Page 93 of Arrogant Puck

“Where are we going?” I ask, because he’s walking through the store with such purpose that I feel like I’m being led somewhere specific.

We pass through electronics, past the grocery section, around clothing displays filled with spring fashions. Finally, we reach the home goods section, and he walks straight down the candle aisle.

“You love candles, don’t you?” I tease, watching him scan the shelves with unusual interest.

But he keeps walking past the vanilla and lavender scents, past the decorative holders and wax melts, until we reach the furniture section. Specifically, the furniture that comes in boxes with assembly requirements.

“We can get candles another time,” he says, stopping in front of a display of dressers. “Which dresser do you want?”

My heart stops. “Slater, no.”

“Sage, yes. Which one.”

I glare at him, my mind racing as I try to process what’s happening right now. This feels like more than just buying furniture. This feels like a turning point, maybe even a stake of claim. Like he’s marking territory in the most domestic way possible.

“When I leave, do I get to take it with me?” I ask, testing him.

His jaw clenches, and I see something flash in his eyes that looks almost like pain. “Yeah. I don’t want it staying in my house to remind me of you. So which one do you want. Black or white. Tall or short.”

The casual way he mentions not wanting reminders of me stings more than it should. But underneath the hurt, I’m touched by the gesture itself. No one has ever bought me furniture before. Hell, most of my belongings have come from thrift stores and Facebook Marketplace.

I point at the tall white one with four drawers instead of three. It’s practical and clean-looking, and it would actually solve my problem of living out of piles on the floor.

I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “This is the nicest thing someone’s ever done for me.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” he whispers, and there’s a promise in his voice that makes my pulse quicken.

He grabs the box in one swift movement, lifting it like it weighs nothing despite the fact that it’s probably sixty pounds of particle board and hardware.

“I can help carry it,” I offer.

“Got it. Let’s go.”

The checkout process is surreal. Slater Castellano, college hockey player hot as sin, buying me a $129 dresser from Target. The teenage cashier probably doesn’t know who he is but stammers through the transaction. This poor kid. I smile at him, knowing how intimidating someone like Slater is.

Slater loads the box into the backseat of his car. On the drive back to his house, something shifts between us. The air feels charged.

Then he reaches over and grabs my hand, folding his fingers through mine like it’s something we do now.

The simple contact sends warmth shooting up my arm and straight to my chest. His hand is warm and calloused from years of gripping hockey sticks, and the way his thumb traces small circles on my skin is soothing and electric.

I find myself thinking about relationships—real relationships, not the toxic disaster I escaped from. Maybe they’re not just based on physical attraction and sex. Maybe they’re built on moments like this: someone caring enough to notice what you need and taking action to provide it. Someone holding your hand while driving and making you feel like you matter.

“I’m glad to have you as a friend,” I say, testing the word that’s starting to feel insufficient for whatever this is becoming.

He lifts our joined hands and kisses my knuckles, his lips soft against my skin. “Friends.”

But the way he says it, the way his mouth lingers on my hand, suggests that he finally understands what I need. I don’t need the all-consuming possessive relationship. I need a friend.

Back at the house, he carries the box up to my room like it weighs nothing. I sit cross-legged on the floor while he unpacks all the pieces, spreading them out in organized rows. There’s something oddly endearing about watching him read the instruction manual.

“Pass me the long screws,” he says, not looking up from where he’s aligning the side panels.

I dig through the little plastic bag of hardware, finding the ones he needs. “These?”

“Yes.”

We fall into an easy rhythm—me reading the next step aloud, him executing it. There’s something so sweet about this, and I never want to forget it. So, I pull out my phone and aim it at him as he carefully lines up the drawer rails.

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