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I think about Lenny—the tilt of her head when she laughs, the way her smile lights up her whole face. Her lips. Her legs. That dimple.

I can't help but wonder if it's still there, just below her back.

My muscles tighten with a mix of nerves and something heavier—something that makes me itch for more than a message.

I blink, shake it off, and finally answer.

Meet me outside of my place in an hour? No groceries this time.

Walking toward the door, I glance at myself in the mirror on the wall for what feels like, well… way too many fucking times.

I left my mom's shortly after Lenny agreed to come over—mostly to get ready but partly because my sister basically bullied me off the couch.

I didn't realize a seven-year-old recovering from cochlear implant surgery could be so… motivating. But I'm chalking it up to the fact that I couldn't take listening to one more song sung by an animated snowman.

We decided on an hour.

That gives me six minutes until I'm supposed to be downstairs waiting for Lenny. My fingers drum against the wall as I stare at the doorknob, more nerves rushing through me than I anticipated.

Considering the elevator ride I still have to take, I figure it's now or never.

I grab the knob, taking one more deep breath before twisting it and ripping the door open.

To find her standing there.

"Hi," she says, her hand raised, ready to knock.

My mind flashes back to the beer garden at Luxe.

"We gotta stop doing this," I say sarcastically, my heart racing from the surprise.

"Sorry," she says, her voice high as she points over her shoulder. "That big guy we saw last time when I… um—"

"Delivered my groceries?"

She purses her lips. "He let me in the building." She gestures to the number on the outside of my door. "And I remembered which one was yours so I figured I'd save you the trip down."

I chuckle to myself, shaking my head. "Petrov's the Flames' best defenseman—stops literal giants and pucks flying at him at eighty miles an hour. But he lets you slip by him."

Lenny's brows lift as she opens her hands. "What can I say? I'm scrappier than I look."

She's joking—obviously. But something about the way she's looking at me when she says it, the way a sliver of skin lingers between her shirt and the waistband of her jeans under the flannel. The way she smells—like cinnamon and apple cider and… her—does something to me.

"Yeah," I manage, my voice rough. Her face softens knowingly, and the flash of pink that settles on her cheeks draws me back. I clear my throat. "Come in."

Lenny steps past me, her arm brushing my chest as she walks through the doorway.

"How was the cider fest?"

She groans. "Fine, I guess. Better before I got stuck as Mabel's garnisher."

My brow furrows.

"Exactly," she says. "A whole job devoted to squirting whip cream and sprinkling nutmeg on drinks."

"Well, you eat with your eyes first, right?"

As if on cue, Lenny's gaze dips to my lips.