He groans dramatically, already turning, already stomping toward the bedroom. “You’re the worst,” he yells over his shoulder.
“I’m your captain,” I call back.
“And you’re the worst!”
I smirk, pressing a hand to the ring box in my pocket. He has no idea how much worse I’m about to be.
He disappears into the bedroom, and I’m only halfway through hanging up my coat when it hits me—silence. Which, with Elias, is never good.
I shut the closet door slowly and pause, letting the quiet stretch while I listen for something, anything. There’s nothing. No rustling. No zippers. No drawers opening or closing. Not even the faint, guilty noise of someone pretending to get dressed. Just… nothing.
I sigh. “Pup,” I call, already knowing how this is going to end. “If you’re trying to sneak out the window in one sock again, I’m not chasing you.”
The silence holds.
I take three steps down the hall—loud, heavy ones, just to make sure he hears—then push open the bedroom door. And there he is, on the edge of the bed, jersey still on, sock still there, and absolutely nothing else. His legs are spread like an invitationdisguised as laziness, curls messy around his face, lip caught between his teeth.
He looks up at me. “Hi,” he purrs. “Quick question.”
“No.”
“You didn’t hear it yet—”
“I don’t need to hear it.”
He hums, slow and dripping smug, leaning back on his hands so the jersey rides higher on his thighs. “But what if it was a really smart question? What if it was—oh, I don’t know—strategic?”
I deadpan. “Get dressed.”
He rises to his feet, too slow, too pretty, crossing the small distance with a sway in his hips that he absolutely learned from tormenting me. He presses a palm to my chest, slides it up my collarbone, then curls his fingers into my shirt like he’s about to pull me in. Then he stands on his toes, mouth brushing mine. “We could skip,” he whispers. “Press won’t miss us. We’re tired. Overworked. Full of trauma. Probably dehydrated. It’s irresponsible to make us leave.”
I raise a brow. “Nice try.”
He smirks. “Was it?”
“No,” I murmur, grabbing his chin between two fingers, forcing him to look at me. “It was pathetic.”
His breath catches.
I lean in, lips grazing his ear. “And you know what’s worse?”
“W-what?” he whispers.
“You’re not even subtle.” I slide my free hand down, drag a slow line up the back of his bare thigh. He shivers instantly. “You want me to fuck you before we leave.”
He whines, quiet and involuntary.
I let my hand fall away. “Shame,” I say. “We don’t have time.”
His eyes go wide with betrayal. “Sir.”
“Clothes, pup.” I step back, gesture toward the open closet. “Now.”
He glares at me, a tiny stormcloud of pure, bratty fury gathering between his brows, and then—because he never knows when to stop—he tries one last thing. He steps closer, hooks his fingers into my belt loop, and murmurs, soft and coaxing, “What if I asked nicely?”
I lift a brow. “Try me.”
He swallows, lashes dropping as he looks up at me anyway, and when he speaks again it’s barely more than a breath. “Please?”
