The lie tasted bitter.
I stopped at the observation window overlooking the rink. Maintenance had shut down most of the overhead lights, leaving only the safety floods burning. The ice gleamed dull silver in the semi-darkness. Empty. Still. Waiting for morning skate to bring it back to life.
My reflection stared back from the glass—hoodie pulled up, jaw tight, exhaustion carved into every line of my face. I looked exactly like what I was: a man running from something he couldn't outpace.
Her.
The memory of her apartment. Her skin. The way she'd whispered don't let go like I was the only thing keeping her tethered to earth.
I'd left anyway. Walked out before dawn broke because staying would've been worse. Would've made it real. Would've forced me to admit I'd crossed every line I'd drawn for myself and wanted nothing more than to cross them again.
She was probably relieved I'd disappeared. Smart enough to recognize a mistake when she saw one. Young enough to bounce back from bad decisions faster than I ever could.
The thought should've comforted me.
It didn't.
I pushed away from the window and kept walking. My footsteps echoed too loud in the empty corridor. Heading nowhere. Just movement for movement's sake because standing still meant thinking, and thinking led straight back to places I couldn't afford to go.
Nearly midnight.
She was gone.
I was alone.
Exactly how it needed to be.
The practice hallway sat dark except for the emergency exit signs casting thin red light across the concrete floor. I shifted the duffel bag higher on my shoulder, equipment rattling inside with each step. Just needed to drop it in storage. Lock up. Leave.
Then I saw it. Draped over the back of a folding chair someone had left propped against the wall—soft gray fabric, too delicate for this space of sweat and testosterone and violence.
Her sweater.
I stopped mid-stride. Heart kicked once, hard enough to bruise.
She must've forgotten it. Rushed out after her shift without checking. Left it behind like she'd left pieces of herself scattered through my thoughts all damn day.
My hand moved before my brain caught up. Fingers closing around the fabric, lifting it from the chair. The material felt impossibly soft against my calloused palm. Worn thin in places. Cheap but well-cared-for. The kind of thing she probably couldn't afford to replace easily.
I should've set it down. Should've walked away. Should've left it for lost-and-found. Instead, I brought it closer.
The scent hit me like a fist to the sternum—her shampoo, something clean and faintly floral. The coffee smell that clung to everyone who worked the café. Underneath it all, something uniquely her. Warm. Sweet. Dangerous as hell to a man barely holding his control together.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I stood there breathing her in like some kind of addict. Like I hadn't just spent the entire week avoiding her. Like I hadn't walked out of her apartment before sunrise specifically to prevent moments like this.
Put it back.
The rational part of my brain screamed the command. Drop the sweater. Walk away. Maintain the distance I'd fought so hard to create.
My fingers tightened in the fabric instead.
She'd worn this. Recently enough that her scent still clung to every thread. She'd pulled it on over that tank top she favored, had maybe tugged the sleeves down over her hands when she got cold.
I was so fucked.
The sweater hung limp in my grip. Physical evidence of my complete inability to stay away from her. I couldn't even avoid her clothes.
