Chapter 36 The Space Between Us

Chapter 36 The Space Between Us
Chapter 36 : The Space Between Us

I wasn’t sure why my stomach felt so tight when I stepped into the gym that morning. Maybe it was the smell of fresh polish on the floor, the faint musk of sweat from the early morning practice, or the echo of skates against the ice. Maybe it was just him—Cole—sitting there like a shadow against the far wall, his blue eyes scanning the room, unreadable and sharp.

He hadn’t even noticed me yet. That should have made me feel invisible, safe. But it didn’t. Instead, it made my heart hammer harder. The quiet distance between us had become something I couldn’t ignore, something that weighed heavier than all the noise around us.

I had learned to adjust since he pulled away. I didn’t glance at him first. I didn’t hang on his every move. I didn’t let myself react to him like I had before. I had trained myself in silence, in control, in measured steps and steady breaths. I wasn’t weak. I wouldn’t let him see me as anything less than capable. But even as I reminded myself of that, every instinct in me screamed: he’s here, and he’s paying attention, even if he pretends not to be.

Our teacher handed out the group assignments with a casual air, the kind of casual that hid how much this moment would shake me. I scanned the list and froze. My group partner—the person I was to work with for the upcoming project—was… him. Cole Hayes.

The same Cole who had, for weeks, been deliberately distant, unreadable, cold in every glance and step. The same Cole who had made me feel like I existed only when it suited him. And now, I had to spend hours with him, shoulder to shoulder, answering questions, making decisions, planning, executing.

I wanted to breathe. I wanted to walk out. But I didn’t. I squared my shoulders and walked toward him.

“Good morning,” I said, voice calm, professional. No tremor. No hint of the chaos inside.

He looked up. For a fraction of a second, his blue eyes softened—then hardened. He didn’t smile. He didn’t greet me. He simply nodded once, precise, controlled, and turned his attention back to the papers in front of him.

I slid into the bench beside him, careful to maintain distance—not too close, not too far. The air between us was tense, electric in the quietest way. We started planning the project. I suggested ideas, precise and thoughtful. He responded, clipped, professional, not one teasing word, not one flicker of that smirk I used to be able to make appear.

It should have felt… normal. Worklike. But every glance, every shift in his posture, every tilt of his head screamed something more. Something I wasn’t allowed to name.

Halfway through, we had to measure the rink for a mock layout, and I stepped forward with the tape. He was close behind me, silent, precise. I felt the brush of his shoulder as he leaned over to hold the tape steady. The closeness made my chest tighten, my palms sweat, but I didn’t flinch. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

I kept my eyes on the task. I spoke calmly. I handed him the markers and took the measurements. I matched his intensity, keeping my focus sharp, my voice even, my emotions locked behind an iron door.

But I could feel him. Always him. The weight of him near me, so near I could sense the tension in his muscles. The subtle pull of him leaning slightly toward me, correcting a line I drew, not touching me but brushing past enough to make me aware of the space we shared.

And the truth hit me then, crystal clear and terrifying: I had been craving this—his attention, his intensity, his presence. I had been trying to convince myself I didn’t care. That I could stay strong, independent, untouchable. But here, now, every instinct I had told me otherwise.

The project ended, but we stayed longer than anyone else, working quietly, meticulously, side by side. We didn’t speak about anything personal. We didn’t exchange smiles or glances that weren’t strictly necessary. But every time our hands passed each other—handing a pencil, adjusting a line, marking a spot—my chest fluttered. Every time he leaned close, just enough for me to notice the scent of his cologne, the warmth radiating from him, I wanted to say something. Anything. But I didn’t.

Because saying something would mean admitting more than I was ready for.

When we finally finished, the rink empty except for us and the echo of our footsteps, I gathered my things. My heart still raced, my mind still spun.

Cole watched me pack. Not a word. Not a flicker of expression. Only his eyes, cold and piercing, and yet… not. Something unreadable lingered there, like he was weighing me, calculating, holding back.

I wanted to look at him. I wanted to ask him why he didn’t speak. Why he pushed me away but stayed close. Why he made me feel like I was both nothing and everything at the same time.

But I didn’t.

I slid my bag over my shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, voice steady. Not too warm. Not too cold. Just… neutral.

He nodded once. “See you,” he said, clipped.

And yet, when I stepped toward the door, I could feel him behind me. Not touching. Not speaking. Just there. Watching. Waiting.

I didn’t dare turn around.

The air outside the rink felt sharp, clean. I breathed deeply, trying to calm the storm inside me. But the truth was undeniable: I was drawn to him. Not by fear, not by obligation, but by something I couldn’t name, couldn’t control, couldn’t escape.

And I knew—terrifyingly, beautifully—that he felt it too.

But neither of us would admit it.

Not yet.