17. Winter

SEVENTEEN

WINTER

A ugust is quiet and still on the drive over to Potomac Mills. We're both bundled up in scarves and coats, but the blast of the heater causes a bead of sweat to roll down my back. Thanksgiving sped past, and the streets have Christmas lights strung around the light poles.

We should be in a mood of Christmas cheer. Instead, the energy is somber. I don't want to move because August seems fragile, like he's a moment away from melting down. Kitty shakes his head from side to side, sniffing in the hot air before putting his face on the seat where he rests.

August requested this trip—he wanted to go back to the home he lived in with his mother for most of his life. I wasn't sure then and I'm not sure now if this is a good idea, but it's important to August.

I don't say no.

August's maternal grandparents never had a funeral for his mother, instead choosing to quietly cremate her and bring the remains with them to Florida where they've retired. August hasn't said how he feels about it—the lack of closure—despite my trying to bring the topic up several times in our sessions .

Two bodyguards follow our SUV as we amble down I-95. August's driver, Jared, talks with August's new guard, Rex. I haven't seen his original guard—the one who shook him—since that day in the foyer. Rex has a kind face, speaks softly, and moves intentionally—despite being at least 250 pounds of solid muscle.

We pull up to the home, and sadness washes over me. I'm not completely sure why. It's a three-story colonial with tall white pillars on the front. There are four black rocking chairs on the porch, and thick canvas covers the plants, protecting them from the frost. Someone, probably Hunter, is keeping the property maintained. Still, the home looks dead. Desolate.

I shiver, and it has nothing to do with the December chill.

"Do you want to go in?" I ask August slowly and in a low voice. I don't want to startle him. He stares out the window with an emotionless glare. I know his expressions are deceiving. His face often gives nothing away, but his words express the depth of his feelings.

"No," August says.

I nod.

He opens the door and I scramble out after him when I see the two guards in the other car exit. Tossing a command at Kitty to stay, which he gleefully does, I wave the guards off, forcing them to go back into their vehicle. They look at each other, then back at me, standing still outside their SUV. When I give them a fierce glare and put my gloved hands on my hips, they roll their eyes and return to their seats.

I stand next to August. "Do you want me to wait in the car too, or am I good to stand here with you?"

He's silent for several seconds, probably a minute or two, before he says, "Whatever you want."

His eyes return to the colonial home. "I'll stay right here next to you," I say, taking a step closer. "If you want to talk or need something, I'm right here. "

Then we are both silent. The clouds of our exhalations rise from our bodies, charting a course toward the sky.

August rocks side to side, distributing his weight from one foot to the other. Without saying a word, he leans his body against mine. I press back against him firmly, giving him a foundation. Absorbing his sadness.

A few minutes later, August spins around and reenters the car. He looks tired, but after driving in the opposite direction of Amelia Manor for a few minutes, he decides to ask, "Where are we going?"

I smile slowly. "We're going to have some fun."

The look he gives me is disbelieving until we pull up to the activity center in Tyson's Corner.

FuryFusion is completely empty by my request, which put what I'm sure is a sizable dent in the business credit card Ella gave me for the outing.

I assess August as he takes in the space, his eyes darting from the axe-throwing stations to the doors labeled "Rage Room" and the sign pointing to the indoor paintball park.

"Ready, Aug?" I ask, putting a hand on his forearm, which I know is a safe zone to touch him.

His eyes sparkle as they dart around. Then he jumps away, skipping through the space as he checks out all the features.

Circling back to me, he laughs and stims, I think happily, as he raises his tablet from where it hangs around his shoulder. "This place is cool. Thank you."

"No problem, bud," I reply. "Wanna do something with me?"

August shrugs, then nods his head. "Yes."

I guide us over to the tall table near the Rage Room. "Relax," I tell Kitty, taking off his harness. I hand him over to Rex, whose face lights up at being on dog duty.

August waits for me near the table, looking at the stack of cheap white plates I purchased for this activity .

"I have this idea that I got from another therapist. I want us to go into the Rage Room and smash these plates." I explain, opening the pack of Sharpies. August looks at me skeptically, giving me an expression that's so like Hunter I clear my throat to focus.

