Patterson stayed, and it makes me smile.
My eyes open to gray morning light filtering through my curtains, and I lie completely still while my heart does a somersault. He’s curved around me from behind, and his body is fitted against mine like we’ve done this a hundred times, even though it’s the first. I can feel his chest rising and falling and know he’s still asleep.
He’s never stayed before. Every other time, I kicked him out and woke up sore, next to cold sheets, with the faint smell of him lingering. I wanted to stay true to what we’d agreed to—no couple shit. His arm tightens slightly around my waist, and he mumbles something unintelligible against my shoulder.
I shift slightly.
“Don’t go.” His voice is rough, barely awake. “Five more minutes.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good.” He presses his mouth to my shoulder, not quite a kiss, just contact. “Then stop moving.”
I smile and settle back against him, letting my body relax into his warmth. We lie there for a while, neither of us talking, and I try to memorize how this feels while I wait for the other shoe to drop.
Patterson doesn’t do vulnerable. He doesn’t do morning moments and sleepy cuddles. But his thumb tracing absent patterns on my stomach tells me I’m wrong about that. I’m having whiplash.
“You’re thinking too loud.” His lips move against my skin.
“I can’t help it.” I turn in his arms so I’m facing him, and his eyes are still half closed, his hair a disaster against my pillow. He looks younger without all that armor he usually wears. “This is weird.”
“It is,” he says with a chuckle, and his eyes open fully. I watch him come back to himself, watch the walls start to build again before he catches himself. “But I like it.”
“I do too.” It’s the truth. “I … I don’t know what this is. Are we fuck buddies who cuddle now? Are wedating?”
He rolls onto his side, smiling at me. “What do you want, Ken?”
“That’s a dangerous question.”
“I’m aware. Tell me.”
I prop myself up on one elbow, matching him. “You. However I can have you.”
The words hang between us, and I watch his eyes shift in a way that he usually keeps buried. His hand finds my hip under the sheets, and his thumb traces the bone there.
He studies me with those blue-green eyes that see too much. “We can’t go public. My contract negotiation starts in six weeks, and if your dad finds out before then?—”
“I know,” I cut him off because I don’t need the reminder. “I’m not asking for that.”
“Explain.”
I think about my words—because this matters. “I don’t need anyone to see me with you. I want more private moments. Mornings. Late nights. A few shared showers. Maybe actually talking to each other instead of fucking and ducking.”
He smirks. “Cute. But also, doable.”
I smile, leaning forward to brush my lips against his. “But I want more than that. I want to know what you’re thinking when you get that look on your face during games. I want to know why you hate mushrooms, what your favorite movie is, and whether you actually like any of your teammates or if you’re tolerating them. I want to know you.”
He gives me his real laugh. “Game face? I’m thinking about you. Mushrooms are too slimy, even when they’re cooked to shit. My favorite movie isTitanic, and I like and tolerate my teammates.”
“Titanic? Really?” I ask.
His expression softens, and he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Shut the fuck up. I love large ships.”
“Do you want me to draw you like one of my French girls?” I ask, giggling.
“You should,” he says. “I’ll sit for you.”
My brow lifts. “Naked?”
