“Yeah,” I say with a smile. “Let’s get some ice cream.”
We head downstairs, my wet hair dripping onto the collar of his old Mustangs jersey. It drapes over me like a dress, with the sleeves brushing my elbows.
Maverick hasn’t said a word since I pulled it on. I see him out of the corner of my eye as we enter the kitchen. He trips over the last step, with blue eyes fixed on me.
I tug the hem down absentmindedly, pretending not to notice, and open the freezer door. “You’re staring.”
He blinks hard, as if I snapped him out of a trance. “I’m so not.”
I smirk to myself as I pull out the pint of ice cream. “Sure, quarterback. Keep lying to yourself.”
When I look back, he’s still staring, jaw clenched, hands twitching as if he doesn’t know what to do with them.
“You have no idea what it does to me,” he finally says,shaking his head. Seeing you in my jersey is honestly so fucking hot.”
I laugh to myself, choosing not to answer, playfully pushing him as I walk into the living room.
We’re curled up on the couch, watching some shitty reality TV as we eat our ice cream.
Maverick’s holding a cone piled with vanilla ice cream and rainbow sprinkles, taking slow licks while glaring down at Cupcake.
“No,” he tells them sternly. “This is mine.”
I glance over, raising a brow. “Sprinkles, Maverick? Really?”
He grins. “Yeah. I’m healing my inner child. Wanna taste?”
I lean in and catch him off guard, my tongue swiping over his lips for a quick taste of sweet cream and sugar. His gaze darkens instantly.
“You’d better quit it,” he warns, his voice low and dangerous. “Or I’m taking you back upstairs and fucking you three more times until you pass out.”
I laugh again, leaning back into the couch, warmth spreading through my chest. My gaze drifts back to him, all shaggy blonde hair, broad shoulders, and those blue eyes still staring at me in awe, and I can’t stop the thought from settling deep in my bones.
He’s starting to feel likehome.
A loud crashof something breaking wakes me abruptly, making my heart pound in my chest. I reach outinstinctively, but Maverick’s side of the bed is cold, the sheets rumpled and empty. Another crash echoes from downstairs, along with the unmistakable sound of glass breaking.
My legs swing over the side of the bed before I can think, and my bare feet hit the cool hardwood as I move toward the noise. My mind remains foggy, still clinging to the warmth of yesterday evening.
Ice cream, laughter, his mouth on mine, the safe, soft feeling of him wrapped around me. But the sight waiting at the bottom of the stairs tears that comfort away from me.
The kitchen is a disaster. Plates are shattered across the floor, cabinet doors hang open, and one of his trophies from the shelf now lies on its side.
In the middle of it all, Maverick throws another plate against the wall, the sharp crack ripping through the air.
“Maverick?” My voice is rough, still heavy with sleep.
He doesn’t hear me.
“Maverick!” Louder this time.
He freezes, shoulders stiff, before turning toward me. His hair is a mess, clinging to his damp temples, his chest heaving. “Amelia, baby... not now. Please.”
I take a step closer, my pulse pounding. “I’m not going anywhere. What the fuck is going on?”
His eyes lock onto mine, intensely. “I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore!” He yells, tumultuously, just before he grabs another plate and hurls it to the floor.
The shards scatter across the tile, a harsh punctuation to his admission.