"But instead of just smashing plates, I want us to write on them. I'll write them for you if you tell me the words, but I want you to think about all the things that make you feel sad or pissed off or hopeless or any other feeling that you just can't shake. We'll pretend these plates represent that thing. Then we'll smash the hell out of ‘em."

A sudden fear rings through me that maybe this isn't the best idea. That maybe his super-literal brain won't connect with this activity. But I release my trapped breath when he says, "Okay, let us break some shit."

Grabbing our gear and the box of plates, I scoot everything into the particle board-covered room. After sweeping a spot to make doubly sure it's clear of sharp bits, August and I sit on the floor.

"Okay, do you have some things in mind?" I ask August.

He taps his cheek three times, pauses, then taps it for another three.

"Hunter," he says. I nod, writing on the plate in big block letters, trying my damndest to keep my face neutral.

"Cool. Another one?" I ask, and he taps again.

"Moving. Not being able to go to school in person this semester. I hate virtual school," he says, spilling the words forward.

"Okay, ‘moving' and ‘virtual school.' What else, August?" His face starts to turn red, and he rocks from his crisscrossed position on the floor.

"Drugs. Money. Bad people. Stolen futures. Broken promises…" He continues on until we have a stack of thirty plates and he's rocking back and forth, holding his abdomen as if his guts would spill out alongside his words .

"Where are you now, August? What are you feeling?" My voice is gentle, my gaze settled on his chest, not his face, to save him from the intensity of eye contact.

"It is so much, Winter," he confesses. His stims increase, and I see the energy, the storm brewing inside him.

"You wanna break all of it into pieces? Do you wanna let it go?" I ask him, holding out the insulated helmet, safety goggles, and thick protective suit.

"Hell yes." He jumps up, dressing immediately.

Once we both have our suits and helmets on, I turn to August, wordlessly handing him the plate.

"You wanna destroy this one?" I look down at the word on the plate.

"Yes," he confesses.

"All right," I say. Then I take a step back and bellow, "August lets go of broken promises!"

August laughs, the sound muffled but still loud. He throws the plate at the wall, and it smashes into a thousand pieces.

He shrieks, running around the room and clapping. "Next," he says quickly. I hand him another plate. He reads the word, then looks at me, nodding.

"August lets go of disrupted routines!"

He smashes it and summons a roar from deep in his chest.

"Feel it, August!"

It continues on like that for ten more minutes before he stalks over to the plates. He takes the remaining armful, then pauses. His breathing is labored and fast, like the plates weigh a ton.

He reads the one on top, then chucks it. Then he does it again. And again. And again.

When he gets to the last plate, he doesn't immediately chuck it after he reads. Instead, he hands it to me. He nods at me after I read it silently.

"August lets go of hate! "

I give the plate back to him, and he pitches it to the wall. When it shatters, he moves over to the mallet leaning against the wall. And with more strength than I thought he could possess, he swings the mallet up and pulverizes the broken pieces.

He slams it over and over and over until he falls in the ceramic dust.

Then he throws off his helmet and goggles and unzips the protective suit.

Once he's free, I see his muscles spasm.

Then a count: One. Two. Three.

August wails.

The sound is so loud, so sorrowful that I can't help the tears that spring to my eyes. I rush over to him, stripping off the gear until the suit hangs on my hips.

"Get it out, August. I'm here for you," I say in his ear once I'm on the floor next to him.

He starts up another guttural moan, his voice broken by the sobbing tears. He collapses completely now, his body giving up and falling into mine. And I hold him.

We sit there for a long while, long enough for my butt cheek to fall asleep, but I don't move a muscle. I keep my hands on August, giving him solid pressure to orient himself to the present.

His tears and sobs slow, and with trembling hands, he reaches for his tablet.

"I really miss my mom."

I inhale and exhale loudly, bringing air into my nose and out of my mouth.

"I know, August. I know, and that's okay. You are safe to feel whatever you feel. I'm here to help guide you through this."

He drops his tablet on the floor and goes so still that after a few minutes, I think he's sleeping, passed out from the emotional onslaught of the day .

Without any indication, he sits up, his nose red and eyes bloodshot.

"Can we get McDonalds?" he asks.

"Of course, dude. It's whatever you want," I say.

He gives me a small smile. "Then I want ice cream too."

