Because this, her, so quiet and soft and curled against me, feels better than any kiss, any fuck, any game we’ve played so far.
Hockey has taught me that nothing lasts—not leads, not seasons, not wins. But Tallulah Parnell? I’d stake forever on her.
***
The light wakes me first, sharp across the sheets, catching on the glitter on her skin that she didn’t wash off last night. Dusty’s curled at her feet like a guard, tail flicking, even in sleep.
And Lulu. Christ.
She’s sprawled across my chest, my T-shirt hanging off one shoulder, hair a snarl of curls. Her breath fans warm over my sternum, lips parted on the softest little snore. We’ve never really done this much. Never stayed over more than once or twice, not since we nearly got caught. But she’s here, in my bed. And it feels so fucking right, I almost don’t move, afraid it’ll break.
She stirs eventually, blinking herself awake, groaning as she pushes hair out of her face. “I feel like death,” she croaks.
“Look like it, too,” I mutter, brushing glitter off her cheek before I can stop myself.
She smacks me weakly, then grins. “Careful, husband. You’ll scare off your bride.”
“Don’t.” It comes out harsher than I mean it, but her giggle softens the sting. I reach across to the nightstand and hand her the Advil and water I placed there last night. “Here.”
“You’re a saint, Pookie.”
“Don’t call me that.”
She hums in reply, leaning over to press a kiss to my jaw, and I fight the urge to pull her in, kiss her deeper.
We stumble to the kitchen together, her bare legs peeking under my shirt, with Dusty padding after us. She digs out her matcha while I brew coffee, both of us leaning heavily against opposite counters like survivors of the same wreck.
Once hers is ready, she curls onto a stool, sipping slowly, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “You’re supposed to make me breakfast, you know. It’s in the vows.”
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes across the counter. Eli.
I swipe to answer, already bracing. “Yeah?”
“Millerrrr.” His groan rattles down the line. “Tamara keeps saying there were… dares? And I swear I remember you dipping Lulu like a ballroom dancer, but that can’t be right. She’s messing with me, right?”
“Dares got outta hand, that’s all.”
He huffs. “Knew it. Fuckingknewit. Just drunk shit, not real?”
Tell that to the plastic ring burning a hole in my pocket because I want to wife your sister up properly.
It would be so fucking easy to just say it. To tell him the truth, admit we’re together, that last night wasn’t a joke for me. But that would blow everything up. Eli, the team, and his relationship with Lulu.
“Not real,” I say flatly, pacing toward the sink.
Eli wheezes like I’ve saved his life. “Thank God. Fuck, my head hurts. Did I eat nachos?”
Yeah. Probably off the floor. “No clue.”
He groans again, muffled this time, as if Tamara’s shoving the phone away. “Alright, good talk. You’re a solid dude, Miller. Made sure Lulu got home safe, right?”
Safe in my arms all night. Safer than I’ve ever kept anyone.
“Yeah,” I say instead, cool and calm. “I made sure.”
"Knew I could trust you," he murmurs. "Thanks, bud. " Then he hangs up.
When I turn back, Lulu’s still watching me over her mug, matcha steam curling between us. She sets it down, fidgeting with the handle. “We can’t keep doing this forever, you know. Sneaking around.”
