Page 65 of Heart Checked By the Hockey Heartthrob

“Agreed. Hence, the kidnapping.”

She walks into the master bedroom and pauses. “Wow.”

I follow. The windows open onto the ocean. The bed is king-sized and clearly slept in exactly twice. The nightstands are bare. One sad lamp. No photos. No books. Just… air.

“I never really stayed long,” I admit. “It was supposed to be a hideout. Not a home.”

“But now?”

“Now I want it to be both.”

She turns to face me. “Why now?”

“Because I don’t want to hide anymore.”

I don’t say the rest—that I want her here. That every part of me wants to build something that doesn’t disappear when the season changes. I just watch her eyes soften as she takes it all in.

“Okay,” she says, stepping closer. “I’ll help. But you have to promise not to veto everything with the word 'decorative' in it.”

“I make no promises.”

We start in the living room, cataloging what’s salvageable and what absolutely isn’t.

She takes a photo of the couch and writes “burn?” under it in her notes app.

“Rude,” I say.

“Not incorrect,” she replies.

She pulls up images on her phone—linen curtains, reading lamps, oversized knit throws. It’s like she has a direct line to some cozy universe I’ve never entered. I try to keep up, but mostly I like watching her move through the space like she’s already imagined living here.

We find a box of paint swatches in one of the cabinets, and she spreads them out on the floor.

“Seafoam? Or gray mist?” she asks.

“They look the same.”

“They are very different, Wes.”

I glance down, then at her. “Whichever one makes you smile when you walk in.”

She pauses, just for a moment. “That’s dangerously romantic.”

“I’m trying.”

She grins. “You’re succeeding.”

At some point, she disappears into the guest room and reemerges with a dusty box.

“What’s this?”

I take it from her and blow off the top. Inside are old photos—me, Beck, and Griff in our rookie seasons. Liz at her nursing school graduation. A faded family Christmas card from the year before the crash.

“I forgot I packed this stuff,” I murmur.

She sifts through them gently. “You’ve lived a lot of life, Wes.”

“Yeah. Most of it running.”

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