I didn’t know how to be here like this. I wasn’t someone who let people get close. I didn’t cry in front of anyone, didn’t take up space, didn’t let anyone see what the job cost. But Oliver hadn’t only seen it—he’d stood in the middle of it. And now he was here on my couch, touching my hair, caring for me. I kept coming up with excuses, but I knew they weren’t true. He wasn’t here for his own personal gain at all, and that was so foreign to me.
My breathing was shallow, my chest too tight. I shifted slightly, trying to create space, but his fingers trailed down once more and stopped at my shoulder. I glanced sideways, expecting him to let go, to pull back. He didn’t. He didn’t say anything either, just sat there with his attention split between the TV and the strands of my hair in his hand.
“I love your hair,” he said, his voice deep and gravely. “You wear it in those tight buns, and I’ve always wondered what it would feel like this way, down and messy.”
My throat was going to close up completely. Emotions clogged it, from the gentleness of his touch and the truth to his words.
“It’s so soft.” He chuckled as he twirled the ends around his fingers. “Is this… okay?”
“Y-yes.”
“Good.” He tugged me tighter against him, his warmth and weight against me the most alluring and reassuring presence I’d ever had. If I shut off my brain from all the what-ifs, I’d lean into this. It had been so long since I’d felt this safe with anyone. I wanted to explore this with Oliver, but then reality set in. I couldn’t.
He was a player on the team I was working hard to earn a spot with. Every handbook, every ethics seminar, every lineof the APA code said the same thing: no dual relationships, no blurred lines. Entangling with him could ruin my career right as it started. I gave up my life to have a career, and I couldn’t throw it away for some chemistry and comfort. It gutted me though, and I sighed, hating how my body felt heavy with the reality of the truth.
“That was quite a sigh. The Cubs are winning. You should be thrilled.”
“I’m not even watching the game.”
“Whoa, okay.” He leaned forward, lifting me off him as he frowned at me. “You not watching the Cubs is a red flag. What’s going on? Do you need something to eat? I can cook for you. Are you in pain? I should’ve asked sooner if you needed anything or had some here. Or is it something else?”
I shook my head, fighting the urge to cry at how kind and great he was being. “I’m tired.”
It wasn’t the truth, not really, and I think we both knew it. My body was exhausted, yes—but the exhaustion lived beneath the skin. In the way my muscles twitched without command. In the way my jaw ached from clenching. In the way I couldn’t stop thinking about how he touched me, gently and with care.
Oliver didn’t react right away. He watched me with that same steady calm he always wore. His hands slid off his knees, resting between us, palms up. “Okay,” he said, voice quiet but not cold. “Do you want me to head out… or crash here?”
The question was careful. Not loaded. Not possessive. Just an option. A choice.
I stared at him, my lungs tightening in the middle. My first instinct was to say he didn’t need to. That I was fine. That I could handle a night alone. But that was muscle memory, not truth. I wasn’t fine, and I didn’t want to be alone. I was worried the second I was, I’d freak the hell out.
“You don’t have to stay,” I said, hating the way my stomach twisted. I wanted him to, but I couldn’t ask him. I refused to ask for help. It would make me seem weak, and unprofessional. I knew I had issues showing vulnerability, but I couldn’t do it. Too risky.
“That’s not what I asked,” he replied, his tone soft and understanding. His blue eyes studied me so intensely, I was sure he saw through my lies. “I’m offering, Sloane. I want to stay here with you, but it’s your choice.”
I stared at the couch. At the room. At him. My mind raced with the possible implications—how this might look, what the staff might say, what it meant for the blurred line between us. But none of those worries mattered when I looked at him and saw the kind of safety I couldn’t manufacture on my own. The kind of safety I’d dreamed about but never dared to want my entire life.
“Okay,” I said. “The couch is yours.”
He smiled, something soft flickering in his expression that settled low in my chest. It wasn’t cocky or teasing—it was warm, patient, like he already knew I was about to fight him on this and had decided not to let me. His face was a little flushed from the heat in the apartment or maybe the weight of the day. His hair had dried messily, a few pieces falling across his forehead, and he didn’t bother to fix it. His eyes looked tired but still clear, like nothing could shake the way he was showing up for me right now.
“Then I’m staying here,” he said gently. “Mind if I grab a spare sheet or something?”
“Sure,” I said, voice scratchy. “Uh, I can get it.”
My legs moved before I could second-guess him staying. I turned toward the linen closet, cheeks burning as I pulled down the old navy blanket I used when the heater kicked off in the middle of winter. It was soft and worn at the corners, and itsmelled faintly of lavender from the detergent I preferred. I hesitated as I turned, the weight of it in my arms heavier than it should’ve been. When I handed it over, our fingers brushed, and I jerked my hand back too fast.
He didn’t comment on my reaction. Just shook the blanket out with quiet precision and laid it across the back of the couch. He moved like he’d done this a thousand times—efficient but respectful, never once looking at me like I was fragile or broken. He fluffed the throw pillow and adjusted it twice, not because he needed to but because he was trying to take up as little space as possible. Like he knew this room belonged to me and didn’t want to disturb the balance.
When he finally faced me, his hands settled on his hips. The curve of his shoulders was familiar now, the taper of his waist and the way he stood like he was ready to run or fight or protect—whatever I needed. He didn’t speak right away. Just studied at me with those eyes.
“You sleep,” he said. “I’ll be right here.”
I nodded slowly, my legs a little stiff from how long we’d sat. I wanted to say thank you. I wanted to say something. But nothing felt big enough. I nodded once and turned toward the bedroom.
My hand shook as I reached for the light. I pulled back the corner of the duvet, and climbed in. My body didn’t feel like mine. My skin still buzzed with adrenaline. I could still feel the curve of his palm on my back and the echo of his voice saying my name.
I lay on my side, eyes open. The light from the hallway spilled through the cracked door. A soft shuffle told me he was still in the living room, settling onto the couch. I could hear the faint rustle of the blanket, the click of the remote, then the low murmur of the game again. Cubs up by two.
