Paige pressed her palm flat against the cold glass of Johnny's kitchen window, watching her breath fog the pane. The December dark pressed in from the other side, bare branches of the oak tree scratching against the sky like thin fingers. Behind her, the fan whirred, pushing air that did nothing to cool the heat settling under her skin.
"You're quiet tonight." Johnny's voice came from somewhere near the stove. She heard the click of the burner, the hiss of blue flame.
"Thinking." She turned. He stood in the weak light, his red hair darker in the shadows, his flannel hanging open over a thin t-shirt. He looked at her the way he always did now—like she was something he was still learning to believe in.
"About?"
She crossed the linoleum, her socks silent, and stopped in front of him. The heat from the stove warmed her back. "Christmas. Two days away."
"You got everything you want?"
"I don't know." She reached up and touched the collar of his flannel, straightening it for no reason. "I don't really care about presents."
He caught her hand before she could pull away, his fingers wrapping around hers. His palm was warm, a little rough. "What do you care about?"
The question hung between them. She could hear the fan. The hum of the refrigerator. Her own heartbeat, thick in her ears.
"You," she said. Simple. True.
His jaw tightened. He looked down at their hands, then back up at her face. Something shifted in his eyes—a crack, a surrender. "Paige."
"What?"
He pulled her closer, until she stood between his knees, her hips against the edge of the stove. The heat bloomed behind her. His hands slid up her arms, over her shoulders, settling on either side of her neck. His thumbs traced the line of her jaw.
"I've been trying to figure out how to say this for weeks," he said. His voice was low, rough, like he'd been holding it back too long. "Every time I'm with you, it's in my throat. Every time I leave you, it's all I can think about."
Her chest tightened. She knew. She had known for months. But hearing him say it—she wasn't ready. She was ready. She was terrified.
"Johnny."
"I love you."
The words fell into the small space between them, heavy and warm. His hands were still on her neck, his thumbs still moving, and she could feel the slight tremor in his fingers. The admission had cost him something.
She didn't speak. She couldn't. Instead, she reached up and covered his hands with hers, pressing them harder against her skin. Her eyes burned.
"Hey." His voice cracked. "Don't cry."
"I'm not." She was. A tear slipped down her cheek, catching the light from the stove. "I love you too. I've loved you since the van. Maybe before."
He made a sound—half laugh, half breath—and pulled her into him. His arms wrapped around her, his face pressed into her hair. She felt his chest rise and fall against hers, felt the rapid thud of his heart through both their shirts.
"Say it again," he whispered.
"I love you, Johnny McHale."
His arms tightened. "Again."
"I love you." She laughed, wet and shaky. "I love you. I love you."
He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were bright, a little glassy. He touched her face, his thumb catching the tear still on her cheek. "I've been wanting to say that for so long. I thought—I don't know. I thought it might scare you off."
"Nothing scares me off." She leaned into his hand. "Except maybe your mom."
He laughed, a real laugh this time, and kissed her forehead. Then her nose. Then her mouth, soft and slow, like he had all the time in the world.
The kiss deepened, and she pressed closer, her fingers curling into his flannel. The stove was warm behind her, his body warm in front of her, and the December cold outside the window felt like a different world entirely.
When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers. "I love you."
"I know." She smiled. "I love you too."
The fan hummed. The refrigerator clicked on. Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaked, and they both went still.
"Jimmy," Johnny breathed.
Paige stepped back, her face flushed. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "Is he supposed to be home?"
"He's always home." Johnny ran a hand through his hair, grinning. "But I don't care. Let him see."
"Johnny—"
"No." He caught her hand again, pulled her back to him. "I'm done hiding. I love you. Everyone can know."
She looked at him—his red hair messy, his flannel crooked, his eyes bright with something that looked like defiance and joy mixed together. She thought of the minivan, months ago, the sticky vinyl and the nervous hands. She thought of how far they'd come.
"Okay," she said. "Everyone can know."
Jimmy appeared in the kitchen doorway, squinting against the light. He looked at them, standing close, their hands still linked. His eyebrows rose, but he didn't say anything. Just shuffled to the fridge, grabbed a soda, and walked back out.
"Told you," Johnny muttered.
Paige laughed, the sound surprising her. She felt light. Like something heavy had been lifted from her chest.
"What do we do now?" she asked.
Johnny tugged her closer, his arm sliding around her waist. "Now? We sit on the couch and watch whatever's on TV. And I hold your hand. And I say 'I love you' until you get sick of hearing it."
"I won't get sick of it."
"Good." He kissed her temple. "Because I'm just getting started."
She laughed, the sound still wet at the edges, and let him lead her out of the kitchen. The living room was dim, the only light coming from a lamp in the corner and the blue glow of a television playing to an empty room. Some sitcom she didn't recognize. The laugh track rattled hollowly.
Johnny pulled her down onto the couch beside him, his hand never leaving hers. He stretched his legs out, his sneakers bumping the coffee table, and tugged her closer until her shoulder pressed against his chest.
