Emma:
I didn’t sleep much.
Not because I was cold—Wright’s jacket had done its job there—but because every time I closed my eyes, I saw the way he’d looked at me in the car. Like he was holding himself still on purpose. Like one wrong breath might scare me off again.
By morning, the snow from the night before had melted into slush, the world gray and undecided, the perfect picture of November at its most honest.
I stood in my kitchen with a mug of coffee I’d reheated twice and still hadn’t touched, staring out the window like something out there might explain how we were supposed to do this without ending up right back at square one... Whatever this was.
My phone buzzed on the counter.
Wright.
Just his name. No message yet.
My heart did something stupid and hopeful.
I picked it up
