*this chapter contains multimedia relevant to the plot*

"We're always happy to have you here, Eli."

I offer a clipped smile. "Thank you, Mrs Holmes."

Owen's mother grins, waving me off dismissively. "Of course. I miss cooking for five."

"Is that so different from cooking for four?" Owen's sister, Olivia, chimes in pertly. Mr Holmes shoots her a look and her already big round eyes widen innocently. "I was genuinely curious."

"Sure you were." Owen rolls his eyes.

"You shouldn't do that so much. Your eyeballs might pop off."

"Olivia," Mrs Holmes deadpans. "Don't chastise your brother. He's tired."

She smiles. "I was offering my brother honest advice. From a place of sisterly concern."

"Sure you were," Owen parrots his own words.

"Since you're so full of sisterly concern, I'm sure you won't mind cleaning this up," Mr Holmes tells his daughter as he stands from the table.

"I cleaned the kitchen before bed all week," Olie complains, sounding more like a whiny kid than she ever did anywhere else. "It's Owen's turn."

"Your brother studies very hard all day, and he helped me at work today. You can do the dishes," Mr Holmes says.

"I can help," I offer. Because what else could I do? I've eaten their food, the least I can do is help clean up.

Mrs Holmes tsks dismissively. "You're a guest."

"It's no trouble," I say, standing up.

"Hey. If he wants to help, let him help," Olie says.

"How permissive of you," Owen muses.

Olie shrugs with a coy smile. "That's me. So permissive."

"Do as you like. Your father and I are going to bed," Mrs Holmes tells us, walking alongside her husband to the kitchen doorway.

"You can stay the night if you like, Eli," Mr Holmes says before leaving.

I smile in appreciation and then they're gone. Owen's parents rise before dawn every day, so they're early sleepers.

"Bailing already?" Olie asks as Owen stands from the table as well and makes for the door.

He looks at her. "I need to use the bathroom. Is that allowed?"

"For you? Just about anything," she quips.

Owen rolls his eyes as he turns away. As he leaves, I help Olie collect the dishes from the table. She throws me a kitchen towel from the hook beside the stove, before grabbing a scourer from the balcony.

"How's life?" She asks lightly, placing a modest amount of detergent on the green mesh and running a plate under running water.

"Great."

She smiles knowingly, looking at me out the corner of her eye as she scrubs. Her curly brown hair is tied back, away from her face. "Living the dream, soaking up the glory of being state champions?"

"All that."

"Mhm, I could tell." She nods, rinsing the foamy plate under the tap. "You sure look radiant. Truly glorious." She hands me the clean wet dish with a meaningful look.

I take it, surrendering a weak laugh under her shrewd gaze. "I'm just tired."

"Practice shouldn't be wearing you guys out so much anymore," she says as she starts on a new dish. "Is that just work, or something else on your mind?"

I press my lips together, twisting the kitchen towel in my hands.

She snorts, making me look up at her to see her roll her eyes. I almost mean to point out how much that makes her look like her brother, before she bumps her hips into mine and splashes a little water on my face.

"Come on, just say 'I don't feel like talking about it, Olivia' and we're good," she says.

I shake my head a little, but there's a tiny bit of tension lifted off my shoulders. "I don't feel like talking about it, Olivia," I repeat dutifully.

"Why, of course, Elijah. That's perfectly fine. I would never want to intrude on your privacy."

"How kind of you."

"I know." She nods emphatically. "I often say I'm the kindest person I know."

"Modest as well," I put in.

She lifts a wet finger at me after passing me a clean glass. "Don't forget intelligent and drop-dead gorgeous."

"Yes, all that."

"Why, thank you." She grins. "I confess I never knew you admired me so much. I'm flattered."

An almost-smile forms on my lips. "As you should."

I think I can see her eyes glint with some sense of achievement. "No small feat, earning the admiration of Brunson's most promising guy."

"Thought that was your brother."

"Please. Owen will grow up to be all respectful. You'll be a pro hockey player. He'll wear suits, you'll be famous."

"Owen will probably be President or something," I counter.

She shrugs, scrubbing a handful of utensils. "I still think your future will be more impressive."

"Why?"

She smiles. "Because you're already pretty impressive as you are."

That earns her an honest smile. It almost feels wrong for a second. Not to feel so jaded and empty. But the warmth and sincerity in her familiar brown eyes staunch that thought.

"Thanks, Olie. You're pretty impressive yourself."

The smile on her face doesn't falter and that's where I keep my attention. I don't even notice her leaning in until my brain registers the distance between our faces as too close, her eyes set on my lips. I react on instinct, stepping away from her until I hit the corner of the kitchen balcony behind me, the polished granite digging into my spine.

"Olie, no. I—"

"I can help clean up the rest," Owen's voice cuts through mine. We both turn to see him standing by the kitchen door. He looks directly at his sister. "I think maybe you should go to bed."

Olie's smile has faded. She looks between me and her brother, and walks out. Owen's eyes follow her as she leaves, but I can tell they'll soon be on me. I duck my head. I know he's angry even without looking. How could he not be? Nothing riles him up like all things concerning his sister.

