I smirk, pat his cheek once, and turn away. “Cute. Pants, Elias.”
His groan echoes through the apartment, dramatic as hell, but he still stomps to the closet, muttering curses under his breath as he grabs clothes and yanks them on with exaggerated misery. Good boy.
He’ll get his reward tonight—but right now, we have reporters to ruin.
Elias stomps out of the bedroom, dressed in what technically counts as a suit if the dress code was punk-rock sex riot. Slim black slacks, sharp enough to please Coach, tight enough to cause a scandal. A deep grey button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar popped just to be an asshole. The tie? Crooked on purpose. A black-and-red plaid number that screams I will bite you if you correct me. And the shoes? Nowhere to be seen.
His curls are still messy, and there’s a fresh bruise blooming just under his jaw that I definitely put there this morning. He saunters up to me, eyes bright, lips parted, all full of swagger and no self-preservation.
I don’t say a word. Just reach up, slow and sure, sliding my hands through his curls to push them off his face. My thumbs brush behind his ears, tilting his chin up, forcing those brightgreen eyes to lock with mine. He softens instantly. All brat, gone. Just Elias. My center.
“You’re perfect,” I murmur, rough.
His fingers twitch at his sides. Then he goes right back to the crime. His hands slip toward my waist, one already brushing the inside of my jacket. “What’s in the pocket, Cap?” he purrs.
I catch his wrists before he gets further. “Still not subtle,” I mutter, stepping back just as he lunges. He makes a sound like a wounded raccoon. “Sir!”
“Shoes, pup,” I call over my shoulder, already walking toward the front door.
Behind me, there’s a beat of silence, followed by a loud groan and a muttered, “You’re lucky I like you.”
“I’m lucky you can read,” I shoot back. “Shoes.”
“Fascist.”
“Flatterer.”
I hear him scrambling down the hall, muttering under his breath and cursing when he stubs a toe, and I smile—not because it’s funny, but because it’s familiar, because it’s him, because every frantic sound reminds me exactly where he belongs.
Elias eventually moves. He huffs, slinks to the coat rack, and grabs one of my old Reapers jackets. The one that’s too big even for me, faded black with our old logo on the back and the cuffs fraying. He throws it on like it’s couture, sleeves swallowing his hands, collar popped like a little shit.
I don’t say anything. He catches my look anyway. “What? It smells like you,” he shrugs, unapologetic.
My heart stutters. I open the door before he can wreck me further. The ride to the press conference is mostly quiet. Elias kicks his shoes off the second he folds into the passenger seat, pulls his feet up, and spends half the drive playing with the hem of the jacket sleeve like it’s some sort of comfort blanket. Hedoesn’t say much, just hums under his breath and watches the city blur past with that look he gets when the noise in his head finally shuts up.
By the time we pull into the arena lot, I already know what we’re walking into—chaos—and that we’re late, not horribly, but enough to earn side-eyes and a few chirps.
Cole whistles the moment we walk in. “Well, well, if it isn’t Daddy and the delinquent.”
Mats doesn’t even look up from his phone. Just snorts once and mutters, “Called it,”. Everyone thinks he’s just the flirty one, always smiling, always chill. But he watches everything. Reads people like scouting reports. And when he decides you’re worth protecting? God help whoever hurts you.
Shane’s midway through balancing his fifth Red Bull can into a lopsided pyramid, his eye twitching. “You two missed my glove blessing. That’s bad juju.”
Viktor just lifts a brow, deadpan as ever. “Late.”
“Fashionably,” Elias quips, flopping into the chair next to Cole and stretching like a cat.
I take the seat beside him. Let my thigh press against his. One grounding point.
The moment the mics go hot, the sharks smell blood. “Damian—four wins in a row, two on home ice, two away. What changed after the Wranglers series?”
“Elias,” I say without missing a beat. Elias jolts slightly beside me, clearly not expecting it. He blinks at me, wide-eyed, pink creeping up his neck.
I don’t elaborate.
Another reporter jumps in. “Mercer, you’ve been dominating faceoffs this entire series—what’s driving this level of performance from a rookie?”
Elias tilts his head, all fake innocence. “You mean besides a terrifying six-foot-five enforcer whispering threats in my ear every morning?”
