Page 70 of Love so Cold

"Why'd you do that?" I ask, because I can't help myself.

For a moment, he doesn't answer, just studies me like he's trying to find something in my face. Then he shrugs, a small lift of his shoulders that seems to carry the weight of the world.

"Maybe I was wrong," he admits, and his voice is almost a whisper. "Or maybe I just need to figure out how to be right."

I don't know what to say to that. It's not the Victor I've come to expect—the one who seemed carved from ice. This guy looks... what? Lost? Hopeful?

"Guess we have a month to see which it is," I say finally, because what else is there?

"Hope so," he agrees, and there's the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

It's strange, this truce hanging between us. Fragile as a spider's web and just as likely to snap. But for now, it holds. For now, we're just Avery and Victor, alone in the hollow quiet of a town hall that's seen more than its fair share of battles.

"Want to grab a coffee?" Victor asks, and I'm surprised to find myself considering it.

"Sure," I say, because why not? Maybeit's time to start figuring each other out without a battleground between us.

We step out into the night, side by side. The stars overhead seem to twinkle with possibilities—or maybe it's just the streetlights, playing tricks on my eyes.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Victor

"Where's Olivia tonight?"I ask, hands shoved in my coat pockets as we stroll down Main Street, the glow of Christmas lights making the snow glint like a kid’s winter fantasy.

"She's over at Samantha's. Perfect timing for a sleepover," Avery replies, her breath forming clouds that twist through the crisp air.

The street's alive with twinkling lights, strung from lamppost to lamppost, casting a warm hue on the frosted sidewalks. I can't help but feel a tug at the corners of my heart—it's like stepping into one of those snow globes. Never had a place that lit up like this around the holidays; never had a place to call home during them either.

"Hey," Avery nudges me out of mythoughts, "why'd you postpone the development? Weren't you worried about your investors backing out?"

I stop walking, turn to face her. "It was a risk worth taking," I admit, looking at the small smile tugging at her lips. "I realized I've been barreling through life, not listening. You challenging me... it made me second guess. Maybe I don't have all the answers."

"Thank you," she says softly, and we share a smile that feels like it bridges miles of misunderstanding between us. Just for a moment, the chilly distance I'm so used to seems a little less daunting.

"Let's duck in here for a bit," Avery suggests, nodding towards an establishment further up the street. The sign above the door reads "The Muse" in looping script, backlit by soft amber light that spills onto the snow-dusted sidewalk.

"Sure," I agree, curiosity piqued as we push through the heavy wooden door.

Inside, the atmosphere wraps around us like a well-worn leather jacket—comforting, familiar. There's one long polished bar, its surface gleaming under the low-hanging lights, bottles of every conceivable color and shape lined up like sentinels behind it. Tables are scattered across the room on the other side, some occupied with patrons lost in quiet conversation or laughter.

"Johnny!" Avery calls out with a beautiful smile as we approach the bar.

"Ah, Avery! Look at you," an older man greets her,his voice rich with Italian cadence. Johnny's got that silver-fox thing going on, hair swept back, lines around his eyes from years of smiles. He wipes his hands on a cloth before looking over to me, his brow furrowing in surprise. "And Victor Stone? Now this is unexpected."

"Trying to bury the hatchet," Avery replies smoothly, leaning against the bar. "Got any drinks to help with that?"

Johnny's smile reappears, warm and knowing. "I might have just the thing," he answers, turning to grab a couple of glasses.

Avery guides me to a quiet table in the back and we take a seat. It isn't long before Johnny returns, a tray in hand, balanced like a pro. Two glasses sit on it, the liquid inside a vibrant orange that seems to capture the glow of the bar's lights. He sets them down before us with the care of a curator placing a masterpiece on display.

"Negroni Sbagliato," he announces, his accent turning the name into music. "A classic twist on the Negroni. Sparkling wine instead of gin—for celebration, yes? To new beginnings and to finding peace." His eyes twinkle, as if he's sharing a secret with the universe.

"Thank you, Johnny," Avery says, her words genuine as she take the glass.

I lift my own, nodding at Johnny. "Appreciate it." The citrus aroma teases my senses, promising something bitter but sweet—like this truce we're attempting.

Once we're alone again, I take a sip, letting the bubbles dance on my tongue. There's comfort in the familiar bitterness, a reminder that not all surprises are unwelcome.

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