He waits for me to look up at him. It's a team captain strategy. He's treating me like a player he needs to reprimand. Maybe because that's the only way he knows how to handle confrontation. As a captain.

"Can't you just let her down easy once and for all?" His tone is almost like a disappointed dressing down.

That makes me angry. I can't even say why. It happens more frequently lately. It comes easier than any other other emotion. And it doesn't feel quite as suffocating as feeling nothing.

"What the fuck do you want me to do?" I hiss under my breath, because this is still a small house. "I never gave her any hint I was into her, but she keeps shooting her shot like it will eventually hit the fucking target."

Owen's hardened face contorts into a full scowl. "Tell her you're not interested."

"I would have if I knew she wouldn't lose her shit and then you'd lose your shit because I broke her heart or whatever."

"Because leading her on is so much better?" He snaps trough a strained voice, trying to keep our voices from reaching his parents' bedroom.

"When have I ever lead her on?" I exclaim in a whisper.

"She just tried to kiss you," he delivers accusatorily.

"I didn't fucking ask her to!"

We both turn our heads at the sound of movement by the doorway. Olivia stands there, stone-faced looking at the both of us. At first, only confusion can pierce through the cloud of smoke inside my head. Until I spot her phone on the table. She came back for it.

"Wow."

"Olie," Owen starts.

"Please, don't."

I purse my lips. "Can I explain?"

"What's there to explain?" She jerks her shoulders stiffly. "This house isn't that big. I heard everything I needed to hear."

She ends up leaving her phone on the table and turning away.

Owen and I stand in heavy silence for a while, eyes trained on the floor, the wall, the sink, the table — just not each other. I don't look at him as I take for the door, grabbing my jacket from the large hanger on the cubicle-like foyer. He doesn't follow me or make an effort to hold me back.

It takes me all but a dozen steps to make it to my own front door. The house inside is dark and empty. This is why I went over the Holmeses' for the evening. Elliott is working late again.

Right now, I can appreciate the emptiness, though.

I walk to my room without turning the lights on and drop down on the bed without moving the messy sheets, only kicking my shoes off.

My phone buzzes inside my pocket and I reach for it. It's just a typo-riddled message from Dean.

But my gazes catches on the most recent text conversation below Dean's name. My thumb moves of its own accord to open it, after leaving it unread for well over a week.

It punches right through the feeble anger threatening to melt away in my gut. That's the problem with anger. It comes easy, but it fades fast. And then there's just void.

Told you you'd hate me, that's what he sent me the morning after we were together. After I crawled to his room at The Lodge and asked him for what I had never dreamed I'd dare ask from anyone. It's the text I got from him, after sneaking away from his room before the first few slivers of light could bring shame and regret kicking in full force.

He's wrong, though. I don't hate him. If only I just had the energy for that.

I close my eyes, thinking back to that night. 

Liam let me into his room without resistance. He never really resisted anything we did.

Actually, he did resist somewhat that night. Like he had to make sure. Could he see what was going on in my head? Am I not as good at tucking it all behind well-practiced indifference as I think I am? Am I starting to get careless around him?

It's been eleven days, but I think I can still feel him. His lips on mine, my hands on him, skin on skin. I can't believe I actually asked him to take me to the hot tub. I can't believe he actually agreed.

It was such a cheap move. But why did it feel so right?

It was a cold night, but the water kept us warm. Until we didn't even need it anymore to stay warm. If I close my eyes hard enough and try, I think I can still feel his hands on my back, on my thighs, on my arms — everywhere, like he was trying to memorize my body with the tip of his fingers. Or maybe that's just how a really vivid memory feels. Maybe that's how it goes when you're not trying your hardest to forget.

I don't even remember how we ended up on the bed. I don't want to think about how easily I let him handle me, but I do anyway. And he was so gentle, every touch so soft, every caress so sweet. Except when I asked him not to. And, fuck, I really asked him that.

I can feel heat rise to my face every time I let myself think about it — why do I let myself think about it — but I can also feel a lump lodging into my throat, painful and unforgiving.

I want to forget the way he whispered my name and the way I called out his, but I also don't. Not really. There are so many things I try to forget, but with this I don't think I'm trying hard enough. But I should.

Everything about it is wrong. I was wrong to have tried to kiss him that first night months ago, when we were alone on the rink. I was stupid and careless and I should have paid for it. Instead, Liam decided he was going to have fun with my moment of weakness, so I decided I was going to make the most out of a bad judgement call.

He wanted a fun experiment, a juicy little secret, an exciting thrill for the boring days. I thought I could get some relief out of him. One last indulgence before getting what I want becomes too hard or too risky.

But this has gone too far. The other night in his room shouldn't have happened, and I should never have encouraged it.

Told you you'd hate me.

I don't hate Liam. But I think I might hate myself. Or I would, if I had the fucking energy.

***

As this story proceeds and nears its end, there are going to be some discussions about mental health and descriptions of mental illness. I wanted to leave that warning here, just in case.

As always, thank you for reading! Please feel free to leave your thoughts and feedback in the comments, I really love reading those! If you liked this chapter, maybe leave a vote as well :)