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                  BE BRAVE. BE BRAVE. 

                  Paris worked best in stressful situations. Pressure—that was where she thrived. That was where she flourished.

                  To be a doctor at a renowned hospital, to get her dream job, Paris had placed top five of her med school class. She was good, and she knew it. Tumours, diseases, the dysfunction of red and white blood cells . . . it was a language she understood. She was fluent in the art of anatomy—the map of medicine.

                But now, as she pushed open the door to the hospital, the air was calm.

                As though the storm they had been forecasting was . . . gone. 

               The night sky was clear, the stars bright—and for the first time in months, Paris could see the northern lights.

               The aurora borealis—her favourite part of living here.

               They couldn't see it all the time, but when it did come . . . those swirling, liquid colours smeared across the stars . . . it was breathtaking.

              Paris's chest caught.

             "Beautiful, huh?" 

              Paris glanced to the side—where Rory was leaning against the hospital wall. Still dazed, Paris nodded.

              Except Rory wasn't looking at the northern lights.

              It took Paris a moment—a moment to realize.

             "You're standing," she gasped.

             On either side of her, Rory was braced by crutches beneath her arms. The cast over her leg seemed awkward, angled, but . . . she was standing.

            "How?" Paris demanded. "This is . . . how is that possible?"

            "A lot of work," Rory said grimly. "And . . . your friend, Alec, helped a little. I might be on a couple painkillers right now, but―it's worth it. For you."

            For you. Against her will, Paris blushed.

            Rory's grin dented both cheeks. Two identical dimples.

            Real. 

            All of this was real. 

           It was so real it hurt. Did Paris really forgive her? Was the past really behind them? And her heart―was her heart still broken?

           Looking at Rory now, she could only think the answer was no. 

           Maybe they were both a little broken. But wasn't that what it meant, to be human? To be alive? 

           And even if Rory was rough around the edges, even if she was still as destructively charming as before, as roguishly beautiful as ever . . .

           They had the same fire in them. The same blue flame, the hottest spark of passion. And the last time they had loved hard and ended in pieces.

           But Paris thought of the way Tasha had smiled.

           And that was because of Rory.

           Maybe . . . maybe Rory wasn't the selfish, conceited princess she had once been. God help Paris, she was still the playboy, and she was definitely still a serial flirt. 

           And it was stupid, and it was cliché, and it was flat-out ridiculous. 

           But seeing Rory again―and that promise, that idiotic, moronic promise.

           I'm going to fight for you. 

           Paris hadn't realized there was something missing inside of her. It could have been for that teenage friendship. It could have even been for all of her firsts―first touch, first kiss . . . first time having sex.

           During these five years, that was how she'd convinced herself.

           I miss my best friend.

           I miss my first kiss. 

           But looking at Rory now, the softness of her mouth, the glitter in her burnt-sienna stare―Paris could only think, that for all those years, she had been wrong. 

           Maybe she did miss all of those things, but she missed Rory most.

           She had missed Rory.

           This girl who smiled brightly, with an edge that made something in Paris's blood chorus. This girl who said such outrageous, inappropriate things just to make Paris blush. 

           This girl who said, Beautiful, huh?  while looking not at the northern lights―but at Paris.

           I think I might be falling in love, Paris thought.

           Rory said, "Are you ready to skate?"

           "As ready as I'll ever be," Paris replied, and her heart began to pound.

           The skates Rory tossed into the snow seemed to be about her size―probably too big, but Paris shoved them on anyway as soon as they had climbed down the snowy bank to the edge of the wide, frozen lake.

           Mountains gleamed bright behind the treetops.

           Freshly fallen snow was smooth and unblemished and shimmering.

           And the night sky . . . it was quiet and clear and swimming with colour.

           But Paris couldn't think of anything but the girl beside her as she tied the laces of her skates with trembling hands.

           "What if the ice cracks?" she asked, her breath glistening in the air.

           Rory laughed. "It's the middle of winter in the heart of a snowstorm. It won't crack, I promise."

           Rory's skates were already on, and as she stepped out onto the lake, Paris held her breath. The crutches on either side of her made dents in the fine dusting of snow.

           "Are you coming?"

            Paris rose shakily to her feet.

            The blades of her skates were buried deep in the snow. Each step towards the lake felt like a tightening in her chest. Her breath stuttering.

           "Ready?" asked Rory.

           "Not at all," Paris said breathlessly.

           And she took Rory's outstretched hand.

