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I open my mouth to give my number, but then I remember.

"Audrey?"

"I…" I wrap both hands around the coffee cup. "I've barely touched my phone since I got here. It might be dead. I genuinely don't know."

"Okay…" He takes a careful step towards the edge of the bed before sitting down. "Any reason? Do you need a charger or something?"

I shake my head and look out the window.

"No. It's just that…"

I take a breath and look at him. It sounds stupid, but with Miles, somehow that doesn't seem to matter.

"It's just that if I turn it on, it's all there again, you know? Brett. My mother. A thousand messages from people who watched me disappear without a trace."

"Sweetheart—"

"And I know I can't hide forever, I know that, but the second I look at that screen, everyone gets a vote on my life again. And right now I just… need to know what I want before they all start telling me what I should want."

I wait for the reasonable-adult lecture. You should call your mother. You owe him a conversation. Closure is healthy.

But Miles pockets his phone and simply reaches out to squeeze my leg.

"Then take the time," he says simply. "When you're ready, you decide who gets an answer. Nobody's entitled to one on their schedule."

I take a sharp breath to stop the tears from falling.

"And the phone number?"

"Forget it. I'll find you." He grins, heading for the door. "Somewhere in the resort. You're the terrifying blonde with the tablet, right? Easy to spot."

He stops beside the bed, bends down, and presses a kiss to my forehead.

Then he disappears, and I sit there in a mountain of white bedding with perfect coffee and the terrible knowledge that a forehead kiss just affected me more than anything that man did between my thighs last night.

Christmas only.

Sure.

By afternoon I'm standing at the boards of the practice rink with Stevie and Dylan, watching the Wildcards run drills while Coach Dave sleeps upright by the firepits. He still has his thermos hugged to his chest like a teddy bear, but I can hear him snoring from here.

Which means Miles is running practice.

And God, he's good at it.

He doesn't shout. He skates between the players, adjusting, rebuilding drills around what each player actually does well. Nate's speed on the wings, Aidan parked in front of the net like a fortress, Baxter's chaos aimed at the crease instead of everywhere at once.

He explains once, and they listen.

He looks like a coach. A captain.

A man people follow because he leads them.

"—all I'm saying," Dylan is saying beside me, mid-interrogation of his sister, "is that Aidan carried your guitar case to the Ski Bar last night. And saved your table."

"It was heavy," Stevie says, eyes fixed very hard on the ice.

Dylan gives her a pointed stare. "You've carried it since you were twelve."