Aaron ends up driving me home. Once I get out, heels dangling from my fingers, barefoot on the pavement and feeling zero shame about it, I glance back to see him still in the driver’s seat. Not moving. Not even pretending to. I raise a brow.
“What are you waiting for? A divine intervention?”
He blinks at me like he’s stuck buffering. Hands loose on the steering wheel, but his shoulders stiff like he doesn’t know what the next step is. I sigh, dramatic enough to jolt him out of whatever trance he’s in.
“I promise, I’m not stealing your innocence or something. You can just come get something to drink. Or we can hang out for a bit.”
Like wildfire, his whole face turns crimson. It rushes up his neck, settles under those sharp green eyes of his, and he looks away fast, like he doesn’t trust himself to look/straight at me. It’s so unexpectedly endearing, my chest actually flutters. I realize it’s only the second time I’ve seen him like this – bashful, flustered, the calm and controlled Aaron completely dismantled.
–
He finally gets out, awkwardly shutting the door, and walks toward me. The streetlight hits his jawline just right, highlighting the faint stubble there, and I have to bite back a smile. He’s handsome in this quiet, unassuming way none of the cocky, performative energy most guys radiate Just Aaron, sturdy and understated. And it makes me want to push at his edges just to see how far he’ll go.
–
The redness still lingers under his eyes, making him look like he’s
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fresh off a secret crush confession, and God, it takes everything in me not to tease him. Not yet.
“Or do you have to pick up your niece from Owen’s? You said you took her there, right?” I ask, tilting my head.
“Yeah.” His voice is low, a little rough, like speaking costs him more than it should. “My sister’s there too. It’s Kenzie’s dad’s week, so he’ll pick them up either way.”
Right. Aaron mentioned that in one of his letters – that his sister was divorced. I nod, about to slip my hand around his arm to tug him toward my building, when something catches my eye.
Dangling from his Jeep’s driver–side window is the last thing I ever expected: a tiny Hello Kitty keychain, pink bow and all. My mouth literally drops.
I’m so stunned I forget to breathe. Aaron notices, follows my stare, and exhales like this has been waiting to happen. “My niece gave it to me. Cute, isn’t it?”
His voice is dry enough to sand wood, but the faint twitch in his mouth tells me he’s bracing for mockery.
“Yeah.” I murmur, smiling despite myself. It’s ridiculous and charming all at once this big, broad–shouldered guy with a pastel cartoon trinket dangling off his car. Somehow it makes him even more attractive. Like he’s untouchable in every way except the ones that matter
As I lead him up to my apartment, I sneak a quick glance at my phone, opening my past chats with Theo. Huh. Guess it’s a trend with little girls – Theo’s niece gave him the exact same keychain last month. Figures.
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“Make yourself at home,” I say, shrugging off my jacket and tossing it on the couch, throwing my shoes halfway across the room. He doesn’t move. Just stands there like he’s afraid stepping into my apartment is going to trigger some kind of alarm.
I head for the kitchen, washing my hands, and remember to glance back. “Do you want something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Wine?” I tug open the fridge. “There’s juice and beer too.”
Silence. Suspiciously long silence.
“I’m fine with anything,” he finally says, voice careful, like he’s trying not to say the wrong thing.
“Perfect.” I pull out a bottle of wine I’d been saving for a ‘special occasion.‘ Mostly because Emilia’s been militant about her alcohol ban, and I’d promised to behave… but tonight feels special enough. I shoot Em a quick text don’t come home tonight. Not that she needs the reminder. If she’s audacious enough to be at Owen’s, she’s not coming back here.
―
I consider snacks, but everything in the cupboard has Emilia’s fingerprints on it – health bars, trail mix, those miserable chocolates she swears are “good for you.” I click my tongue, abandon the idea, and grab two glasses.
When I return, Aaron’s still in the exact same spot, stiff as a statue, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to sit or breathe. His eyes flick over my living room work reports stacked on the coffee table, throw blanket sliding off the armrest/– and then back to me. His ears go red again when I catch him looking.
I set the glasses down with a little flourish like I’m auditioning for
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bartender of the year. “Relax, Aaron. I don’t bite. And I’m not the type with rules about coasters or where your shoes go. I meant it – you can actually make yourself at home.”
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “It’s not that. I was just… noticing the place looks different.”
I glance around, suddenly hyper–aware of the fact he’s right. “Yeah, well. My apartment usually mirrors my brain. Last time you saw it, my brain was an absolute landfill. Sorry about that — mortifying doesn’t even cover it.”
—
He shakes his head, quieter now. “That’s not what I meant. Can I…?” He gestures at the room, vague but hopeful.
“Go wild,” I say, waving a hand. “Just don’t touch the lamp or the coffee table. The lamp has emotional value and the table is held together by the grace of God.”
His focus sharpens immediately, like I’ve just given him a mission. He starts with my shoes, lining them up so straight you could use a ruler. Then the mail on the counter. Then the stack of papers on the coffee table. By the time I’ve poured the wine and flopped onto the couch, he‘ s practically staging an HGTV’reveal.
When he finally sits down next to me, I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning too obviously. His ears are pink.
“OCD?” I tease.
“Something like that.” le doesn’t elaborate, just glances at me like he knows I’m watching him too closely.
We lapse into silence the easy kind. He flips on a hockey rerun, dissecting plays in that low, deliberate way of his. I let him think I’m glued to my laptop, but really I’m watching the way his mouth curves
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when he’s mid–analysis, the way his hand flexes over the remote like he could just as easily be holding mine.
Every so often I interrupt with dumb spelling questions – “report,” “and,” words I definitely know and he answers without so much as a smirk. Which just makes me want to poke at him more.
He leans forward, eyes narrowing on the screen. “That pass… terrible. Winger had the lane wide open and still forced it center.
”
I pause mid–sentence in my report and glance up at him. “Translation: that guy’s a dumbass?”
A twitch of a smile pulls at his mouth. “Basically,”
—
It becomes a rhythm – him dissecting plays in clipped, precise little sentences, me translating them into insults. Eighty percent of me is hanging onto his words, twenty percent pretending to work on my report. I can’t help it; he’s so focused when he talks about the game, like the world narrows down to strategy and ice. And maybe it’s unfair, but God, the concentration looks good on him.
Another play rolls and he mutters something about defensive coverage.
I cock an eyebrow. “So… this is hockey–guy code for ‘you’d bench him if you were coach,‘ right?”
He huffs, almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re not wrong.”
We end up gossiping about players the way people gossip about celebrities. I tease one guy’s skating posture, Aaron calls another lazy, and for once he doesn’t censor himself. His sentences are still short, sure, but there’s more of them than I’m used to. And the strangest part? He’s…talking. Actually talking.
It’s weird, but at the same time… nice.
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At one point, Aaron leans back, half–turned toward me, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Oh, don’t pretend you’re not enjoying it,” I shoot back, tilting my chin.
His smirk softens, his gaze catching mine for a fraction too long. Then he shakes his head, as if snapping himself out of it, and goes back to watching the replay. “You just… remind me of someone I know.”
That makes me blink. My fingers pause over the keyboard. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says quietly, still watching the screen but not really seeing it anymore. “It’s… not a bad thing.”
And maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s the way his cars are turning pink again, but I can’t help smiling into my glass.
I give up pretending like I’m getting any actual work done. “Are you hungry?”
“Not really.”
“I can make you something.”
His mouth curves like he knows exactly what that means. “I could eat.”
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