           The moment she stepped onto the ice, she slid. Too far ―the momentum of the blades against the hard ice threw her too far forward―

           Right into the princess.

           Rory flew back, her crutches clattering onto the ice. Paris had already collided into her―her palms were braced against Rory's chest―I definitely shouldn't be touching there―but as they slammed back into the ground, Rory's hands laced around Paris instead of against the ice.

           Protecting Paris before herself.

           They hit the ground with a thud that made her head spin.

           For a moment, she worried the ice would crack.

           But Rory had been right―the lake had been frozen solid for months. It was the middle of winter. It was freezing cold.

           Paris had landed right on top of Rory.

           For a moment, all she could was hear the too-fast swell of her breathing. The puff of her breath into the cold air.

           And then Rory, who was inches away from her, broke the silence with laughter. 

          "Are you okay?" demanded Paris. "Are you―are you alright?"

          It occurred to her, then, just how close they were.

          Rory's mouth was near enough, that if she moved a breath forward, they would be kissing. Paris's palms were flattened on Rory's chest, and Rory's arms were still wrapped securely around Paris's back. Holding her close.

          Paris should have moved. 

          She should have moved, but she didn't.

          "Painkillers, remember?" Rory said, still laughing.

          "I'm―I'm your doctor," Paris said. "It's my responsibility to―"

          Rory didn't say anything. Her hand, just above Paris's rear, shifted up until it was cupping the back of Paris's neck, burying her fingers into her curls.

           Paris breathed, "What are you―"

           Rory answered her question by kissing her. Their mouths crushed together, an inhale that tasted like honey and gold and lavender, and Paris moaned into Rory's mouth.

           Whatever leash had been tethering Rory, it snapped.

           With a touch that was fierce, desperate, Rory's hands slid around Paris's waist. And in one smooth motion, despite the heavy cast on her leg and the crutches on either side of her, she rolled Paris onto the ice so that she was on top.

           "Beautiful," said Rory, looking down at her.

           This time, Paris knew with certainty that she wasn't talking about the northern lights.

           And right now, with the taste of Rory still on her swollen mouth, Paris didn't give a damn about the sky or the stars or the snow around them.

            "Kiss me, you royal idiot," Paris said, and Rory obliged.

            Paris's fingers slid into Rory's silky auburn hair. Unbearably hot―the tension that was taut between the spaces of their skin. More, more, more. 

            Rory answered her wild, intoxicating desire with fire of her own. 

            And it was as though they had both been waiting for this.

            A release of the pent-up energy from every encounter. Every single vulgar joke. Every single unwanted blush. Every sizzle of hot, aching need at just the sight of Rory's daring stare. Because Rory did to Paris what nobody had ever done to her before. And this was nothing, nothing, like anything Paris had ever felt in her life.

            Rory's mouth moved against hers, and Paris whimpered―

            But then the touch of her, the feel of her, was suddenly gone.

            Rory had pushed herself back. Using her crutches to get to her feet. And she was suddenly skating backwards, just out of Paris's reach.

            "What was that for?"

            There was a teasing glint in Rory's eye. 

           "Why don't you come a little closer and find out?"

            Slowly, carefully, Paris staggered onto her feet. Her arms splayed in front of her.

            Uncoordinated―she was so uncoordinated it was painful.

            But Rory was still standing there, just a few feet away, and all she had to do what was make it there . . . 

            Paris slid one foot in front of the other.

            Soft flecks of snow were beginning to fall.

            In the moonlight, with the soft glow of the aurora borealis, Rory looked like a dream. A vision. And she was―

            Still moving backwards.

            "That's cheating!" Paris said. 

            "What's cheating?" 

            "You―you're still skating backwards―"

            "Come here, Paris, and let's finish what we started."

            Now that was an offer Paris wanted to take her up on. But with miniature circles, Rory was still skating further away, too quickly for her to protest.

            "Just a little bit more," Rory coaxed.

            "When I get my hands on you―"

            "You're going to fuck the life out of me?"

            Even as Paris's jaw dropped, she thought, That too. 

            With one burst of pure, determined speed, Paris slid herself forward. Hurtling herself right into Rory's chest.

            But the princess didn't move back this time.

            She caught Paris, managing to keep them upright, and her hands snaked to Paris's hips. Lower. 

            This time, when they kissed, it wasn't filled with fire.

            It was as soft as the gentle kiss of summer rain. As sweet as the fresh promise of a spring rosebud.

