pull is that great. However, I lean in, because I want to. So that she can feel it, too. Enough that she knows exactly where this could go.
“We need to give you a really good memory,” I murmur, my voice low and rough around the edges.
She swallows, her smile turning nervous again, but this time it’s the good kind.
“Yes, please,” she says softly, almost reverent. “I think that’s exactly what I need.”
The way she says it—like a truth she just uncovered—does something reckless to my pulse.
I don’t rush her. I don’t joke it away. Instead, I lift my hand and trace a slow line along the side of her cheek, my thumb brushing just beneath her eye. She stills instantly, breath catching, and I keep my gaze locked on hers so she knows she can stop this anytime.
She doesn’t.
Her eyes flicker past me for a split second, and up toward the giant screen above the rink when I see the realization hit.
We’re up there. Bigger than life.
Before she can spiral, I lean in and press the softest kiss to her forehead. I hold still, letting my lips linger there as she freezes.
Then she looks up at the screen again, sees it—sees us—and something in her expression cracks open. A smile curves at the corner of her mouth, small and almost disbelieving.
So I do it again. This time it’s her cheek. And this kiss isn’t racy, but it is slow. Intentional.
While her fingers slide up my chest like she needs something to anchor to, I tilt her chin up gently and kiss the tip of her nose.
I’m starting to dread unraveling myself from our position when her hands curl around the back of my neck like that’s exactly where they belong as she pulls me into her body firmly, kissing me.
It takes me completely off guard. Not because I don’t want it—but because I really want it.
She’s warm and decisive and just a little breathless, pressing her lips to mine like she’s choosing this, choosing me, and for half a second, my brain shorts out entirely.
Then instinct kicks in.
I pull her closer, one hand settling at her waist, the other cradling her jaw as I kiss her back—slow at first, then deeper, fuller. She exhales against my mouth, a soft sound that feels like victory and danger all at once.
There are gasps. Quiet laughs we don’t mean to make. The kind of heavy breathing that sneaks up on you when you forget where you are.
I rest my forehead against hers, still holding her, still very aware of the empty arena and the very real fact that we are absolutely, undeniably in public.
Reluctantly, I pull back only to catch my breath.
She laughs softly, eyes bright, cheeks flushed. “Wow,” she says.
“Yeah,” I murmur, kissing the tip of her head and pulling her close again.
We linger there for one more charged second before I step back, hands dropping, pulse still racing.
“Good memory?” I ask.
She nods, smiling like she might float right off the ice.
“Oh,” she says. “Very good.”