"Comfortable?" he asked.
"Yeah." She tucked her feet up, curling into him. His arm settled around her, his hand resting on her hip. The fabric of his flannel was soft under her cheek.
They sat in silence for a moment, the television flickering. She could hear the fan still humming from the kitchen, the occasional creak of the house settling. His heart beat steady under her ear.
"So," he said, his voice low. "The van."
She tilted her head to look at him. "What about it?"
"You said you loved me since the van." He was staring at the television, but she could see the slight smile at the corner of his mouth. "That's a pretty specific timeline."
"It is."
"When?" He turned to look at her. His eyes were dark in the dim light, catching the blue glow from the screen. "When in the van?"
She thought about it. The sticky vinyl seats. The nervous hands. The way he'd looked at her like she was something precious, something worth being careful with.
"The second time," she said softly. "After we—you know. After. We were just lying there, and the windows were fogged up, and you were tracing patterns on my arm. And I remember thinking, 'I hope he never stops touching me.'"
His breath caught. She felt it, the way his chest stilled for a second.
"That's when you knew?"
"No." She smiled. "That's when I knew something was different. I didn't know what to call it yet. I’m thirteen. I didn't know what love was supposed to feel like." She paused, her fingers finding the hem of his shirt, playing with the fabric. "I figured it out later. When we were in the back of your mom's station wagon, and you were telling me about your dad's fishing trip, and I realized I didn't care what you were talking about. I just wanted to hear your voice."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
She laughed, shoving his shoulder lightly. "Shut up."
"I'm serious." He caught her hand, brought it to his mouth, and kissed her knuckles. "I love that you remember that."
"Of course I remember. I remember everything." She looked up at him. "I remember the way you looked at me that first night. Like I was the only person in the world."
"You were." He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You still are."
She felt heat rise to her cheeks. She ducked her head, hiding her face against his chest. His flannel smelled like him—laundry detergent and something warm, something that was just Johnny.
"I love you," she murmured into his shirt.
His arm tightened around her. "I love you too."
The television played on. Some commercial for laundry detergent. She could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen, the steady rhythm of seconds passing. The whole world was still moving, but here, in this dim living room, it felt like they'd stepped out of time.
"Tell me about your moment," she said, lifting her head.
"My moment?"
"When you knew."
He was quiet for a moment, his hand rubbing slow circles on her back. She watched his face, the way his brow furrowed slightly, the way his lips pressed together as he thought.
"It wasn't one moment," he said finally. "It was a lot of small ones. The way you laughed at my dumb jokes. The way you didn't care that I was older. The way you'd look at me across the cafeteria like we had a secret."
"That's not an answer."
"I'm getting there." He smiled. "It was the night you fell asleep on my shoulder during that movie. The one with the dinosaurs."
"Jurassic Park."
"Yeah. You were out cold. Your mouth was open a little. You were drooling on my shirt."
"I was not."
"You were." He grinned. "And I remember looking at you and thinking, 'I want to wake up next to this girl for the rest of my life.'"
She stared at him. Her chest felt tight, full, like something was pressing against her ribs from the inside.
"That's when you knew?"
"That's when I knew." He touched her face, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. "I didn't say it out loud for months. I was scared. But that night, in my room, I wrote it down. 'I love Paige Moretti.' On a piece of paper. I still have it."
"You do not."
"I do. It's in my drawer. Under my socks."
She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Both were pressing at the edges of her control. She settled for kissing him instead—pressing her mouth to his, soft and warm and full of everything she couldn't say.
He kissed her back, his hand sliding into her hair, his fingers tangling in the curls. The kiss deepened, and she turned toward him, her hand finding his chest, feeling his heart beating under her palm.
When they broke apart, both of them breathing hard, he rested his forehead against hers.
"I'm glad you said it first," she whispered.
"I didn't say it first. You said it first."
"I said 'I love you too.' That's different."
"It's not." He kissed the tip of her nose. "You said it first. In the kitchen. When I was being a coward."
"You weren't a coward."
"I was terrified."
"So was I." She touched his face, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "But you said it anyway."
He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her palm. "I'd say it a thousand more times."
"Say it once more."
"I love you, Paige Moretti."
She smiled, feeling the words settle into her chest like something warm and permanent. "I love you too, Johnny McHale."
He kissed her again, slower this time, like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth. She let herself sink into it, let herself feel the weight of his body against hers, the warmth of his hands on her skin, the steady rhythm of his breath.
Somewhere in the house, a door closed. Footsteps in the hall. Jimmy's voice, calling out, "Mom's gonna be home in twenty minutes."
Johnny pulled back, his eyes still on hers. "We have twenty minutes."
"That's plenty of time." She smiled. "For you to tell me you love me a few more times."
He laughed, the sound low and warm. "I love you. I love you. I love you."
She counted each one, tucking them away somewhere safe.