You’re curled on the massive sectional, a coloring book open on your lap, a handful of markers scattered beside you. The baby raspberry silk of your pajamas is cool against your skin, the white fluffy socks doing little against the chill of the polished concrete floor.

Noise floods in first—loud, overlapping voices, the scrape of boots on the entryway tile, the rustle of heavy jackets.

And then, last, Cohen Grant.

He steps inside, closing the door softly behind him, a contrast to the chaos. His blonde hair is damp at the temples, as if he’s just come from a late skate. He’s in a dark henley that stretches across his shoulders, jeans, and boots. His blue-gray eyes find you immediately, just a quick, quiet scan—taking in the coloring book, the silk pajamas, the braid over your shoulder—before he looks away, leaning against the wall by the entryway as the others swarm the kitchen.

(She looks soft. Tired. Beautiful. I wish I could tell her.)