Page 33 of Hometown Touchdown
It’s sunny outside. Bright and cloudless. The kind of cheerful day that feels like a personal attack when your emotions are stuck in grayscale. I tug my sweatshirt sleeves down and head down the sidewalk, hoping to outpace the ache in my chest.
Halfway down the street, I stop cold in front of the flower shop.
There, nestled in the window display, is a bundle of soft pink peonies.
Myflower.
And just like that, I’m not on Main Street anymore. I’m back in Roanoke, walking through Happy Hollow Gardens, Knox’s hand warm in mine. I remember how he slowed when we passed a blooming row of peonies and said, “They’re stubborn. They take a while to bloom, but when they do, it’s worth it.” Then he leaned in, kissed me, and smiled that soft, sure smile that always undid me. “Just like you, Bunny. You’re worth it all.”
My throat tightens. I blink fast and look away, but the damage is already done. My heart’s cracked open and raw in a way I haven’t let myself feel in years.
I thought I left him for the right reasons. I thought I was protecting myself. Letting him go before our lives pulled in different directions. But after what happened with Henry—after being loved with conditions and timelines and fear—I see it differently now. Knox loved me with everything he had. He saw me. Not just who I was, but who I could be. And I walked away.
I didn’t just leave him. Icut him off.One clean break. No looking back. I thought it would make it easier, but all it did was make it final. Shame and regret wash over me.
The town didn’t let it slide either.
The day after I left, my mom texted me a screenshot of the Cedar Falls Facebook page. Haddie Carmichael had already posted something cryptic about “a hometown hero left in the dust.” People speculated. Peoplecommented.Theories flew like confetti. Some blamed me. Some blamed Knox. One woman offered to bake him a casserole and “help him heal.”
I couldn’t even bring myself to defend myself. I just went quiet.
And now that I’m back…I’m not sure I deserve a second chance.
By the time I get home, I’m sweaty, exhausted, and more emotionally tangled than I was when I left. I sink into the couch like the weight of the truth might finally press me into stillness.
I’m not trying to fall for Knox again. Truly, I’m not. But he still makes me laugh in that deep, helpless way that leaves me catching my breath. He still looks at me like I’m the only girl in the room. And our mothers are campaigning harder for our reunion than a fanfiction forum on espresso shots.
I tell myself I’m not falling for him again. But if I believe that, I’m only fooling myself.
Chapter sixteen
Brynn
Itstartswitharattle in the vent and ends with me curled on the couch in three sweaters and a throw blanket that still smells faintly of the cedar chest it came out of. My toes are blocks of ice. My fingers aren’t much better.
The heater’s dead. And of course it picks the first real fall night—temperature already dipping into the forties—to give up on life.
I stare at the thermostat, willing it to cooperate. Nothing. The numbers remain stubbornly still, taunting me.
With a sigh, I walk to the kitchen to the drawer I stashed my lease paperwork. I flip through the papers until I see a number labeled ‘maintenance.’ I grab my phone from the coffee table and tap out a quick message.
Brynn (9:18 p.m.):Hey, it’s Brynn in 102. Sorry to bug you this late, but I think the heater’s out.
The reply comes almost instantly.
Unknown (9:19 p.m.):Hey, it’s Knox.Be there in ten.
My stomach flips, traitorous and immediate. He does the maintenance? I tell myself to calm down. It’s just a heater. Just Knox.
Except nothing about him feels likejustanymore.
When the knock comes, I sit up straighter than necessary, heart thudding far too hard for something as ordinary as a maintenance visit. My hand lifts to my hair on instinct, as if a quick fluff will transform this chaotic end-of-day bun into something remotely cute. The window next to the couch reflects the truth, I look like someone who’s been burrowed under a blanket fortress all evening. Because I have.
Still, I smooth my sleeves, tug at the hem of my sweatshirt, and open the door.
Knox stands there with a toolbox in one hand and a dark gray hoodie stretched snug across his shoulders. And of course, the hat—backwards, like some cruel joke the universe tailored just for me. He doesn’t say much, just gives me a nod that’s equal parts effortless and familiar, like his presence doesn’t send my brain short-circuiting and my pulse into a sprint.
He crouches beside the wall unit, one knee bent, the other stretched behind him with easy balance. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he moves—no hesitation, no fuss. Like fixing things comes naturally to him. Not just heaters, but maybe everything.
