Finn is one of the last to board. He slows, long enough to let his gaze flick between Eden and me. His mouth curves in a knowing grin. Bastard. I arch one brow in warning. He salutes me mockingly, then climbs the steps.
Coach lingers, glancing back at me. “You’re not heading to Tarrytown with us?”
“Not tonight,” I say evenly. “Gotta see my folks in Brooklyn. It’s my mom’s birthday. I’ll be back in time for practice.”
Coach studies me for a second, then shrugs. “Alright. Watch your macros, yeah?” He waves me off and follows the others aboard.
The door hisses shut, and the bus rumbles away, taillights glowing red against the dark Jersey tarmac.
Eden’s brows pinch. “It’s Janice’s birthday? I thought it was in July.”
“Half-birthday,” I say smoothly, my arm snug around her waist as I thumb my phone with the other hand, booking a ride. Then I catch her bag, balance it on top of my roll-on, and keep her pulled tight against me. “Let’s get going.”
“Oh…okay.” She sounds confused, then glances up at me as I guide her toward the exit, my hand firm at her waist. “Is that…a Creole thing? Or an Italian thing?”
“Nah,” I say, nothing more.
She huffs a laugh, shaking her head, but doesn’t pull away as I steer her toward the car line. The Uber idles at the curb, headlights cutting across the tarmac. I drop our bags in the trunk, then guide Eden inside first with a hand at the small of her back, keeping her close enough she can’t slip away even if she tried.
The ride hums quiet, city lights flashing through the windows. She tucks under my arm automatically, head on my shoulder, already half asleep. My hand stays heavy on her waist, thumb tracing idle patterns against her ribs.
“Thanks for dropping me off,” she murmurs, yawning. “Are these trips always this intense?”
“Yes.”
She falls silent again, content to let the hum of the highway fill the space. For me, it’s the best kind of quiet, her warm weight pressing against me, mine to hold.
When the car doesn’t veer right toward the Lincoln Tunnel, her head lifts, frown creasing her forehead. “That’s not the way to the city.”
“It’s not.” Nothing more.
The silence stretches, thick and charged now. I tighten my hold, palm sliding higher, my thumb pressing lightly over the flutter of her pulse. She stiffens, then eases, her breath snagging in her chest. When I let the pressure linger, her thighs shift together, the smallest sound slipping past her lips before she bites it back.
“Nate,” she whispers, low, afraid the driver might overhear. “I should go home?—”
“Not tonight.” I finally turn to her. My fingers tighten once at her throat. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away. She leans into it, eyes gone dark, chest rising quick.
My voice drops, final. “You’re coming home with me.”
She parts her lips, about to protest, but when I press against her pulse again, the words die in her throat. Instead, she shifts closer, thighs squeezing together before she finally lets herself melt into me.
I stroke my thumb once more over the flutter of her pulse, watching her swallow hard, then ease. Her breath comes shallow now, quick little pulls, as if deciding whether she’s nervous or turned on.
“Good girl,” I murmur, brushing a kiss against her temple. She exhales shakily, a sound that’s almost a whimper, and slides her hand against my chest.
The rest of the ride hums with silence, but it’s charged—her body pliant under my arm, her cheek pressed into my shoulder, thighs shifting every time my thumb ghosts over her neck. She doesn’t say another word. She doesn’t have to.
Forty minutes later the car rolls to a stop in front of my house, headlights sweeping across clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows. I slide out first, pull our bags free, then circle around and open her door before she can touch the handle. My hand finds her waist again, guiding her up the short walk, exactly where I want her.
Inside, the house is dark except for the glow from the kitchen. She glances around, remembering it—the sharp order of the space. I steer her straight to my office, drop into the chair, and pull her onto my lap.
“Nate—” she starts, confused, but I’m already logging in, fingers flying over the keyboard.
The Defenders’ health portal flashes on the screen. My latest panel comes up, line after line of numbers, all clean. I tip the monitor toward her.
“Okay?” I murmur at her throat, teeth grazing her earlobe.
She scans the screen, then nods. “Okay.” Her voice wavers, then drops lower. “I don’t have anything recent to show you. My last physical was over a year ago.”
