Page 141 of Lose You Twice

All night, I’ve watched her move through this house, taking care of everyone, making sure they have whatever they need.

But no one asked what she needed. So I do. “What do you need?”

“I don’t know.” She looks down at the floor, rubbing her thumb along the edge of the counter. “The other night…”

My pulse changes. Guess we are going to have this conversation now. “Yeah?”

“I don’t regret it.”

I exhale slowly. Something in my chest relaxes. “Me neither.”

Her eyes lift to mine. “But I’m scared.”

“I know.”

“I mean, really scared, Kai. Not first-date butterflies scared. This is complicated. My life is complicated. Your life is…” She gestures vaguely at me. “Insane in a very structured way.”

Despite myself, my mouth twitches. “I have hockey and the things that go along with it. Takes up most of my time.”

“You also have a future in Seattle.”

We share the same fears. It feels like this, whatever it is between us, already has some sort of an expiration date. But who says it has to?

“And I have this.” Her gaze flicks upward, toward the bedrooms. “Them. School. Work. A car that may or may not be on its death bed. A dad who thinks child support is a suggestion and not required. A body that sometimes acts like it’s trying to murder me.”

She says the last part quietly, but I can tell she doesn’t want to talk about that, so I don’t push it. Not tonight anyway.

She swallows. “I can’t do something casual with you.”

I start walking around the counter, making my way closer to her. “I never said I wanted casual.”

Her eyes search mine. “You should think before you say that.”

“I have.”

“Kai.”

“I don’t want casual,” I say again. Slower this time. “I don’t want pretend. I don’t want whatever version of this that lets us keep one foot out the door so it hurts less later.”

Her expression cracks just a little.

My hands ache with the need to touch her, but I keep them at my sides.

“I don’t know how this works,” I admit. “I don’t know how to make it easy. I don’t know what happens with Seattle, or your family, or the job, or any of the parts that are going to be hard.”

She laughs softly, but it sounds close to tears. “That was almost comforting.”

“I’m getting there.”

“You’re doing great.”

“I know that I want you,” I say.

The humor slips away.

Her breath catches.

“Not just because of the kiss,” I continue, voice rougher now. “Not just because of the shower or because I’ve spent the last week losing my mind every time you walk past me. I want you in the ways that are harder than that. The mornings. The sick nights. The parts that aren’t easy.”