Also, tomorrow’s supposed to be colder. Try not to freeze.

  My thumb hovered. Maybe I should text something clever back, but witty banter was a lot harder when you were stuffed with chicken and existential dread.

  If I disappear, it’ll be because of death by carbohydrates.

  That was what counted as flirting in my world. No wonder I was single.

  I stared out the window a long time, watching snow dust the street. Should have been peaceful, but all it did was make me wonder what the hell I was doing with my life.

  Maybe tomorrow would be better, or at least more distracting.

  Eventually, I fell into a restless sleep, dreaming about work, ex-boyfriends, and Ryan’s laugh echoing from the other side of a snowbank.

  * * * *

  Next morning, I somehow managed to get myself awake, presentable, and dressed in jeans and a sweater that probably dated back to my college years, and made my way downstairs.

  Dad had already left to meet his other retired friends at Dunkin’. Mom waited with a list the length of a CVS receipt. First task: go to the grocery store and get supplies for the annual cookie bake-a-thon. Sure, because nothing got my self-esteem soaring like fighting little old ladies for the last bag of flour.

  Suitably caffeinated, I bundled up and braced myself for The Great Rental Car Experience, Round Two.

  My rental car sat in the driveway, looking like a frozen Popsicle. Frost covered every surface. The car didn’t so much as unlock when I hit the button. I had to manually jab the key in, twist, and hope for the best. Once inside, my breath began fogging up the inside of the windshield, and then I summoned my best “I can do this” energy.

  Insert key.

  Turn.

  Nothing.

  The engine didn’t rattle, didn’t cough, didn’t even pretend to try. Just a depressing click, like the world’s shittiest symphony playing only the triangle.

  Tried again.

  Nada.

  Well, not nothing. There was a sound, all right. A noise straight out of a horror movie, somewhere between a dying cat and a blender full of marbles. For one wild second, I imagined the car might explode or simply give up and roll itself back to the rental lot.

  Tried again, because hope dies last.

  Same choking, sputtering, utterly noncommittal noise.

  This wasn’t my area of expertise. Actually, nothing car-related was my area of expertise. Once, in college, I’d tried to check my oil and ended up dripping engine goo down the front of my pants. That was the last time I’d been asked to be “handy” by anyone, for any reason.

  I sat there with the key in the ignition, as if staring hard enough might fix it. Nope. Maybe if I bribed it with a playlist or the promise of premium gas? Tempting, but probably futile.

  The logical move would be to trudge back inside and beg to borrow Dad’s car, which would end in a thirty-minute lecture about safe driving and filling up the tank before returning it. Wasn’t sure I had the stamina for that.

  A knock at the window startled me. When I looked up, there was Ryan, all broad shoulders and blue jacket and a beanie that had definitely seen better days. His gloved fist tapped lightly, his breath making clouds in the air.

  I rolled down the window, half-expecting to see him holding a superhero cape and offering to rescue me.

  He flashed that same easy, be-all-end-all smile. “Want me to take a look?”

  Short answer: absolutely. Long answer: yes, but can you also fix my entire life? I settled for the short answer.

  “Sure. If you’re not busy.”

  Ryan laughed, the sound rolling out into the cold morning air. “Pop the hood. I’ll take a look.”

  Some people move through life with effortless confidence. I move through life like someone who’s just been dared to get off the couch. Watching Ryan stride to the front of the car, I fumbled around for the hood release, which, fun fact, was not located where I thought it was. For a full minute, I yanked and poked every lever within reach before finally popping the right one. A little cloud of something that wasn’t quite smoke but definitely wasn’t air freshener drifted out.

  Ryan propped up the hood and peered inside like he actually knew what he was doing. Which, given his whole gym-teacher/handy-neighbor vibe, maybe he did. The morning light caught in his scruff, making him look unfairly hot in a “I just woke up and could bench-press you” way.

  “What do you think?” I hovered, arms tucked in tight for warmth, desperately hoping whatever he found wouldn’t be an obituary for the car.

