“Couldn’t sleep?”
“Buzzing,” I say, rolling onto my side, propped up on one elbow. My free hand traces the line of muscle across his chest in lazy circles. “Lantern’s manager wants us back next month.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” My grin sneaks out before I can stop it. “It’s nothing huge, just another set—but it’s The Lantern, man. Peopleactually showed up. We didn’t earn enough for gas at our first gig. This time we made more than the bar tabs we racked up.”
His brows lift, impressed. “That’s real.”
“Feels real,” I say softly, eyes searching his. “Feels like maybe we’re not crazy.”
“You’re crazy,” he says, deadpan, but the warmth in his voice cuts the sting. “Crazy good.”
The words land heavier than they should, making my chest ache in a way I’m not ready to unpack. So I deflect, sliding my hand lower, skating along the sharp edges of his abs. He catches my wrist, squeezes, a warning that’s more fond than firm.
“You just played a game in front of thousands,” I remind him. “And then showed up here before the sun came up like it’s nothing.”
His jaw tightens. “It’s not nothing.”
I tilt my head. “Then what is it?”
He looks like he might retreat—like the practiced captain face is about to slide back into place. But he doesn’t. He meets my eyes instead. “It’s… good. Being here. With you.”
It’s not a declaration. It’s not anything heavy. But for him? It’s as open as I’ve ever seen him. And it knocks the breath right out of me.
“You’re full of surprises,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to the edge of his jaw. His stubble scrapes my lips, sharp and real.
“Don’t get used to it,” he warns, though the smile tugging at his mouth betrays him.
We fall into a quiet rhythm then, trading touches more than words. My fingers drum against his ribs; his thumb draws lazy lines on my shoulder. The silence isn’t heavy—it’s charged, threaded through with things neither of us is ready to say yet.
Eventually, I break it. “How the hell do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Carry that kind of pressure. Whole team looking at you like you’re the pulse.”
His gaze sharpens, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far. But then he sighs, long and low, his chest deflating under my hand. “I just… don’t think about it. If I let myself think, I’d choke. So I don’t.”
That sounds too familiar. Too close to the way I’ve been writing lately, chasing songs until my head stops screaming.
I want to tell him that. Want to saysameand watch the recognition click between us. But instead I just say, “Guess that makes us both crazy.”
“Guess so.” His lips twitch, then soften into something closer to vulnerable.
We lie together longer, the light outside creeping brighter through my curtains. Somewhere in the apartment, a door slams—probably Miles stumbling back from someone’s bed. The world is waking up, loud and messy, but here, under the covers, it’s just us.
“You staying?” I ask, my hand resting flat over his heart.
He hesitates. “Can’t. Game tape later.”
“Even Sunday?”
“Especially Sunday.” He huffs a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “Coach says champions don’t sleep.”
I roll my eyes. “Coach sounds like an asshole.”
He doesn’t argue. Just looks at me with those serious, storm-dark eyes and lets me trace his mouth with my thumb.
