“Still.” I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You deserve better than me losing control every time I see you.”
“Maybe I like when you lose control,” she says softly.
“Maybe.” I cup her face, my thumb tracing her bottom lip. “But not like this. Not when we're both confused about what the hell we're doing.”
She leans into my touch, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “So what do we do?”
“I don't know.” I lean down, pressing my forehead against hers. “But I'm going to walk you to your car like a fucking gentleman.”
The elevator ride down to the parking garage is quiet, but not uncomfortable. Her shoulder brushes against mine, and I fight the urge to pin her against the wall. I need to prove—to her and myself—that I can be around her without losing my shit.
I walk her to her car, that practical Honda she was so defensive about earlier. It's cleaner than I expected, but still a far cry from what she should be driving.
“Text me when you get home,” I say as she unlocks the door.
She raises an eyebrow. “Worried about me, Coach?”
“Just do it, troublemaker.”
“Fine.” She slides into the driver's seat, looking up at me through the open door. “Goodnight, Beckham.”
“Goodnight.”
I watch her drive away, standing in the garage long after her tail lights disappear. The emptiness hits me harder than it should, like I've lost something I never really had.
It's almost three in the morning, and I'm still staring at the ceiling, sleep nowhere in sight. Every time I close my eyes, I see her. The way she looked in my home, the feel of her beneath me on the couch, the taste of her lips.
I've tried everything. Pushups until my arms burned. A cold shower. Even put on one of those boring documentaries that usually knock me out within minutes. Nothing works.
The blue light of my phone illuminates the darkness as I check it for the hundredth time. Her last message came hours ago.
Home safe. Thanks for finding my charger.
I've been deleting responses ever since. Nothing feels right. Everything feels too much or not enough.
You awake?
The three dots appear almost immediately, making my heart race like a fucking teenager.
Yeah. Can't sleep.
Me either.
I stare at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. What the hell am I doing? It's the middle of the night. I should put the phone down and try to sleep. Instead, I find myself typing again.
I keep thinking about you.
Same.
I want to see you. Not for sex. Just to talk.
Tomorrow. Dinner maybe?
Like a date?
Call it whatever you want. I just want to spend time with you. Outside the bedroom. Try to figure this shit out.
It's a date then. Goodnight, Beckham
