I wrap both hands around my mug just to steady myself.
“This is why I keep trying to set rules,” I admit. “Because Jillie attaches herself completely. And once she loves someone…” I shake my head slightly. “That’s it. She’s all in.”
Silence settles softly between us.
Then Colby says very quietly: “So are you.”
My breath catches. I look up too quickly.
He’s watching me steadily now. Not teasing. Not flirtatious. Honest.
And suddenly the air between us changes.
Becomes heavier.
Closer.
Dangerous.
I look away first. Because he’s right. And because I don’t know what to do with the realization that maybe I’ve already started attaching too. To the way he remembers things, to how carefully he treats Jillie, to how calm the house feels when he’s in it.
That thought should terrify me more than it does.
“You ever get tired?” I ask quietly instead.
The question surprises him.
Then something in his face shifts. The careful public version of himself loosens slightly. “All the time,” he admits.
I lean back against the counter. “Even hockey?”
A humorless laugh leaves him. “Especially hockey.”
That answer catches me off guard.
“You love hockey.”
“I used to.”
The honesty in his voice startles me. He stares down into his mug for a moment before continuing.
“Somewhere along the line it stopped feeling like a game and started feeling like a machine.” He shrugs one shoulder slightly. “Everything became performance. Interviews. Sponsorships. Public image. Winning. Losing. Recovering fast enough to do it all again.”
The loneliness underneath the words wraps around the kitchen quietly.
“I used to wake up excited to skate,” he says softly. “Now half the time I wake up tired before my feet hit the floor.” Something inside me aches unexpectedly hard. Because people look at Colby Reid and see money, fame, headlines, and arena lights.
Not exhaustion. Not loneliness. Not a man standing in my kitchen admitting he barely recognizes his own life anymore.
“I thought coming back to Briar Cove would help,” he says quietly. “I just didn’t realize why.”
Our eyes meet. And suddenly the room feels too small. Too warm. Too intimate.
So naturally Jillie’s vanilla candle chooses that exact moment to flicker dramatically like a romance movie accomplice.
Traitorous candle.
“You want to watch a movie?” I blurt.