            And it was so gentle that Paris felt like she was hovering in the clouds. Suspended by the strings on the stars, floating on the cold winter breeze. Marionettes, dancing together. A show for whatever gods were watching from the heavens above.

           Rory whispered, "Sometimes I look at you, and you're so fucking beautiful it hurts."

           Around them, the winter wind swirled. Caressing their hair, sifting against their exposed skin.

           "I think to myself, There's no fucking way she's real," Rory continued. "Because . . . if you're real, and I let you go, I think I might have to spend the rest of my life making it up to you."

           For once, Paris had no words. No judgement.

           Rory's voice became even quieter. As though the night sky itself was listening in. 

           "It's crazy," she said. "I know that. But I'm . . . I'm trying my best, Paris. To fix what I did. To be a better person. And it's so hard I want to give up, I want to take a drink, but I don't. And you know why? Because all I have to do is think of you. And how I don't deserve you, but one day I might. One day, I'll be worthy of you. And for every day until then, even if it takes forever . . . I'm going to try."

            Rory's laugh rasped out against the cold.

            Her hand bunched in Paris's curls, drawing them together so gently, so tenderly, that Paris sighed against her lips. Their foreheads touched.

            Intertwined―they were intertwined, a quiet embrace.

            If someone would have looked out from the hospital right then . . . if someone had peered closer into the dimness of the night . . . what would they have seen?

           Two girls on the ice. Holding each other. 

            A sky full of stars. A world full of snow.

           And then Paris pulled away, the ghost of a grin on her lips, and said, "Are you going to teach me to skate or what?"

           "Oh, you want to learn how to skate now?"

           Paris glided backwards smoothly, easily. "There's probably something I should tell you."

           "Yeah?"

           A smirk curved Paris's mouth. "I lied."

          And then she was dancing backwards onto the ice, her feet moving in effortless patterns from all the hockey classes she'd taken as a child.

          Rory's mouth fell open. "You can skate?"

          "Born and bred Canadian," Paris teased.

          "So this date . . . when you agreed to me teaching you, you . . ."

          "Already knew how to skate?"

          Paris grinned in response, and Rory's eyes narrowed. 

          Too late―there was already snow in her fist, and she was aiming it at Paris's head. The soft, half-formed ball splattered right into her mouth.

          Paris was still spitting out snow when Rory threw a second.

          "If you want a snow fight, then I hope you can handle it," Paris called out across the ice. "Remember what I said about being Canadian? We take our winter activities very, very seriously."

          "I think I can handle it," Rory said confidently.

          Paris flicked her tongue over her bottom lip. It had always been one of the things to drive Rory wild. And as Rory's eyes drifted down to her mouth, a lazy assertion of power, Paris pitched her snowball right against Rory's chest.

           "You hit hard," Rory gasped.

           "You asked for it."

           "Next time I'll try begging."

           "Good idea," Paris said. "Beg for mercy."

           "Against you? I'll ask for patience instead."

           "Patience?" Paris said breathlessly, throwing another snowball right against Rory's shoulder. "Why patience?"

           The princess grinned devilishly. "I'm going to need it when I take my time making you moan my name."

           Paris let out a bubble of laughter, but the blush that warmed her skin was hot enough to send a pulse of need between her thighs. "Someone's a little arrogant, don't you think?"

           "I didn't hear any complaints last time."

           "Did you hear anything last time?"

            Rory's grin turned wicked. "Now, now, Paris. We both know that's not true."

            Paris remembered the way her moans had echoed against the classroom walls. The headmistress had once caught them―and Rory had played it off as a spiritual chant to God. 

            Now, the memory burned her cheeks.

            And it seared between her legs with heavy, fiery craving.

           Paris formed a snowball between two hands. "How about this―I win this fight, and you owe me something. You win, and I owe you something."

           "How will I know if I win?"

           "I'll be begging for mercy."

            "And how will I know if you win?"

            "You'll be begging for mercy."

            Rory's dimples pierced both cheeks. "Easy," she said. "I never beg."

            Maybe, Paris thought. But this was a snowball fight, and Paris was a Canadian. By the end of the night, she would conquer this territory.

            "I think you should check that pride thing again," Paris advised.

            "Not tonight," Rory said adamantly. "I always win."

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             BY THE END OF THE NIGHT, RORY was on her knees begging for mercy.

             Later, Paris would always remember this night as the calm before the storm.

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This was kind of a cute chapter actually.

What's your favourite season? I think I love autumn best, but apparently there are crazy people who actually love winter.

From the moon and back,
Sarai