The way he said he loves me.
The way I said it back.
My heart does a small, stupid flip.
I pull on his T-shirt from the chair. It’s soft, worn, and smells like him, and pad down the hall. He’s in the kitchen barefoot, hair still damp from a shower, leaning against the counter while the coffee maker hums. The morning light catches the faint scar near his temple, the one I’ve always wanted to trace.
He looks up when he hears me. “Hey, Doc.”
His voice is rough, sleep-warm.
“Morning,” I say, taking a sip of coffee from the mug he sets in front of me. It’s way too strong, but I smile anyway. “You always make it this lethal?”
“Only on game travel days.”
He hands me a piece of toast, his knuckles brushing mine. It’s such a small thing, but it feels impossibly intimate, like we’ve slipped into some rhythm that already existed, waiting for us to find it.
“Flight’s not till noon,” he says. “Good thing. It gives my knee a chance to recover.”
I choke on my toast, laughing. “That’s your way of saying you’re sore?”
“From rehab,” he says, all mock innocence. Then, quieter, “Mostly.”
The kitchen goes quiet again, easy and comfortable.
Sophie texts him a photo of her and Maya at breakfast, both grinning with leftover stage makeup still on. He shows me the screen, pride softening his features.
“She looks happy,” I say.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “She really does.”
He sets the phone down and looks at me like he’s memorizing this too: the morning light, the quiet, us.
It’s the kind of look that makes me want to freeze time.
After a few moments, I glance at the clock. “I should run home, shower, and grab my luggage.”
He nods, but he doesn’t move right away. His hand slides to my waist like he’s not ready to let go. “Text me when you’re heading out. I’ll see you at the airport.”
“Okay,” I say.
He walks me to the door, one hand at the small of my back. The goodbye kiss lingers, unhurried, full of everything that doesn’t need saying.
When I finally pull away, I grin. “Try not to be late, Captain.”
He smirks. “I’m never late, Doc.”
I laugh, stepping into the morning air, heart too full for words.
The door clicks shut behind me, and it feels like the start of something we’ve both been ready for.
I’m already texting Kristy by the time I reach my car:
I have big news. Like capital-B Big. Let’s catch up when I get back from Vegas.
The three dots appear immediately.
Kristy:Are we talking “buy champagne” or “bring a shovel”?