My smile widens. "Done deal."

It's only eight thirty when we get back to Amelia Manor after the activity center, but since it's a Friday, finding an Uber back to my apartment proves to be a lost cause.

August stops in the foyer and gives me a brief hug. A first for him.

He taps on his tablet. "Thank you." He bounces off to his room.

I consider wandering around the mansion in search of Ella but decide that I'd rather shove razor blades under my fingers than accidentally run into H.

Hunter.

Mr. Brigham.

It's been months since The Incident, and I haven't seen him except for a few sessions with August. If not for those sessions, I'd believe I'd made up his entire existence as some kind of fucked psychosis.

Because the prevailing thought I've had over the last several weeks is how much I want to do it again. How much I want to do more with none other than Hunter Brigham.

Delulu, for real.

I haven't stopped thinking about him and the press of his body against mine. At my lackluster birthday party, which only included me, Veronica, and Kitty at a Halloween-themed Rocky Horror Picture Show, I blew out my candles and wished I could be the type of woman to take Hunter up on the promise of wild, hot, amazing sex.

I'm officially out of my twenties. Hello, thirties. And I'm in virtually the same social state as I was fifteen years ago.

The thought is sad. So, so sad .

I want to make more friends. I want to go out more, be more social. Hell, I want to date. I want to have strings-free sex. I'm letting my life pass me by. I refuse to do so.

So I do want to see Hunter Brigham. Eventually. But I don't want to make now, when I'm covered in sweat and splatter from the indoor paintball session, the first time I see him after coming on his leg.

Embarrassment shoots hot through me, and Kitty jumps up on his hind legs to snag my attention.

"I'm okay, love," I murmur to Kitty.

I text Ella.

Are you at Amelia Manor right now?

I tap my fingers on my thigh in a triplet rhythm. TAP-tap-tap . TAP-tap-tap . Her reply comes through five minutes later, after I've thoroughly analyzed the art on one of the far walls in the foyer.

It's a Basquiat, which is cool AF. There's a lot to look at in the image.

No, girl, I'm on campus. You okay?

Shit, that's just great. I pull up the app again, cycling through all the rideshare apps on my device. No such luck. Fuck.

Can't get an Uber out. Do you mind if Kitty and I crash here for the night?

Her reply comes seconds later.

I don't mind, but why not ask H? ??

I grimace, contemplating my response. I don't want to say I crea med on your brother's pants, and now I'm avoiding him… but I also don't want to lie.

I can't find him. But I wanted to check with someone before I start hitchhiking back to D.C. LOL.

Don't do that. Use the guest room. There are a few spare sets of clothes for you to use.

I relax.

Make yourself at home.

Permission granted, I head to the guest room a few doors from August's game room.

I'm covered in paint. My hair is crunchy, and I decide to shower when I look at the blindingly white comforter and sheets.

Not that it's a hard ask.

My muscles melt as the water cascades down from the five showerheads in the massive stall. It's stocked with the most luscious soap, and I opt for using the conditioner to protect my hair after rinsing out the paint.

Clean and refreshed, I wrap myself in a towel and grab the shirt and sweatpants Ella left behind in the dresser. It's a tight fit over my ass, but they'll work.

Kitty's curled up on the bed of pillows I made for him, snoring. He's certainly made himself at home.

I'm drained. The Rage Room was exhausting, but after eating DoorDashed McDonalds and immediately heading to axe throwing and paintball, I almost needed an inhaler.

I plop on the bed and reach for my phone.

"Did you know that you can reach a stage of pregnancy in which you just leak tiny dribbles of pee every time you walk? " Veronica says when she answers my call instead of "hello."

"No, I didn't know that," I say. And I'm not quite sure I wanted to know that, either. I clench my inner muscles in an involuntary Kegel.

"Welp, that's the stage where I'm at," she replies. She sighs for a solid three seconds.

"I was just checking on you, baby mama. James comes in tonight, right?"

There's rustling on the other end and then a giggle.

"Actually, he came into town earlier today. He surprised me," she says. The happiness in her voice vibrates over the line.

"That's so sweet! Why are you answering the phone for me, though? Go be with your man!"

"I'll always answer the phone for you," she replies. My smile turns sad.

