I stayed awake a little longer, listening to her breathe, wondering how the hell I was supposed to get through the rest of this trip without completely losing my mind.
It was deep into the night now. The kind of quiet where even the city seemed to hold its breath. The room was dark except for the thin line of moonlight cutting across the floor. And her.
She was turned slightly toward me, one arm curled beneath her pillow, the other resting loose between us. The covers had shifted, revealing the curve of her shoulder and the hem of her oversized shirt riding high on her thigh. She breathed evenly, the slow, steady rhythm of someone lost in a place I couldn’t follow.
I lay on my side, facing her. Had been for what felt like hours.
I told myself it was just insomnia. Just the unfamiliar bed. Just the stress of the game coming up.
But really, it was her.
Daphne looked… different like this. Not weaker. Just… quieter. Unarmored. All the fire and sass stripped away by sleep, leaving something softer. Something I hadn’t let myself see until now.
Her lips were parted just slightly. Her brow smooth for once. No quips. No biting remarks. No glare. Just Daphne.
I glanced down at her left hand resting between us on the mattress.
Bare.
There’d been a tan line there once. I’d noticed it weeks ago, faint and faded but unmistakable. A ring had lived there. Not anymore.
Engaged? Married? Maybe just a promise made and broken. I didn’t know.
I had no right to.
But I wanted to.
It hit me like a punch to the ribs—this urge to know the stories she never told. The ones behind the walls she built with precision. The ones she didn’t share with anyone, maybe not even herself.
I didn’t know what she dreamed about. Probably not me. Probably something better. Something safer. Maybe a life that didn’t involve late nights in shared hotel beds with men she barely tolerated.
Still… I wished I could ask.
I wished I could ask what made her stop wearing the ring.
I wished I could ask what made her laugh when no one was watching.
I wished I could ask what she would’ve said if I’d kissed her that night at the team dinner when her eyes lingered just a little too long.
My fingers inched toward hers on instinct. Close. Close enough that I could feel the heat of her skin, the gentle twitch of her fingers shifting in sleep.
But I didn’t touch her.
Didn’t let myself.
Instead, I curled my hand into a fist and dragged it back, tucking it under my pillow like I could bury the want with it.
She let out a soft sigh and shifted closer, just an inch. Her knee brushed mine.
I closed my eyes and tried to pretend it didn’t mean anything.
But it did.
And that scared the hell out of me.
She was too close.
Her knee brushed mine again, and this time I didn’t shift away. Couldn’t. My body felt wired, too aware of every inch between us, every breath she took, every subtle shift beneath the blankets.
