Page 60 of Hearts on Ice
A little girl this time—round cheeks and wild curls, and big brown eyes. A grin that could’ve lit a whole rink. Her small hand reaching for whoever had been behind the camera. She couldn’t have been older than two.
“She’s adorable,” I said. There was something radiant in her face.
Drew almost smiled, the kind of half-smile that comes from remembering something you’ll never forget.
His thumb brushed over the corner of the photo, a small, careful motion. “We wanted her for a long time. Years of trying. Tests, shots, calendars, all of it. There were months when Laura would sit on the bathroom floor and cry, and I’d just hold her because there wasn’t anything else to do. We kept hoping, even when hope felt stupid. Then one day, it worked.”
He laughed softly—one exhale that sounded more like wonder than sadness. “When we found out, I thought I already loved her. But when I held her for the first time, I learned there’s more than one kind of love that can fill a heart—and somehow it never runs out.”
I didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. His voice carried everything that mattered.
He set the picture back in the sleeve, his fingers lingering on it for a second longer than necessary.
“It’s been six years today,” he said. His tone wasn’t heavy, just factual. The kind of truth that had already settled into his bones.
Six years of waking up without them. Of carrying love that had nowhere to land.
He set the photo down and pressed his palm to the page, the movement careful, almost tender.
“I went to see them today,” he said. “Brought flowers. Talked to them.” He paused, like he was searching for the words. “Told them… told them I think I might be ready to live again.”
Something in his tone made me stop breathing for a second. It wasn’t raw or shaky, just showing the weight of the day.
“I’m glad you did,” I said. My voice felt steady, even though my chest didn’t. “They’d want to hear from you.”
A small nod. A tear slipped free and tracked down his cheek before he brushed it away. That was it. Just a man letting himself feel something without drowning in it.
I shifted closer. “Hey,” I said softly, and when he didn’t move away, I let my arm slide around his back. He leaned in, the way people do when they’re too tired to pretend they’re fine.
His forehead rested against my shoulder, his breath shaking once, twice, then finding a rhythm again.
“I’ve got you,” I murmured. “Respira, Drew. Solo respira.”
He let out a rough sound—not quite a sob, or a sigh—and exhaled.
His hand came up, fisted in the edge of my hoodie, more to anchor himself than anything else.
We stayed like that for a long moment. The air between us felt different now, softer somehow, like grief had made room for something gentler.
I adjusted just enough so he could rest more comfortably, his weight fitting naturally against mine.
His voice came out low, almost slurred with exhaustion. “Thank you.”
“Siempre,” I whispered.Always.
After a while his shoulders eased. The hard tension in his grip softened. His breathing evened out—slow in, slow out.
He didn’t let go, though.
Good. I’m not planning to move anyway.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. Time got weird and slow around us, in a way that felt… safe. Outside, the night moved on. Inside, it felt like peace.
And softly, he drifted off to sleep.
With my free hand I reached up and brushed a few strands of hair off his forehead.
Couldn’t help it.