"Rons, you do know you don't have to answer the phone for me all the time. If you're busy, that's okay." It's important to me that she knows that. That she knows that she can live her life and enjoy it without constantly worrying about me.

"I know, I know," she says.

But I'm not sure she does.

"Are you settling in for the night?" she asks, changing the subject.

I look around the room. "Well, actually…" She's going to flip her shit when I tell her that I'm sleeping doors away from Hot Daddy.

"Well, what?" she presses.

"Well, I'm," I lower my voice, "I'm still at my client's house."

"Isn't it kinda late?" she asks. I can tell her attention is elsewhere.

"Well, I'm actually spending the night," I say.

She's silent for a beat and then practically yells, "What! "

I shhh her. "Jeez, Rons, my eardrums."

She lowers her voice to a whisper, "Are you going to fuck Hot Daddy?" She sounds delightfully scandalized.

"No!" I say forcefully. "I'm staying in the guest room. I couldn't get an Uber out."

"Well, I could come get you. Actually, no. And not because James is here but because I really, really, really, and I mean really, need you to get dicked down in the most serious way."

"Veronica!" My phone beeps with the low battery signal. Five percent left.

If this don't beat all.

Make that four percent.

"Listen," she says while I scour through my bag, hoping against hope that I have a charger. "Just make sure to use a condom and demand that he gets you off. It's the twenty-first century. Faking it is unacceptable these days."

I throw the bag on the bed in frustration when I don't find one.

I run a defeated hand down my face.

There's a charger in the game room .

Turning toward the door, I say, "Rons, my phone is going to die, but I'll catch you in the morning." I put my handle on the doorknob.

"Be safe!" she says.

Opening the door, I say, "I'm not going to fuck my boss!"

"Thanks for sharing. It's good to set boundaries."

But the voice doesn't belong to Veronica. Hunter Brigham stares me down.

My phone goes dead in my hand, and I stand frozen in the doorway, clutching it close to my face. He reaches out, removing it from my grasp.

He walks toward me, and I step backward, only stopping when my legs hit the edge of the bed.

When we both stop, breathing in sync, he breaks the silence .

"Ella told me you're crashing here tonight. I just wanted to see if you needed anything," he says.

I don't know whether to curse Ella or send her a gift basket. He places my phone on the nightstand.

"Can we talk, Winter?"

No.No, I don't want to talk, Hunter. I don't want to look at you with your beautiful eyes and smile and see everything I cannot have.

Everything I should not want.

"Yes," I say instead.

He takes my hand, and I gasp slightly, but he gently moves me to sit on the side of the bed. Then he goes to sit on the armchair across from me.

"I wanted to start by apologizing to you."

Of all the things I was expecting him to say—hoping he would say—this is not it.

"Okay," I reply, unsure what else to add.

"You are right that we should maintain a professional distance. And I shouldn't have kissed you that night. I shouldn't have taken it that far, no matter how much I wanted to."

I'm dying. I'm dying inside because while he's saying exactly what he should be saying, everything within me is devastated that he's being honorable.

"It's okay. I wasn't innocent in all that, either. It takes two…"

"Yeah," he says. He rubs the back of his neck. "I just…I never want you to feel like you have to do something you don't want to do."

He pauses, still looking me in the eyes.

And then, something snaps within me: the knowledge that it's not me keeping myself from doing what I want to do. It's the past. It's… him.

"Who says I didn't want to do what we did?" I whisper, my lip s trembling. I clutch my hands together in my lap to keep them from shaking.

The mood in the room shifts instantly. His gaze tracks over my face before roaming lazily down my body.

When his eyes snap back to mine, the focus in them singes me.

"You tell me, Winter," he says just as softly.

I inhale deeply, drawing in his scent and getting high off his presence.

"The ball is in your court," he continues, and everything about his tone, his presence, honors the delicacy of this moment. "You'll have to tell me what we do from here. Because here's what I want," he says.

He gets up with purposeful movements. "I want to kiss you. I want to taste you. I want to feel you around my tongue, my fingers, my cock."

I gasp, and he stops a foot from me. He's still, but his intensity fills the room.

