Page 70 of Icebound Hearts

“I didn’t know I was lonely until you came along,” I say.

“But I was. For a long time.”

Kat blinks fast, then leans in again, her hands on either side of my face. She kisses me like she’s giving me something sacred.

“I feel the same,” she whispers.

I pull her into my chest, and we sit there while the crew sweeps up confetti and the amps buzz into silence. The afterglow of the concert still hums through the air, but all I can focus on is the girl wrapped in my arms.

Kat.

Mine.

Getting out of a concert arena is not joke, especially when twenty thousand other people are there with you. Outside, the air has cooled. Kat kicks off her heels and walks barefoot next to me, holding them in one hand while her other stays looped through mine.

I wave down a cab and open the door for her, helping her in. As the cab pulls away from the curb, she leans into me and lays her head against my chest.

Her voice is soft when she asks, “Are you staying with me tonight?”

My heart does that stutter-thing it always does when she catches me off guard.

“Do you want me to?”

She nods without lifting her head. “More than anything.”

I swallow. “Okay.” We get back to the hotel and don’t say much on the ride up the elevator. There’s a weight in the air—not heavy, not tense. Just charged.

Like we both know something has shifted between us.

When we reach her room, she unlocks the door, steps inside, then turns to look at me. “You coming in?”

I follow her.

The moment the door clicks shut, she wraps her arms around me again, her face in my chest.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “This was the best night of my life.”

I run my fingers through her hair, kiss the top of her head. “It’s the best night of mine, too.”

We stay like that for a while—her in my hoodie, barefoot and beautiful, with her heart pressed against mine.

And for once, everything feels right.

Simple. Real. Ours

I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at the ceiling.

Kat sleeps beside me, her leg slung over mine, her breathing soft and steady. The hoodie I gave her is half-slid off one shoulder,exposing bare skin in the dim hotel room light. Her fingers are curled into the fabric of my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll vanish.

And part of me feels like I might.

Tomorrow is the surgery.

The thought alone makes me sore—not in my body, but deep in my chest. The kind of ache that doesn’t come from anything physical. It’s the weight of everything ahead, pressing down, trying to squeeze the breath out of me. I’ve done all the tests. I know the risks. The logistics. The science.

But none of that helps right now.

Sophia needs this.

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