  Ryan stuck his head deeper inside, poking around with the same gentle competence I’d only ever seen in dental hygienists and guys who actually had a toolbox in their garage. When he bent over, his jacket pulled tight across his back, and for a second, I lost all higher brain function. If this was supposed to be a punishment, I’d probably earned it.

  He emerged, wiping his gloves on his jeans. “Looks like your serpentine belt’s shredded. Plus, that reservoir hose is leaking. You’re not going anywhere unless you want the car to burst into flames halfway to Walmart.”

  I nodded solemnly, as if this made sense. In reality, my knowledge of car parts started and ended with “steering wheel.” Serpentine belt? Sounded like something Indiana Jones should be worried about.

  “So, what now? Reinvent the wheel? Call NASA?”

  Ryan shrugged, grinning. “Tow truck or you can let me drive you wherever. I’ve got the morning off. No gym class until afternoon, unless you want to chase sugar-crazed third graders.”

  I said nothing for a long second. Technically, I could call a tow truck. But then I’d be stuck waiting for hours, and Mom’s grocery list wasn’t getting any shorter. On the other hand, alone in a car with Ryan, my teenage crush, the human embodiment of all things unattainable? Great plan, Alan, way to sign up for public emotional torture before noon.

  I almost said no. Should have said no. Instead, my mouth decided we wanted the full awkward nostalgia experience.

  “Uh. Yeah. If you don’t mind. Grocery run is the big event today. I’ll owe you.”

  He beamed and smacked the hood shut with a thud. “No debt involved. I’m guessing your mom is defense shopping for the cookie wars?”

  “Spot-on. Pretty sure she’s planning to win Christmas this year.”

  Ryan chuckled. “My mom used to do the same thing. I think she once cleared out the baking aisle in July.”

  I watched him cross the street to his driveway, boots crunching through snow. His truck gleamed black against the white, a beast of a vehicle that looked fresh out of a Chevy commercial, except with fewer rugged cowboys and more suburban snacks in the cab.

  Climbing into the passenger seat, I tried to pretend the whole thing was no big deal, but my hands did this annoying trembly thing, so I stuffed them in my pockets and pretended it was just the cold.

  Ryan started the engine. Unlike my cheap rental, it purred to life like it actually wanted to be driven. Show-off.

  Inside, the truck smelled like coffee and pine, which was several steps up from “gym socks marinated in fear.” Also, it was warm, and Ryan’s arm brushed mine as he reached to adjust the vents.

  “You like Motown?” he asked, clicking on the radio.

  “Sure. Who doesn’t love a catchy baseline?”

  He grinned. “Knew I liked you for a reason.”

  The grocery store parking lot was a frozen obstacle course. Ryan navigated like he’d been born in all-wheel drive. I trailed behind him through sliding doors that whooshed warm air over us, blinking at the fluorescent lights and the holiday display up front. The store was packed with people in puffy jackets, kids terrorizing the cereal aisle, and the unmistakable scent of maple-glazed despair.

  Ryan grabbed a cart and steered it expertly, scanning Mom’s list. “We’re after flour, sugar, chocolate chips, and something called ‘festive sprinkles.’ Do festive sprinkles have a different personality than regular ones?”

  “If they don’t, my mom will make them feel bad about themselves.”

  I dodged a stack of gingerbread kits while Ryan debated the relative merits of brown versus powdered sugar. For a straight-up gym teacher, he was unexpectedly opinionated about baking ingredients. He kept bumping my elbow with his, steering us around the store like we were trying to beat the clock on Supermarket Sweep. Every time his hand grazed my shoulder to shift me out of the way of a cart laden with soda, a jolt zipped right through me. Was that just me? Had to be just me. Ryan was friendly. Overly friendly. Probably the same with everyone.

  I tried not to read into the way his fingers brushed my arm when he handed me a bag of flour or how he leaned close to ask if Mom preferred salted or unsalted butter, breath warm against my cheek. It felt unreasonably domestic, like we might start arguing about which brand of paper towels to buy for our hypothetical shared apartment. My brain was a certified disaster area.

  The cashier, a bored-looking girl with pink eyebrows, rang us up without comment. Ryan insisted on loading the bags. I’d never admit it, but watching him haul groceries around was, in a word, obscene. In the best way.