"Can I say that to you, Sunbeam? Can I say how I want to make you come over and over, harder than you did with me back in my rose garden? Can I say how I want to hear you sigh and moan and be wild with me because I know that's what you want? I can see it so clearly on your face. You want to be wild, but you're holding yourself back."

And then, because it's exactly what I needed but didn't know, he kneels before me. And his hands land on my thighs.

"You disappeared," I whisper, averting my gaze but still feeling his presence surround me.

"I tried to give you space. I didn't want to scare you any more than I already have." He reaches his hand out to me, and I close my eyes when his palm caresses my cheek.

"I'm not scared of you, Hunter. Of all the people I'm scared of, you're not on the list." My words are so truthful, and the muted delivery doesn't soften them .

"Sunbeam," he says on a breath. "You're going to have to tell me. You're going to have to say the words. Do you want what I want too? Or do you want me to step back? To leave you alone? I will do either because while I want you more than I want my next breath, I want you to have everything you need too."

He's inches from my face now, kneeling between my legs. I don't even know when I parted them or when he moved into the space.

The tension of the moment is thick between our bodies.

"I don't know why I feel like this with you. But I do. So tell me," he says on an exhale. "Yes or no?"

I search his face for a reason to say no. For a reason why I should continue to deny the inevitability of us.

"H," I say. "Yes."

As soon as the word is out of my mouth, his lips are on mine, swallowing my doubts and worries and anxieties. He leans me back across the bed, his hands cradling my face gently—a perfect foil to the harshness of his kiss.

I taste his lips with my tongue, and when he groans, the sound surges straight to my center.

"I've been dreaming about you, Winter," he whispers in my ear, ghosting kisses down my neck and across my collarbone. "Do you know how many mornings I've woken up rock-hard from dreams of your body pressed against mine?" He lifts my shirt to right beneath my breasts and looks at me for confirmation to take it off.

I bite my lip, nodding. He removes it.

"God," he whispers, and I fight the urge to cover myself as my breasts start to splay to the side. I cross my arms over my chest.

"Arms up," he snaps, and the raw dominance in his tone has me drenched in a second. He pins my arms to the bed and my back arches at the motion.

"These breasts, I will dream about these breasts," he says and lowers his head to suck my nipple into his warm mouth .

I feel like I'm on fire.

I'm wet. So wet, and he's barely kissed me.

"H, I?—"

"Do you know how many times I've washed my cum down my shower drain thinking of your moans? Thinking about how you came so hard with me and how I'd do anything to see that again?"

I moan, the need to touch him and feel him so potent I can taste it.

He moves to suck my other nipple, and when he removes his grip from my wrists, I run my hands through his thick hair.

"H, please, I need—" I choke on the rest of my sentence, rational thought cut off when I feel the hard length of him pressed against the most intimate part of me through the protective layers of our clothes.

I don't feel fear. I feel nothing but lust.

"Do you want to come again, Sunbeam?" His voice is a hard rasp.

I nod my head, not daring to speak.

"Let me feel you this time." It's equal parts a command and a request. He pauses at the waistband of my sweats, waiting for my answer.

I bite my lip and nod again. I'm unable to say the words—it's a swirl of lust and an emotion I refuse to acknowledge that chokes off my vocal cords.

"Thank God," he grates, pushing a slow hand past the waistband of my sweats.

When his fingers ghost over the hard nub of my clit and down my sopping pussy lips, I can't help the loud near shriek that explodes from my mouth.

I'm thrashing and moaning. This is what will make me lose my mind.

Not my parents' death.

Not all the fucked-up shit that's happened since .

This. Hunter Brigham with his fingers against the most private parts of me.

"H, it's so good," I say breathlessly, amazed I can utter a complete sentence.

"God, it is. You're so wet. You're so perfect. You feel—" He stops talking, sucking hard on my neck as he thrusts a thick finger inside me. I clench on the intrusion.

"Fuck, you are so insanely tight, Winter." He looks at me, and his eyes are glassy. He's as drunk on this moment as I am.

I don't respond, but I reach a hand down the front of him and, with the last iota of my sanity flying out of my brain, I grasp his dick against the rough fabric of his jeans.

"Shit!" he says, his breath stuttering, and he adds another finger inside me. The stretch is so exquisite, so overwhelming, that when he presses the heel of his hand against my clit and curves his fingers up, I come immediately. Squeezing the life out of him, I can't help but scream his name.

