The door of the IceHouse swings open behind us, spilling a rectangle of warm light and the tail end of a country song into the cold night. Shelby steps out first, laughing breathlessly, glitter clinging to her cheeks like stardust. The moment the door seals shut behind us, the music dies into a muffled heartbeat and the world goes still.
The sudden quiet hits harder than the noise ever did—like stepping out of deep water and realizing how loud your own breathing is.
I inhale deeply. The air smells like fries and cigarettes and rain-heavy asphalt—a scent that shouldn't feel comforting but does, because it means the night is finally slowing down.
My head is still spinning from lights and music and Will—mostly Will.
His presence lingers like static under my skin, like my body hasn't quite accepted that he isn't standing beside me anymore.
Shelby loops her arm through mine as we start across the parking lot. "My hair is going to reek of fried despair tomorrow," she announces, kicking a loose stone. "But I don't even care. Tonight was perfect."
It was. It really was. I let myself feel seventeen again, and for a few hours. Other than a few mild vision blips outside of me sleeping. I'll unpack those later. I need this normalcy with my best friend.
We crunch across gravel to her car. The windows are foggy, the paint chipped, and the passenger seat still has glitter from last week's craft disaster. It's the opposite of luxury, and yet stepping into it feels like stepping into safety.
Like stepping back into a version of my life that knows my name and nothing else.
The fan wheezes to life. Shelby pulls out of the lot, tires splashing through shallow puddles that glow under the neon sign.
We sit in silence for a minute, both staring straight ahead.
The quiet stretches—not awkward, just full. Like the space after a held breath.
"Okay," she finally says. "Say it."
"Say what?"
"You are absolutely dying to talk about him, and I am ethically required, as your best friend, to collect every detail."
A laugh slips out of me—soft and helpless. I rest my forehead against the cold window. "I don't even know how to put it into words."
Shelby gives a single solemn nod. "That is the correct level of dramatic. Continue."
I reach for honesty carefully, the way you test cold water with your toes before you commit. "Will doesn't talk like normal guys talk. He doesn't flirt like they flirt. It's like… every time he speaks, he's… seeing me."
The words sound strange out loud, heavier than I expected, like I've named something I wasn't supposed to notice yet.
Shelby's grip tightens on the wheel. "Is that terrifying or attractive?"
"Yes to both."
She snorts. "Thought so."
Streetlights flicker over us—gold, then dark, then gold again—like the universe is blinking too slowly.
Like it's missing frames.
I pull my knees up on the seat and hug them. "He didn't even ask what I like to drink. He… just knew."
Shelby hesitates.
Her brows shoot up. "Like he stalked your Instagram?"
"No. Like—I don't know. Like he's ordered that drink for me a thousand times." I huff out a laugh. "James couldn't even get it right most of the time. And we were together for years."
Shelby exhales in one dramatic rush. "First of all, fuck James. He didn't belong in the same air space as you, let alone, on the same planet. And Will… that's either soul-mates or restraining-order energy. Nothing in between."
"She said, filing her nails on the edge of a cliff," I deadpan.
She laughs, loud and bright, filling the little car with warmth.
I let myself lean into it—into her certainty, her normalcy—like it might anchor me.
"Seriously though," she says more softly, "do you like him?"
My eyes fall shut. "That's the problem. I do. And I don't know why."
"Ang… sometimes we don't like people for logical reasons. Sometimes we like them because something in us wakes up."
Something in us. Not something in me.
The wording hits too hard.
Because whatever stirred tonight didn't feel new. It felt remembered.
I don't answer, and she doesn't push. The mark of someone who loves you—knowing when to switch from interrogation to silence.
We stop at a red light. It glows too bright in the windshield, turning us both a strange shade of rose.
"I want you happy," Shelby says quietly, all the playful tone gone. "I want you to let someone in again."
My voice gets thin. "I'm trying."
"I know." She squeezes my hand once, then releases it. "And it's not a race. I just… hope you won't run away from something good because you're scared it might hurt again."
James's name doesn't leave her mouth. It doesn't have to.
The memory sits between us anyway—unspoken, heavy, familiar.
I stare at my hands. "I just don't want to break."
"You won't," she says instantly. "You bend. There's a difference."
I blink hard because tears are not on the schedule tonight. Not after how alive I felt on that dance floor.
Shelby suddenly, almost angrily adds. "He'd be stupid not to fall for you."
I choke. "Do you mind? I'm trying to cling to emotional dignity."
"You lost that the second he kissed your hand," she says smugly. "I saw your soul leave the building… or in this case the parking lot."
I flick a fry-crumb at her. She shrieks. We dissolve into laughter again—the kind that makes your stomach ache and your face hurt and your heart feel safe.
The kind that reminds you what it feels like to belong to the present.
The night cools as we leave the highway for smaller roads. Houses begin to appear—porches lit, lawns slumbering, the world tucked in tight.
Shelby pulls into my driveway. The porch light glows warm, welcoming. It feels like a checkpoint. A pause.
She taps the steering wheel. "Listen. If you wake up tomorrow and decide Will is too intense? Valid. If you wake up and decide you like him? Also valid. You don't owe anybody anything. Not even him."
I sit with that for a moment. It feels like an exhale wrapped into words.
She leans over and squishes my cheeks with both hands. "But if he does show up outside your window all dramatic—call me first. I can be here in five minutes. I want to judge him in person."
I laugh and pry her hands off my face. "Goodnight, lunatic."
"Goodnight, disaster," she fires back lovingly.
I get out, close the door softly, and stand in the chill air as she drives away. Her taillights fade into the dark.
Then it's just me.
And the sudden absence feels louder than the club ever was.
The house waits quietly. Grass clings to my shoes as I walk the path. Somewhere down the street, a dog barks—one single warning, then silence.
I climb the steps. The porch light buzzes faintly, struggling.
Before I put my key in the lock, I pause.
I expect to feel watched. I expect blue eyes in the dark. I expect the universe to shiver.
None of that comes.
The air is still. The street is ordinary. A moth flutters lazily around the bulb.
Everything is fine. Which somehow makes it worse.
Like the world is holding its breath instead of exhaling.
So why does my heart hurt?
I unlock the door and step inside. Warm air wraps around me—vanilla candles and laundry soap. The smell of belonging.
I kick off my shoes, shove the deadbolt into place, and collapse face-first onto the couch.
My phone buzzes.
My heart trips.
Unknown number.
For a split, breathless moment I think it's him.
But it's just a spam notification.
I exhale too hard. Too relieved, too disappointed to admit.
The emotional whiplash leaves me hollow.
I drag a blanket over my shoulders. The world finally feels soft, quiet, slow—like it's giving me permission to stop performing and just exist.
But I'm not thinking about the club anymore.
I'm thinking about that moment in the booth when he tilted my chin up as if he'd done it a thousand times. I'm thinking about the way he looked at me like he was trying not to fall apart.
And the words I pretend I didn't hear.
You are mine. Forever and always. I've missed you.
They echo without sound, settling into me like something that has always known where to live.
I curl into myself, blanket tight around me. The heater hums. The fridge rattles in the kitchen. Somewhere in the distance, a car rolls by.
Normal sounds.
This is the life I built. The one I fought for. The one that makes sense.
I try to picture someone else's hand on mine. Someone nice. Someone safe. Real.
But every image of a future I understand ends up with eyes the wrong shade.
Eyes the color of winter storms.
Ice blue.
I press my fingers to my mouth, squeezing my eyes shut against the rush of longing I have no right to feel.
I barely know him. I know nothing about him.
And yet—it feels like I have been waiting for him for lifetimes.