He groans, tipping his head back. “Too soon.”
I grin. “Couldn’t resist.”
He shakes his head, finally looking a little less like the captain and a little more like the man who kissed me in the dark a few nights ago. “Come over. Easier that way. Sophie will be staying at Maya’s.”
My eyebrows lift. “You can cook?”
“Define cook.” His tone is bone-dry, and it makes me laugh out loud, the sound echoing off the tile.
“Guess I’ll find out,” I say.
He steps back toward the tunnel, that faint smile lingering.
“You will.”
When he’s gone, I let out a long, slow breath. The hum of the building fades around me, replaced by the quiet thud of my own heartbeat.
Great. Now I’m smiling after a loss. That’s going to look suspicious.
The next day comes fast. Travel, meetings, treatment notes—then suddenly it’s dusk again, and I’m standing on Declan Tremayne’s front porch with a bottle of wine and nerves pretending to be confidence.
The street’s quiet, that soft suburban hush that feels borrowed after a week of arena noise. Porch light on, curtains half-drawn.
I exhale and tell myself this isn’t a big deal. That it’s just dinner.
Yeah. With my brother’s best friend. My patient. The captain I’m definitely not supposed to be dating.
I shift the bottle from one hand to the other and press the doorbell before I can think better of it.
He opens the door before I can knock twice. Jeans, navy T-shirt, and that rough shadow of stubble that makes him look unfairly good. The smell of garlic and butter drifts out behind him.
“You cookandanswer doors?” I tease. “You’re full of surprises.”
He gives that small, reluctant grin. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s edible, barely.”
“Then I’m contributing dessert.” I hold up the bottle. “Liquid sugar.”
He lets me in with a low laugh. The house is warm, all dim lighting and quiet music—some acoustic playlist that helps take the edge off my nervousness. On the counter, a cutting board with sliced steak sits beside a bowl of mashed potatoes.
“Wow,” I say, setting my bag down. “Actual food groups.”
“Don’t start grading me,” he warns, grabbing plates from the cabinet.
“Too late,” I say, eyeing the spread. “Effort’s an A… and presentation’s annoyingly good. Who are you?”
He shakes his head, but there’s a spark in his eyes now, the one I only see when he’s letting the weight slip. We fall into aneasy rhythm—eating, brushing hands, the kind of quiet that feels comfortable.
The conversation drifts—team travel, his rehab check-in for tomorrow, the series tied 1–1. He looks lighter here, shoulders not braced for anyone else’s expectations.
“This is nice,” I say.
He glances up. “Yeah. Feels…normal.”
I catch a small flicker of relief behind the word, as ifnormalisn’t something he gets often. I raise my glass, and he meets it halfway, the soft clink filling the quiet between us.
“To normal,” I say.
“To something good,” he says.
