They go quiet. Jordan stands in the hallway, arms at their sides, jaw tight, watching me with eyes that are doing that thing, the thing where they’re trying to read whatever is hiding behind my eyes, and coming up short. The porch light spills through the sidelight window, catching the edge of their cheekbone, the sharp line of their jaw.
I cross my arms over my chest. Not defensive, just holding myself together, because if I don’t, I’m going to come apart at the seams, and I’ve spent too many years keeping my seams stitched to let that happen now.
“The problem,” I say, and my voice sounds strange in my own ears, stripped down and tired and more honest than I’ve been in months, “was never that I didn’t want you.”
Jordan’s eyes flick to mine, then away, then back. They don’t speak.
“The problem was that I wanted you enough to start imagining a future.” The words hang in the air between us, heavy and plain. “And imagining a future means admitting Drew isn’t coming back.”
I say it. I say the thing I haven’t said out loud in three years, not like this, not standing in the living room of the house he grew up in, with the person who loved him too, and the silence that follows is thick enough to touch.
“That’s the first fear,” I say. “The second one is worse. Loving someone means handing them the power to leave. And I’ve had enough of people leaving to last me a lifetime.”
Jordan’s hand finds the back of the couch, braces there. Their knuckles go white from their grip, but they don’t interrupt.
“I don’t want to stay in Sleighbell Springs because someone made a good enough case for it,” I tell them. “I’ve spent three years letting this town happen to me. Letting the store happento me. Letting grief happen to me. I don’t want that anymore. I want to stay because I decide to. Not because of you, not because of Drew, not because Melvin grumbles at me every Tuesday. Because I looked around and said, yes, this is mine.”
The words come out in a rush, a little breathless, and when they’re gone, the room feels different. Lighter, somehow, even though my chest aches.
Jordan stands perfectly still for a beat, then two. Their mouth works, like they’re testing words before letting them out. “I don’t want to be the reason you stay either,” they say. Their voice is quiet, deliberate. “I want to be part of whatever you build after you decide.”
The distinction settles between us. Not small. Not small at all.
We stand there in the quiet. Jordan’s hand is still on the couch, their shoulders squared, their gaze steady on mine.
I take a breath. “Do you understand what you gave up? Turning down Burlington?”
The question lands, and I watch Jordan’s jaw tighten.
“I do,” they say. “The money scares me. I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t. Two weeks’ work, good pay, the kind of job that covers rent and then some. Yeah, it scares me.”
They shift their weight, lean into the couch. “But Burlington was an old pattern. Take whatever work appears. Leave when necessary. Never build toward anything. I’ve been doing that for years, Maddie. Running this town like it’s mine, fixing chimneys and patching roofs, showing up for every damn thing, and then disappearing the minute something good comes along somewhere else.” They run a hand through their hair, messing it further. “Turning down Burlington wasn’t just about you. That fight forced me to see something I’ve been avoiding. I’ve been treating this place as temporary while telling everyone howmuch I love it. That’s not fair. Not to you, not to the town, not to me.”
The honesty of it hits me square in the chest. I uncross my arms, letting my hands fall to my sides.
“What happens when another job comes along?” I ask. The question I’ve been carrying, the one that wakes me up at 4 a.m. every night since all this started.
Jordan doesn’t flinch. “I can’t promise I’ll never leave town again,” they say. “I’m too honest for that, and you’d see right through it anyway. But I can promise this, that no decision that affects what we’re building gets made alone anymore. Not by me, not by you. We talk. We figure it out.” They pause, eyes on mine. “Permanent doesn’t mean I never leave town. It means I come back because my life is here.”
My throat moves as I swallow hard, and something in my chest cracks open, warm and terrifying.
I step forward, closing the gap between us, and kiss them. It’s brief and deliberate; I keep it that way on purpose, because if I let it go any longer, I’ll lose my nerve for what comes next.
“I need one day,” I say against their mouth. “Just one. Before anything else.”
Jordan nods. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask for more. Their hand finds my cheek, thumb brushing the edge of my jaw, and then they’re moving toward the door.
“One day,” they say. “I’ll be here.”
They slip out, the screen door swinging shut behind them with its familiar creak. I stand at the window, forehead pressed to the cool glass, and watch Jordan walk down the street.
The porch light catches the sandy bun, the broad set of their shoulders, the easy, unhurried stride that says they belong on these sidewalks. They don’t look back. They don’t need to.
I watch until the dark takes them, until all I can see is the warm glow of streetlamps and the outline of trees against thenight sky, and the house around me feels both emptier and fuller than it did ten minutes ago.
One day.
I can work with that.