"Hunter, God, " I say. My teeth chatter, and my hold on his dick flexes. I'm coming so hard that the edges of my vision darken and become hazy as pinpricks of stars flash.

"Shit-shit- shit ," he says as he rocks against my hand. Seconds later, he tenses on top of me, sucking my neck deeply and gentling the motion of his fingers inside my pussy.

In the quiet aftermath of what just happened, we're both silent. Unmoving. My hand is still on his softening dick; his fingers are still firmly inside me.

And I cannot bring my brain to a state of coherence.

He's the first to move, pressing his lips against my cheek.

"I'm fighting embarrassment that I just came in my pants," he says with a soft chuckle.

I focus my eyes on his face when he pulls back.

His boyish smile looks so vulnerable my heart thumps over in my chest.

He slowly pulls his fingers from me, and I turn ten shades of red when he slowly brings them to his mouth, sucking them like the taste is the best thing he's ever experienced.

I'm mesmerized by him.

I bring my hand to his face, and he closes his eyes, leaning into my palm. After a moment, he leans down to kiss me. It's slow this time, seeking, and an unknowable amount of minutes pass before we both come up for air.

He leans his forehead against mine. "I'm going to take a shower." That playful smile comes back to his face. "Stay with me tonight." He's not asking a question. It's a plea.

Our eyes are so close our eyelashes could kiss. I whisper, "Okay."

He kisses my nose.

Moving toward the bathroom, he strips off all his clothes before reaching the ensuite door.

Again, I'm overheated by the pure strength of this man's body. He turns slightly, one hand on the doorframe, and says, "I just need a few minutes, Sunbeam. Join me if you want." With that, he smirks and heads to the shower.

I sit silently for a few minutes, absorbing the massiveness of what's just happened. I feel my sanity knocking on the door of my consciousness.

So I do the only thing I can do in this situation.

I get out of the bed.

I ran. Almost quite literally.

I grabbed my stuff, scooped up Kitty, and hightailed it out of Amelia Manor while H was in the shower. The frigid air burned my lungs as I ran down the drive and all the way to the convenience store where the same clerk I flashed all those months ago gave me a phone charger to use to schedule an Uber .

Three hours later, I walk into my apartment.

After I put my phone on the charger, I strip off my clothes and walk to the bathroom. Turning the taps on as hot as they'll go, I step under the shower spray, letting the water soak my hair.

I sit on the tiled floor. And then, I allow myself to cry.

The reasons why I cry are a jumbled mess in my brain. I'm crying because I'm happy and terrified and angry and grieving. I'm crying because I could have said yes and kept saying yes to all that happened tonight. But I chose to stop.

The truth is, I needed some space. I want Hunter. I can freely admit that I want him badly. But I need to go slow. And if I'd stayed, we would have had sex.

I'm not ready for sex. I thought I was, but as the heat from Hunter's body faded, disgust and self-loathing washed over me so thoroughly that I swallowed bile.

So yeah. I thought I would be ready, but I'm so not.

The water starts to cool, so I peel myself off the shower floor. Once I'm back in bed, I reach for my phone.

I have five calls and three texts from an unknown number. I've been sending Hunter's calls to voicemail, but I finally feel the courage to look at the texts.

Where did you go, beautiful?

This came right when I'd scheduled my ride.

This is H, by the way.

This one came right after I'd gotten into the Uber.

Winter, where are you? All my calls are going to voicemail. Did I do something wrong?

This one came right when I'd walked in the door .

My finger hovers over my keyboard, contemplating what to write to him. He didn't do anything wrong. Neither of us did anything wrong. But I'd played myself if I thought I was ready to take that next step. How can I explain to this sex god that I'm scared of having sex with him? My phone vibrates in my hand as another text comes through.

At least let me know you're safe.

I start to type and then stop, erasing what I wrote.

Ah, good. I see you're typing. So you are alive? I don't have to send out the National Guard?

Despite my messed-up mind, I laugh a little.

I'm safe.

I press send before I can rethink the message. And because I'm a psychopath, I find myself eagerly waiting for his response. He starts and stops typing several times before the dots on the bottom of our chat disappear altogether.

Good.

