Her warmth in this bed.
The having of it.
This was the part where she left. The only question was whether he survived it this time by choosing to let go before shehad to pull away, or whether he held on and made her do the cutting.
Frost had covered every surface in the apartment.
The mirror. The windows. The books with their cracked spines on the nightstand. The desk drawer where his early, terrible poetry sat hidden in pages she had never read. The sheets that smelled like her.
He stood in his own ice and waited.
sixteen
. . .
When the taverndoor swung open, the warmth hit Phoebe like a wall.
Bodies were everywhere, packed in booths, crowding the bar, festival-goers shoulder to shoulder.
Ruby had spotted her first, and the congratulations, and the wordcontractwere still ringing off the rafters.
The table erupted. Ivy looked up sharply from her tea. Ember half-rose from her seat. Mia was already pulling out a chair, her coordination notebook forgotten for once, her face split wide with genuine delight.
Phoebe's stomach dropped.
She turned back to the door, but it was already swinging shut, and through the narrowing gap she saw the back of Thorne's head as he walked away into the cold, his shoulders squared, stride unhurried, and already half-erased by the falling snow. She could not tell if he had heard Ruby's voice or if the door had already been closing when the words came through.
The not-knowing sank in her belly like a stone.
"Get over here." Ruby grabbed her wrist and hauled her toward the booth with cheerful, irresistible force. "Sit. Drink. Talk. In that order."
Phoebe sat. Someone put a glass of something amber and warm-smelling in front of her. The questions came fast and warm and impossible to deflect.
"What label?" Ruby planted both elbows on the table. "How much? When did you find out? And more importantly, why am I hearing this from Mia's vendor grapevine instead of from your actual mouth?"
"My vendor grapevine is impeccable," Mia said, not even slightly apologetic. She was already in logistics mode, ticking points off on her fingers. "What does the contract require? What's the timeline? Does it break your Frostfall obligation? What are the penalties for early departure? Because Zara will need to know about programming changes and I'm going to need at least forty-eight hours to?—"
"Mia." Ivy's voice, quiet and level, cut through the noise. "Breathe."
Mia breathed.
Ruby, undeterred, was already narrating a fantasy tour schedule that included herself as Phoebe's personal stylist. "Unpaid," she insisted, pointing a finger. "I want to be clear about that. Completely volunteer. But with full backstage access and a wardrobe budget. A reasonable wardrobe budget. Okay, an unreasonable wardrobe budget. Phoebe, you need someone with taste on this, and I love you, but that green thing you wore on Tuesday was a choice?—"
"Ruby," Ivy said again.
Ruby stopped talking and the booth went quiet. All four of them were looking at her. Ruby was in mid-gesture. Mia’s pen was hovering over her notebook. Ember had her coffee cradled in both hands, her eyes too knowing.
Ivy with that careful stillness she carried, the one that saw everything and rushed nothing, leaned forward and said, "Is this what you want?"
The answer should have come easily. It did not.
"Right now… today… is it still the thing you want most?" she pressed.
Phoebe opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
Ember reached across the table and took her hand. Her palm was warm from the coffee cup, and she held on, steady. Ember had stood at this exact crossroads a year ago. She knew what the ground felt like when it shifted.
"What about Thorne?"
