Every inch of my body ached—from the tops of my feet to the muscles behind my eyes—and I was pretty sure I’d drunk enough coffee today to single-handedly keep my favorite café in business for the next quarter. My throat was dry from too many press calls, and I had a half-dozen unread texts waiting for me about game-day coverage tomorrow.
But I still felt good. Tired, yes—but not defeated. The strategy was solid, the messaging tight. The league couldn’t twist our words if we gave them none to twist.
Still, I’d barely seen the guys. Not since this morning, when Jay brought coffee and Rhett teased me into laughing despite everything. And Roan—Roan had been laser-focused. The kind of locked-in that made everyone else step in line without question.
So when the dark silhouette of his SUV pulled to the curb just as I stepped onto the porch, my heart leapt before my brain could catch up.
I turned toward the sound of the engine shutting off. A moment later, his door opened.
Roan.
He stood there a beat, backlit by the streetlamp. His shoulders tense, his jaw shadowed with stubble. Then he started walking, slow, deliberate strides that made something flutter in my stomach.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” I called, voice lower than I meant.
“So are you,” he answered, and the corner of his mouth curved, just slightly.
“You okay?”
“I just needed to see you,” he said simply.
That was it. No dramatic reason. No fire to put out. Just… me.
I didn’t hesitate. “Come in.”
Inside, the house was dim and quiet, the soft click of the door shutting behind us the only sound. I toed off my shoes and set my bag aside, watching as he followed me through the front hall like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe it was. Maybe we’d already passed the point of pretending otherwise.
Upstairs, I guided him toward my room with a touch to his wrist. My fingers barely grazed his skin, but the reaction was immediate. His breath shifted, his eyes dropped to where I touched him, then lifted back to mine. He let me lead.
In the bathroom, he shed his shirt first as I stripped out of my suit. I didn't mean to grab it—but once he took it off, my hands just... moved. The fabric was soft and still warm from his body. I tugged it over my head without thinking.
Roan caught the motion in the mirror, just as he rinsed his hands and braced them on the edge of the sink. His eyes met mine through the reflection.
And lingered.
That same shirt hung loose on me, hem brushing the tops of my thighs. He didn’t speak, but the heat in his gaze said enough.
He looked... undone in a quiet way. Not tired, exactly. Just stripped down, like the armor he wore all day was left somewhere out on the ice.
His gaze drifted to the bathroom counter, just for a second.
The bottle of suppressants sat there.
Unopened.
He didn’t ask. Didn’t comment. But I caught the faint tension in his jaw. Saw the question forming behind his eyes, even if he bit it back.
I didn’t offer an explanation. When I held out my hand, though, he closed his fingers around mine instantly, tight, warm and solid.
“You were there when I needed you,” I said softly, pulling him closer. “I’m here for you now.”
He didn’t move for a long beat. Then his forehead dropped to mine, his breath catching on the exhale.
“You have no idea how much I needed to hear that.”
“I think I do.”
