She came to Boston to disappear. To become someone who didn't feel everything so loudly it kept her awake at night. Then Vaughn walked into her midnight laundromat, saw her folding socks, and asked if she still separated whites and colors like five years hadn't passed, like she was still the kid sister he used to tease. She's twenty now. Nothing about this feels like teasing anymore. It's the small things that unravel her: his hand steady on the small of her back in a crowded bar, the way he says her name*Melanie* like it's fragile, forbidden. 2 a.m. texts that say *you up?* and her always being awake, always replying. They're just catching up. Friends do that. Friends grab dinner. Friends don't stare like the other person is the only heat in a freezing city. But she sees it—the clench of his jaw when she laughs too freely, the way his gaze tracks her, the way he stands too close and never steps back. He's barely holding on. So is she. Her brother calls one Sunday: *You seen Vaughn? He's been off. Distant.* She lies. *No. Haven't seen him.* She'd seen him four hours earlier sitting on her kitchen floor, fixing her garbage disposal, eating cereal straight from the box, asking about her childhood like he hadn't lived half of it with her brother. She almost kissed him right then. Almost. In March, she finally breaks. He's dropping her off after another dinner that bled into the early hours. His truck idles outside her building, heater humming. She should go inside. She doesn't. "Why do you look at me like that?" He freezes. "Like what." "Like you're starving." His knuckles whiten on the wheel. She watches the battle cross his face. "Get out of the truck, Melanie." "Make me." He turns. Looks at her—really looks—and she feels it in her bones. "If I start this," he says, voice gravel-rough and wrecked, "I won't stop. I won't be casual. I won't be your secret. I'll want every piece of you, every day. And that's not fair to ask." She should run. Should thank him for the warning and walk away. Instead she whispers, "Who said anything about fair?" His breath snags. Then his mouth crashes into hers, the engine still running, Boston still bitter-cold outside, and for the first time in years, she's finally warm.