Page 136 of Well That Happened

And then—it’s over.

He pulls back like the contact burned him.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to go,” he mutters, voice wrecked.

I’m breathless. Spun out. Barely holding it together.

But I touch his hand and whisper, “Maybe it is.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Rilee

By the time Fletcher’s Uber pulls up two days later, my ankle’s mostly healed, my nerves are frayed, and every guy in this house looks like he’s preparing for a bomb to detonate.

Grayson straightened every pillow in the living room three times.

Hunter’s cleaned the kitchen twice—even though he hates cleaning—and hasn’t spoken more than two words since breakfast.

Caleb?

He’s practically glowing.

“This is going to be great,” he says, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet like he’s about to accept a game-day puck drop. “We’re totally pulling this off.”

I send him a flat look. “You’retooconfident. Tone it down or he’ll smell the performance.”

Caleb grins. “You love my performances.”

Before I can tell him to shut up, Fletcher’s at the door, grinning like he’s just landed on shore after months lost at sea.

He looks good. Better than I’ve seen him in a long time.

He’s filled out again—broad shoulders under a fitted sweatshirt, scruff along his jaw trimmed neat. His eyes areclearer too, steadier. Less haunted. Like some of the weight he’s been dragging around finally got set down.

He still walks like an athlete, even if he’s not back on the ice. Confident, grounded, but always scanning the room like he’s reading a play before it happens. He looks more like himself. Like the version I remember from before everything broke.

And when he sees me, his whole face softens.

“Ri,” he says, pulling me into a hug that’s just slightly too tight for someone still recovering from a sprained ankle. “You look good.”

“You look… better,” I say, tugging him inside. “Like not in danger of tackling someone out of withdrawal.”

He snorts. “Baby steps.”

“Boys,” Fletcher says, stepping into the living room where everyone’s gathered, watching.

Caleb’s the first to greet him, pulling him into a quick bro-hug, followed by a fist bump. “Good to see you, man. You look solid.”

“You too,” Fletcher replies, clapping his shoulder like a coach checking for muscle tone.

Grayson gives a nod and a firm handshake, the quiet respect between them clear but not overstated.

Hunter lingers near the wall, arms crossed, but steps forward just long enough to bump knuckles and say, “You’re taller than I remember.”

“You’re still just as grumpy as I remember,” Fletcher shoots back with a crooked grin.

The tension isn’t gone, but for a moment it’s buried under old rhythms—like muscle memory from seasons past.

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