We leave the players’ box together. The walk up the tunnel feels shorter with him next to me, his shoulder a steady presence in my peripheral vision. We push through the side door, making sure it clicks locked behind us.
Outside, the night is even colder. My breath fogs in front of me, white in the dark. He falls into step on my outside, between me and the road, like it’s not even a choice.
Campus is almost empty now. Just a few scattered lights in dorm windows, the glow of the library far off.
We don’t talk much.
Silence isn’t awkward. It’s thick with everything we just did and everything we didn’t.
Every few steps, our hands swing just close enough that our fingers brush. Each time, a little zing of contact snaps up my arm. The first two times, I swallow it and pretend I didn’t feel it. The third time, my pinky hooks around his for half a second before I come to my senses and let go.
He doesn’t call me on it. But his hand stays that fraction closer afterward.
The closer we get to my dorm, the more reality starts to seep back in.
Dad. The team. The leash. The person calling his phone.
The fact that this—whatever we just started—isn’t simple. It’s not safe. It’s not something that lives in the neat, controlled lines of a box score.
We stop at the bottom of my dorm steps.
The lobby light spills out in a harsh rectangle, turning the concrete brighter than the sky. I tuck my hands into my jacket pockets, gripping my keys so hard the metal digs into my palm.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
“For walking?” he asks.
“For…” I gesture helplessly. Rink. Bench. His mouth. His hands pulling back when I asked. “All of it, I guess.”
He shifts his weight, like he’s not used to being thanked for things that come as naturally to him as breathing.
“You don’t have to thank me for wanting you,” he says finally.
Heat explodes in my chest.
“Maybe I do,” I say. “I’m not sure how any of this works.”
“Me either.” His mouth quirks. “We’ll figure it out. Or we’ll crash and burn. Either way, we’ll know.”
“Comforting,” I mutter. But my lips curve.
He takes a half step closer. We’re back in that tight little bubble of space where everything feels louder—breath, heartbeat, the soft rustle of clothing when one of us shifts.
“Can I…” he starts, then stops like he’s catching himself. “I want to kiss you goodnight,” he says, simpler.
My lungs forget how to work for a second. Then I nod.
“Okay.”
He lifts one hand, knuckles grazing my jaw, fingers weaving through my hair to tuck a loose strand behind my ear. This touch, though gentle, carries a weight that feels more intense than the rush we shared on that bench. It’s as if the air thickens around us, charged with unspoken promises. He leans closer, tilting his head, and I can feel the heat radiating from him. This kiss is unlike the last—deeper, more consuming. His mouth finds mine with a softness that belies the intensity brewing beneath the surface.
As our lips connect, he pulls me in, his other hand settling firmly at my hip, grounding me as if he understands how easily I could lose myself in this moment. I melt against him, surrendering to the sensation of his tongue brushing against mine, exploring with a languid deliberation that sends shivers down my spine.
I lean into it, allowing myself to fully embrace the connection, feeling every muscle in my body unwind instead of tense. My shoulders drop, releasing the tension I didn’t realize I was holding. My fingers, which had been tightly gripping my keys, begin to relax, slipping from their rigid grasp as I lose myself in the sweet, intoxicating depth of his kiss.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against mine for a second, our breaths mixing in the cold.
“Text me when you’re in,” he murmurs.
