“I’m fine,” she murmurs automatically.
“Sure,” I say. “And I’m pain-free and ready to play in a game tomorrow.”
That earns me a weak huff of laughter. It fades almost immediately, leaving her eyes glossy again.
“You should get some sleep,” I add, gentler. “At least try.”
She nods, but she doesn’t move.
I wait.
Finally, she looks up at me, and something in her expression shifts. Less guarded. More raw.
“Will you…walk me to my room?”
The question is quiet, loaded. Not inappropriate—just intimate in a way that feels heavier than it should.
“Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”
I move at her pace down the hall, my knee protesting quietly with each step, upset with me for so much use without a brace this evening.
The house creaks like it’s listening. Her room smells like clean laundry and the lavender lotion she keeps on her nightstand. She sits on the edge of the bed, hands twisting in the blanket again.
I linger by the door. Give her space.
She stares at the floor. Then?—
“I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
The words land low and steady, not dramatic. Not flirtatious.
Just honest.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. I don’t move closer, but I don’t step back either.
I nod once. “Okay.”
She looks up, surprised. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I repeat. “I can stay.”
Her shoulders sag with relief so immediate it almost hurts to watch.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I sit on the chair by her desk at first, keeping my distance. But when she shifts under the blanket, curling inward, I can feel the pull between us like gravity recalibrating.
After a minute, she speaks again. “You don’t have to sit all the way over there.”
I hesitate before crossing the room slowly and sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle her. The mattress dips. Heat blooms between us.
She exhales and leans, just slightly, until her shoulder brushes my arm.
Not accidental.
I freeze.
She doesn’t pull away.
