But then I see the way his thighs shift, the tight line of tension low in his body, and I know what he’s holding back.
“Hey,” I say, reaching for him. My hand closes over his wrist, warm and strong. “Don’t.”
He blinks, confused. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t take care of yourself later. Do it now. Here. With me.”
He goes still. His eyes darken, lips parting like he’s not sure he heard right.
I tug him closer, pull him half onto me so his knees sink into the mattress. “Please,” I whisper, because I need this—need to feel it, to wear it. “I want you to.”
He searches my face for a beat, like he’s testing if I really mean it. When he finds nothing but raw hunger staring back at him, something in him shifts. He nods once, sharp, and his hand tugs down his pants and slides down to grip himself.
The first stroke pulls a sound out of him that makes me shiver from head to toe. He braces his free hand against my chest, fingers splayed over my skin like he’s staking a claim. His breath comes rough, broken, every movement bringing him closer.
I keep my hands on him—one at his hip, the other tracing slow lines along his skin. “Yeah,” I murmur, my voice rough with need. “Just like that. Let go, Ollie.”
His rhythm falters, hips jerking, and then he comes with a groan that rips straight from his chest. Hot, wet heat spills across my stomach, branding me in a way I’ll never shake. I gasp, limbs clenching with aftershocks even though I’ve already gone.
For a second, all I can do is stare at him—at the way his face twists, eyes squeezed shut, teeth biting his lower lip. At the way he bows into me, like he can’t hold himself back.
And when it’s over, when he collapses half onto me, chest heaving, I don’t care that my skin is sticky, that the sheets are a mess. Iwantit. I want every part of this, of him.
I drag my hand through the mess on my stomach, smear it between us so he feels it too. His eyes flicker open, catching mine, and something burns there. Not shame. Not regret. Just… possession.
I almost say, “You’re mine,” but I choke it back. Too much, too soon. Instead, I kiss him hard, swallowing the sound he makes, my fingers tangling in his sweat-damp hair.
Inside, though, the truth screams: I’m falling. Hard.
And he doesn’t even know it yet.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
The weekthat follows is a blur of sweat, strings, and sneaked moments I shouldn’t want as much as I do. Busy doesn’t begin to cover it. I’m either in class, grinding through assignments I barely care about, slinging lattes at the café until my brain’s soaked in espresso steam, or rehearsing with the guys. If I’m not doing one of those things, I’m finding a way to wedge myself into Ollie’s insane schedule.
And he’s just as bad. In fact, his schedule is worse. Mornings in the weight room, afternoons on the court, nights reviewing plays or pretending to study. Yet somehow he still shows up. For me. For this.
We don’t call it anything. Not dating. Not together. Just two people orbiting closer than we should. Sometimes it’s a couple of hours hidden in the practice room, guitars in our laps, voices tangling in chords until the world outside disappears. Occasionally it’s him knocking on my apartment door at midnight, Drew blinking blearily before disappearing into his room, leaving us alone on the couch with whatever’s on TV as an excuse. Sometimes it’s just coffee after his team meetings, sitting shoulder to shoulder while we talk about nothing and everything.
It’s not enough, and it’s too much all at once.
He’s still Ollie: steady, careful, cautious as hell. He doesn’t touch me in public. Doesn’t let his mask slip. But in private? He laughs easier. Smiles more. And when he lets himself lean against me, or when his eyes soften mid-song, it’s like he’s giving me pieces nobody else gets to see. I’m addicted to those cracks, even when they’re torture.
Tonight, it’s just us and Drew—who’s sprawled in his room with headphones on, the faint sound of his guitar bleeding through the wall—and Ollie and I are camped in the living room. Guitars across our laps, sheets of scribbled lyrics scattered across the coffee table, and two mugs of coffee going cold beside them.
Ollie’s bent over his acoustic, brow furrowed, working through a progression I showed him earlier. The sound is clean, steady, patient—very him. He hates when he misses a chord, frowns like the world’s ending, then goes back to nail it again. Watching him, I almost forget to keep writing.
Almost.
My pen scratches across the paper, words spilling out like they have every time I’ve been around him since that night. He lit a fire under me, and I can’t stop feeding it. My notebook’s filling with songs that wouldn’t exist if not for him. Dark eyes. Red flushes. The kind of restraint that makes you want to rip it open just to see what’s underneath.
My phone buzzes against the couch cushion, jolting me. Unknown number. I glance at it, ready to ignore it like I always do, but something makes me swipe.
“Hello?”
“Is this Rafael?” The voice is male, older but not ancient, with the casual briskness of someone who spends too much time on the phone.