  “I can carry some of those,” I offered, flexing my barely-there muscle.

  He smirked. “Let me play hero. You get the door. Don’t want you to pull a muscle or I’ll have to carry you, too.”

  He did not just say that.

  “Sounds like a win-win for you. Free groceries and a show.”

  “If you want a show, just come to my gym class,” Ryan replied, that lazy grin making my stomach do backflips. “Those kids are wild.”

  “What are you teaching these days? Dodgeball still a thing, or has it been banned for public safety?”

  “Dodgeball, freeze tag, some kind of yoga I had to Google. Turns out third graders are better at downward dog than I am.”

  I pictured Ryan in spandex yoga pants and immediately regretted every decision that had led me to this moment.

  Outside, wind smacked us like a cold, wet towel. I nearly dropped the eggs, but Ryan rescued them and me, holding both with one arm. He grinned over the bags, eyes bright.

  We settled in, heat on full blast.

  He looked over. “So what’s the plan? Saving your mom from kitchen chaos or just hiding in your room with your phone all day?”

  I debated. “Honestly? I’d planned to nap and avoid family drama. But I’d settle for not ruining Christmas.”

  “Not possible,” Ryan said. “You’re basically the only thing your mom’s excited about this year. Well, you and the actual holiday.”

  I snorted. “She’s excited about new ice cube trays. I’m just the runner-up prize.”

  He shook his head, eyes still on mine.

  The drive home was quick. He swung the truck into my parents’ driveway like he owned the place and helped haul bags up the icy steps. Mom practically swooned when she saw him. If I’d brought home a Nobel Prize, I doubt she would’ve looked as pleased.

  “Ryan! You look wonderful!” she said, taking the bags from him like he was Santa’s secret twin.

  He grinned. “Hi, Mrs. Clark. Got your supplies. Alan had me on a tight schedule.”

  Mom beamed at me, like I’d discovered penicillin instead of just snagging the last can of baking powder.

  Dad poked his head in from the living room, eyebrows raised. “Ryan, you’re a better man than me for surviving the grocery store this close to Christmas.”

  Ryan shrugged. “I didn’t mind.”

  “Well, it was very sweet of you,” my mom said. “Alan’s lucky to have you as a friend.”

  “Thanks, ma’am.”

  I wasn’t sure who was smiling wider.

  “You two hanging out today?” She glanced between us.

  Ryan’s gaze flicked to me.

  “Sure,” I said. Because I clearly loved torturing myself.

  * * * *

  Snow fell off my boots and landed in a sad little clump on Ryan’s welcome mat. The foyer was bigger than I remembered, but maybe nostalgia was a liar. Inside, the air smelled like strong coffee and eucalyptus. The scent clung to the walls, mingling with something warm and toasty wafting from down the hall.

  Ryan shrugged out of his jacket, shook it once, and hooked it on a peg beside the door. My own coat landed next to it, a smaller, flimsier thing that instantly regretted its choices. Glancing up at him, I forced my hands into the pockets of my jeans, trying very hard not to stare at the way Ryan’s sweater hugged his shoulders. I was fine. This was fine. I’d just been lured into the lair of the golden retriever next door, the human one, and his kitchen was already making me feel wildly underdressed.

  His house was all wood floors, mismatched rugs, and a couple of framed sports jerseys on the wall. Not a throw pillow in sight. The living room looked like it had survived a bachelor-apocalypse, but in a clean way. Either he cleaned up for guests, or he was just that rare breed—the tidy single guy.

  Ryan caught me taking it all in, lips quirked. “It’s chaos, but it’s home.”

  “Could use a few more houseplants. Maybe a print of ‘Dogs Playing Poker’ for authenticity.” Not my best material, but my brain was running on about four hours of sleep and the residual trauma of rental car failure.

  He grinned wider. “If you want to donate, I accept all major credit cards.”

  I followed him down the hall to the kitchen. The tile felt cold under my socks, but the heat in the air made up for it. He flicked the lights on. Suddenly, I was fully awake.

