Milli

  I stare at Jax’s text for a long minute. Hey. You still owe me a hot chocolate after the play, remember?

  The message makes me smile–that same quiet, lop-sided grin he gets when he’s pretending not to care but totally does. I start typing a reply, delete it, then type again, delete that too. Words don’t feel right for this.

  Instead, I grab my jacket and my keys.

  By the time I’m standing in front of the Frostveil mansion, I’m half-convinced I’ve lost my mind. It seemed like ages ago since I’ve been here. Flashbacks to when I was brought here months ago, run through my mind. I forgot what the mansion itself looked like. The place looks like something out of a movie–all carved stone, polished wooden doors, and a garden that could probably fit my whole neighborhood inside it.

  I press the doorbell before I can talk myself out of it.

  It’s May who opens the door. I’ve met her once before, in passing–warm smile, mischievous eyes. Today, she just looks at me for a heartbeat, like she already knows why I’m here, then quietly steps aside to let me in.

  “Kitchen’s down the hall,” she says, voice soft, like she’s keeping a secret.

  I nod, mumble a thank-you, and follow the faint smell of cocoa and spices that already lingers in the air.

  Inside, Cameron–the chef Jax is always talking about–looks up from the counter, her eyebrows raised in surprise. “Well, this is new. You must be Milli.”

  I freeze mid-step. “He talks about me?”

  “Not directly,” Cameron says, a grin tugging at her lips. “But I’ve heard the name a few times. Usually after something involving theatre or broken bones.”

  I laugh under my breath. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

  She eyes the ingredients on the counter. “So, what brings you here?”

  “Hot chocolate,” I say simply. “The good kind. He deserves that much.”

  Cameron doesn’t ask more–just starts helping me pull things out. Melted chocolate, cinnamon, nutmeg, a bit of vanilla. The kitchen fills with warmth and sugar and the sound of the whisk tapping against the pot.

  We add the finishing touches together: dollops of whipped cream, a cinnamon stick, crushed candy cane bits, and mini marshmallows–small mountains of sweetness. Two mugs, thick and steaming, the kind of drink that can melt away cold days.

  I take a deep breath, balancing them carefully. “Wish me luck,” I mutter.

  Cameron just smiles. “If he gives you any trouble, throw the mug at him. Not literally–I just cleaned the floors.”

  I grin and head upstairs.

  When I reach his door, I don’t bother knocking. My nerves would win if I waited. So I push it open.

  Jax looks up from his desk, startled–hair slightly messy, a brace still strapped around his ankle, sunlight pooling over the blanket-draped chair beside him.

  “Milli?”

  “Hi,” I say, holding out one of the mugs. “You texted me about hot chocolate, remember? So here.”

  He blinks, almost like he’s trying to decide if I’m real. “You–wait, you made this?”

  “With Cameron’s help,” I admit. “But yeah.”

  He takes the mug, fingers brushing mine for a second before he sets it down carefully. “You didn’t have to–”

  “I know,” I cut him off, sitting down on the edge of his bed before I can lose my courage. “But I wanted to.” I take a slow sip of my mug of cocoa, letting the sweetness hit my tongue.

  The room smells like cocoa and cinnamon now, soft and warm. He looks better–still pale, but calmer, like the worst of the storm has passed.

  “How’s the ankle?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Still attached. Hurts less. I’m allowed to walk now, slowly.”

  “Good. That’s progress.”

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  “Yeah.” He smiles a little. “Better now, actually.”

  I roll my eyes, but my heart does that stupid skip thing anyway. “Smooth, Everhart.”

  We talk for a while–about school, about Alice’s latest drama obsession, Abby’s latest cheer choreography, about how Avery tried to skate backward into a snowbank last weekend. He laughs more than I expect him to. Real laughs, the kind that makes his shoulders relax.

  After a quiet moment, I glance at him and say softly, “You scared us, you know that night.”

  He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes drift to the window, where sunlight glints off the ice in the garden. “You’ve said that a lot lately.” He spoke softly, “I scared myself too,” he admits sincerely. “But I’d do it again. The play was worth it.”

  Something in the way he says it–quiet, certain–makes my chest feel too full.

