“It’s my love language.”
“Your what?”
“Spicy noodles and poor emotional timing.”
When she laughs and lets me in, the world rights itself just a little.
Dinner turns into talking. Talking turns into her sitting on the counter while I rinse dishes.
At one point, she reaches out to wipe sauce from my cheek with her thumb and doesn’t move it fast enough.
Our eyes meet.
My hand lands on her thigh, light as a question.
The air between us isn’t air anymore. It’s possibility.
She swallows hard. “Is this still a bad idea?”
I whisper, “Probably.”
Neither of us moves for a long, loaded heartbeat. Then she slides off the counter, her bare feet landing softly on the tile, and whispers, “Tomorrow.”
It’s the third time she’s said it, and somehow it hurts worse every time.
That night, lying in bed, I can still feel the warmth of her skin under my hand.
Marcus’s text about throwing again stares back from my phone, but all I can see is her standing in her doorway, light haloing her like she was made to be the thing I came home to.
And that’s when I know I’m in trouble.
Because for the first time in my life, I want something I can’t win by force.
Bailey Hart isn’t a game. She’s the whole damn season.
And I’m still learning how to play it right.
The following morning starts with trepidation and caffeine.
Mostly caffeine.
I’m halfway through my first mug when Rowan strolls in, kicks the kitchen chair like it owes him rent, and drops into it with a groan. “You look like a man with something on his mind,” he says, stealing my toast.
“I have many somethings,” I say. “All equally unhelpful.”
He chews. “So… Bailey.”
“Do we really have to do this before breakfast number two?”
“Yes.”
I sigh. “She’s—”
“Different?” he offers.
“Yeah. And not in the cliché way. Just… grounded. Real.”
Rowan grins. “You mean she calls you out on your crap, and you like it?”