  Every surface gleamed. Real tile backsplash, butcher block counters, sunlight streaming through half-fogged windows. Okay, not sunlight… just tons of winter light, making the kitchen glow like a movie set. I couldn’t picture high school Ryan in this kitchen, but here he was, already pulling eggs and a carton of milk from the fridge.

  “Breakfast?” He cracked eggs one-handed, like an actual grownup. “Or you one of those ‘no solid food until noon’ guys now?”

  “I’d probably gnaw my own arm off if you didn’t feed me,” I said, leaning against the counter and instantly regretting it. The edge dug into my hip, but I was committed to the casual lean now.

  Ryan turned on the stove, his hand right next to mine, close enough that I could feel the warmth. Not from the burner. From him. This was going to be a problem.

  “Toast?” he offered, voice lower.

  “Yeah. Nothing says gourmet like white bread and margarine.”

  He laughed, deep and easy. “So, you’re still a cheap date.”

  “Always.” God, I was basically advertising my loneliness. “Unless you’ve got something fancier than Folgers. Then I can pretend I have taste.”

  Ryan poured coffee into a mug and slid it across the counter in my direction. His fingers brushed mine for maybe half a second too long. Or maybe I wanted it to be too long. The coffee was hot and bitter, but I took a gulp anyway.

  He started whisking eggs in a bowl, looking suspiciously competent. My own cooking experience was mac and cheese. “You need help?” I offered. It came out lamer than intended.

  Ryan’s eyebrow rose. “You help or supervise?”

  “I’m an expert at both. Also judging from a safe distance.”

  “No judging yet.” He grinned. “You can help with the eggs.”

  He pulled me over, just like that. I tried to look like a person who wasn’t actively calculating the proximity of his body to mine, but it was impossible. He stood behind me, hand resting on my shoulder, then sliding down to cover my hand on the whisk.

  “Like this,” he murmured, warm breath on my ear. “Don’t go too hard. You want them fluffy, not pulverized.”

  My pulse had mostly stopped functioning at that point.

  His hand guided mine in slow, steady circles. I could feel every part where his skin touched mine, even through the thin cotton of my sleeve. The egg mixture swirled, yellow and glossy, completely oblivious to the crisis in my body. I leaned back a fraction, and his chest pressed up against my back, solid and familiar, even after all these years.

  “Now add a little milk,” he said, not letting go. His other hand reached around to tip the carton in, and for a second, I thought I might pass out from the scent of his cologne. It wasn’t a name brand but something low-key and warm, like cedar and clean soap.

  I managed to tip the milk without fumbling and spilling it all over myself. Total win.

  He left his hand over mine for a moment, then stepped back. Instantly, my body missed the contact. I readjusted my posture, desperate not to look like I cared.

  Ryan poured the eggs into the pan, moving with easy confidence. “You ever cook for yourself?”

  “I have mastered cereal. Toast. And disappointment.”

  He snorted. “Those are the classics.”

  I watched him work the spatula, flipping the eggs until they looked maybe better than any eggs I’d ever seen in my life. How had I spent so many years microwaving sadness when this was an option?

  He plated everything—eggs, crispy toast, even some bacon I didn’t remember him cooking.

  “Hope you’re hungry,” Ryan said, setting my plate down with a flourish. His hand grazed my wrist, warm and rough. I tried very hard not to jump.

  At the table, I picked up my fork and immediately dropped it. Not my proudest moment. Ryan laughed again, the kind of laugh that made my insides vibrate in a good way.

  “You all right there?” he teased.

  “Just overwhelmed by your culinary prowess.”

  The food was so good it almost hurt. Every bite of egg was creamy, rich, and somehow perfect—not rubbery, not runny, just… right. Toast crunched, bacon snapped. Each time I looked up, Ryan was already watching me, eyes a startling blue even in the gloomy morning light.

  We ate, and it was…comfortable. Almost too comfortable. He kept nudging the sugar jar in my direction like I needed it or maybe he just wanted an excuse to occupy my personal space. I could live with that.

  Conversation breezed over the usual territory. His job, my job, a few mentions of high school idiots now selling insurance or running for town council. Any time my hand got close to his, Ryan’s fingers brushed mine “accidentally.” Right, sure.