"Better than air hockey?" I tease, and feel her smile against my chest.
"Way better than air hockey." She lifts her head to look at me, and her expression is so open, so full of affection, that my breath catches. "Though I'm still not admitting defeat on that front."
"Rematch next week?"
"You're on." She settles back down, her arm tightening around my waist like she's trying to keep me anchored here. "This is nice. Just... being able to take our time."
"No risk of interruption," I agree, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "No having to sneak around."
"Just us."
"Just us."
We lie in comfortable silence for a while, and I let myself memorize this moment—the weight of her against me, the rhythm of her breathing, the way her bedroom smells like her perfume and us. I want to bottle this feeling, this perfect rightness, and carry it with me always.
"I should probably go soon," I say eventually, though every fiber of my being rebels against the idea.
"Probably." But she doesn't loosen her grip on me. "Early practice tomorrow."
"And you've got that early meeting."
"Sure do."
Neither of us moves.
"Five more minutes," I say.
"Five more minutes," she agrees.
We both know it'll be longer than five minutes. We both know I don't want to leave, and she doesn't want me to. But this is how it has to be. For now.
When I finally force myself to get dressed and kiss her goodbye at her door—a softer, sweeter goodbye than any we've shared before—I feel like I'm walking on air.
The drive back to my loft passes in a haze of contentment. I can still taste the sweetness of cotton candy on my lips, still hear Sloane's laugh echoing in my truck as she tried to buckle Steve the sloth into the backseat. The memory of her face when she said "This was perfect" plays on repeat, and I catch myself grinning like an idiot at red lights.
Back in my apartment, I pour two fingers of bourbon and sink into the leather chair by the window. The city glitters, but all I see is her—lighting up the arcade, destroying me at air hockey, melting against me when we finally came together.
Perfect. She called it perfect. She was right.
Still grinning, I scroll through social media. Photos of teammates with their families. Late-night dinners. The usual.
Then I see it.
A post from Derek—my old linemate. The guy who helped wreck my last relationship. He's at a gala with his wife. She's beaming. He's holding her like she's everything.
"Couldn't be prouder of my incredible wife for chairing tonight's children's hospital fundraiser. This woman amazes me every single day. Lucky doesn't even begin to cover it. #PowerCouple #ProudHusband"
The bourbon in my glass suddenly tastes sour.
Derek looks proud. Proud in a way I feel every second with Sloane but never get to show.
My thumb freezes above the screen. And then I hear Emma's voice, razor-sharp and painfully familiar:
"You never fought for me. When things got hard, when people talked, you just... disappeared. Like you were ashamed of me."
It gutted me then. Because beneath all the drama, it was true. When the press circled, when the rumors hit, I shut down. I called it discretion. Dignity. But really? I was protecting myself.
"Not once," she screamed in our final fight, "not once did you stand up and say you were proud to be with me."
