“Go get ready,” he said quietly. “I’ll stay with him.”
There was no arguing with that tone. There rarely was.
I nodded, slipping into the bathroom for a fast shower to wash away the last of the night from the scent of the hospital to the sting of fear I’d been carrying. By the time I came out, face damp, hair loose and brushed, Roan was at the edge of the bed, kicking off his boots and pulling his shirt over his head.
The sight of him, all solid lines and quiet restraint, did something to the remaining tremor in me. He didn’t say anything—just folded his clothes neatly, the motion unhurried, grounded, like he was doing it as much for me as for himself.
“Get in,” he said softly, once I hesitated near the bed.
I did. The mattress dipped beneath my weight, the warmth of Jay’s sleeping form nearby comforting in its own right.
“I’ll be right back,” Roan said, pressing a kiss to my head. Then he vanished into the bathroom. One fast shower later, he was back, sliding in behind me, his bare skin brushing mine as he settled. The contact made me inhale sharply, not out of surprise, but because it feltsafe.Like my body finally believed we were home.
He rested a hand at my waist, not possessive—grounding. My faint trembling hadn’t stopped completely, but the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back helped slow it.
“Talk to me,” he murmured after a long silence.
“I’m okay,” I whispered. “Mostly.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I smiled faintly. “You never actually asked anything.”
He huffed out something close to a laugh. “Fair. Then let me try again.” His thumb traced a slow, absent line over my hip. “You dazzled me tonight, cool, competent, in control as always and you stepped in front of the press in their feeding frenzy like the damn champ you are.”
A smile tugged at my lips. “That’s the job.” My smile faded as a small shudder rippled over me. “Jay scared the hell out of me.”
He didn’t deny it. Just breathed out and pressed his forehead briefly to the back of my shoulder. “Yeah.”
The warmth in my throat caught for a second. “I’m tougher than I look.”
“I know that,” he said, voice low, almost reverent. “That’s half the problem.”
For a while, we just listened to Jay’s soft breathing and the wind brushing the windowpanes. The world outside felt far away—the arena lights, the noise, the cameras.
“We’ve got a day,” I said after a while. “Before we know who we’re facing next.”
“Then we rest,” Roan murmured. “When the time comes, we fight like hell again.”
“That’s the plan.”
He was quiet, long enough that I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep. But then his hand tightened gently at my waist, grounding me again.
“Wren,” he said, and I could hear the shift in his tone—the careful edge that meant he was thinking too much, weighing hiswords. “After all this—after the playoffs are done, win or lose—can we talk?”
“Talk,” I echoed softly.
“About this.” His breath brushed the back of my neck. “You and me. The guys. Figure it out.”
The words wanted to be a request, but the way they came out—steady, certain, laced with command—made it something else entirely. Typical Roan. Trying to ask, and still leading.
The funny thing was, I didn’t mind. Not even a little. Because Roanwasdoing his best for me. For us.
“Yeah,” I whispered, turning my head enough to catch his gaze over my shoulder. “We can talk.”
His eyes softened, something like relief passing through them. “Good,” he said quietly. Then, almost under his breath, “I just need to know we’re not losing this too.”
I reached down, finding his hand and threading my fingers through his. “You’re not,” I told him. “We’ll figure it out.”