  “Still,” I say, trying to lighten it, “next time you want dramatic effect, maybe just pretend to fall.”

  He grins. “Noted.”

  We finish our cocoa in silence after that, comfortable, unhurried. The mugs are empty before I can even notice.

  When I finally stand to go, he looks up, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Thanks for coming, Milli.”

  “Anytime,” I say, and mean it.

  As I step out into the hallway, I hear May’s voice from down the corridor, smug and knowing: “Told you she’d show up.”

  I laugh to myself, cheeks warm.

  Maybe this was overdue–not just the cocoa, but the chance to remind him he’s not alone.

  And maybe, just maybe, that text was more than a joke.

  By the time I get home, the sky’s already blushing pink and gold. The air smells like snow–sharp and clean–and I can still feel the faint warmth of the Everharts’ kitchen clinging to me, the ghost of cocoa and cinnamon following me inside.

  I barely make it through the door before I hear it. “MILLI!”

  April’s voice carries from the living room, high and suspiciously eager.

  I close the door slowly, hanging up my coat like I have all the time in the world. “Hi, April.”

  She narrows her brown eyes from the couch. “Where were you?”

  “Out.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Stuff.”

  “You’re being too vague. What kind of stuff?” She presses, bouncing up and crossing her arms. Her hair’s pulled into two messy braids, and she’s wearing her favorite oversized sweatshirt that says Queen of Sass. Fitting.

  I sigh, kicking off my boots. “You’re twelve. Don’’t you have homework to bully instead of me?”

  She grins like a cat that’s found a cornered mouse. “So you were with someone.”

  I freeze halfway through untying my shoelaces. “What makes you think that?”

  “Because you only get that look on your face when you’re thinking about him.”

  I blink. “What look?”

  “That one!” she says, pointing dramatically at me. “All smiley and secret-y and pretending you’re not smiling. It’s so obvious.”

  I can’t help laughing. “You’re impossible.”

  April hops closer, plopping onto the arm of the couch. “Was it Jax?”

  The name alone makes my heart skip like a record scratch. “Maybe,” I say, trying for casual, but my voice sounds too light, too careful.

  Her eyes widen. “It was! Oh my gosh, Milli, you went to his mansion, didn’t you?!”

  “April–”

  “Did you see the inside? Is it huge? Did he give you one of those fancy snacks? What was he wearing? Did you–”

  I toss one of my gloves at her. “Slow down, Sherlock.”

  She catches it, grinning ear to ear. “You totally like him.”

  “I don’t,” I say, too quickly.

  “You so do.”

  I roll my eyes, heading for the kitchen. “You’re ridiculous.”

  April follows, relentlessly. “I’m right, though. You made that hot chocolate for him, didn’t you?”

  I glance back at her, halfway through pouring myself some water. “You’re scary sometimes, you know that?”

  She beams. “Thank you. So? Was he happy to see you?”

  Her voice softens a little, the teasing fading into something curious.

  I hesitate, leaning against the counter. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “He was.”

  April’s smile turns small, genuine. “Good. He’s the one who got hurt in the play, right?”

  “Yeah. He’s healing, though. Still limping, but he’s better.”

  For a second, I’m back there again–the quiet light of his room, his shy half-smile, the warmth of cocoa between our hands.

  April studies me for a moment, then shrugs and steals an apple from the counter. “You should invite him over sometime.”

  I blink. “Excuse me?”

  “What? You always say I don’t get enough social practice. I’ll be super social!” she says, grinning. “Also I want to see if he’s as good-looking as Avery says he is.”

  “Avery said what?”

  April just laughs, darting toward the stairs before I can chase her. “Good night, lovebird!”

  “April!”

  Her giggles echo all the way up to her room, leaving me alone in the kitchen shaking my head and smiling despite myself.

  I look down at my phone–no new messages. Still, I can’t help checking twice.

  Maybe it’s too soon to say what this is–friendship, something more, something that doesn’t have a name yet. But I know one thing for sure: Thinking about Jax doesn’t feel heavy anymore. It feels warm.

  Like cocoa and cinnamon on a cold day.