My breath seizes in my chest. I don't know what to say, but I want to say something.

I'm sorry.

I contemplate what even to reply when more texts come in.

Don't be sorry. I feel like I went about things the wrong way with you, and I rushed you.

I don't want only sex with you.

I want to spend time with you. Get to know you. I'm sorry if it felt like I just wanted you for a hook up.

I'm about three minutes away from an asthma attack at this point. Each text message heightens my confusion and anxiety.

Are you saying you want to date me, Hunter Brigham?

I bite my nails while I wait for his response. He replies almost immediately.

Yes.

I can't help the smile that spreads across my face. I'm giddy.

This is what you missed out on in high school.

I might not be ready for sex with Hunter today, but I might with time. No.I know I will be ready with time. I pull my finger from my mouth and type my reply.

I'll consider it.

I chew on my thumb cuticle. He says he wants to get to know me, but.…Sighing, I finally bite the bullet, deciding to be truthful.

And the truth shall set you free.

I've never dated before.

You've never dated? Or you've never been on a date?

I think about my reply before I send the message.

Both.

He starts and stops typing a few more times. Then, finally, his reply comes through.

Is it strange if I say that I love that?

I can't help the smile that passes across my face. Two minutes later, another text comes through.

Okay, so. Hi. I'm Hunter. My middle name is James, so Hunter James Brigham. I'm 34. I've been a shithead for most of my life, but in the past few years, as I've grown up, I've learned to be…a little less of a shithead. I'm a work in progress. I like numbers and math; I hate reading, but that's because it took several years for anyone to notice that I needed glasses. I wore contacts forever until I got LASIK. I don't like onions. My favorite place is Santorini, Greece. I want to introduce you to a woman I met there. She makes the best Greek food ever. Do you like Greek food? My favorite color is green. My favorite dessert is chocolate cake. I love photography, and if I wasn't doing what I'm doing now, I'd probably be a photographer. The most scared I've been was when August was born. The second most scared I've ever been was when I base-jumped off the side of a cliff in Norway. I love dogs, but I've never owned one.

That's the short summary about me. Tell me about yourself.

I breathe deeply as I re-read his text. There's so much to unpack in all of it, but I set that aside to sit with the fact that he's sharing. He wants me to know about him. And he wants to know about me too. I start to type.

Hi, Hunter. I'm Winter Leigh Vaughan. But you already knew that since I rambled about my name when we first met. I just turned 30 in October. I don't have many friends except my best friend, Veronica. I love to read, specifically the classics. Sense and Sensibility is my favorite Jane Austen novel. I love roses, which is why I love your mother's garden. I love to color, and I have a ton of adult coloring books around my apartment. I'm sorry to say that I have perfect vision, but I suck at math. I've never been to Greece, but I traveled a lot with my mom. Santorini sounds like a dream. I love Greek food. I love crystals and many alternative practices like yoga, meditation, and tarot. I promise I won't read your natal chart unless you ask. I don't have strong opinions about onions, but I do love French onion soup. If I weren't a therapist, I'd probably still be helping people in some way. The most scared I've ever been was…

I stop typing, not wanting to say the honest answer—that the most scared I've ever been was today. This evening, when I was in his arms. Even realizing that moment was when I was the most scared has me shook.

I back out the last sentence I started to write.

My favorite season is spring and one day, I want to catch the cherry blossoms in bloom down at the Tidal Basin .

I read over my response before hitting send. I stare at the screen for a few more minutes before deciding that the action isn't healthy and that I need to sleep. My phone beeps right after I snuggle under the blankets, and I pick it up to open the message.

When was your birthday?

Usually, low-key birthdays with Veronica and an ice cream cake fill my soul just fine. But this year, on what's supposed to be such a milestone, I just found myself feeling grumpy.

October 24th

He's quiet, not even the text bubbles show, and I feel my heart rate rise. It's not like I did anything wrong having a birthday.

That's your fawn response, Winter.

I pull the sachet of lavender from my pillowcase, bringing it to my nose. My phone pings, and I look at it immediately.

Happy belated birthday, beautiful Winter.

I feel his words as if he were whispering them in my ear.

I look forward to getting to know you. Sleep tight, Sunbeam.

I turn my phone off and do just that.