A knock sounds at the apartment door downstairs.
Jillie gasps.
"He's here."
The way she says it makes my heart ache. Bright, eager, trusting. As if Colby arriving is already something normal. Something expected.
I follow her down the stairs, rehearsing sensible thoughts.
This is temporary.
This is for publicity.
This is controlled.
This is fake.
Then I open the door.
Colby stands on the landing in dark jeans, a navy Blizzards hoodie, and a team jacket with his name stitched near the shoulder. Snow dusts his hair. He holds a cardboard coffee carrier in one hand and a small paper bag in the other.
My sensible thoughts scatter like spilled flour.
"Morning," he says.
"Morning."
His gaze drops to Jillie, who has frozen halfway down the last step.
"You ready?"
"I have questions." Jillie offers.
"I expected nothing less."
"Do hockey arenas have dress codes?"
He glances at me.
I lift both hands. "I already tried."
Colby looks back at Jillie with complete seriousness. "The official dress code is enthusiasm."
She brightens. "I have that."
"I noticed."
Then he hands me one of the coffees.
"Here."
No asking.
No guessing.
Just a cup placed in my hand like he has done it a hundred times.
I glance down.
