“Then at least stay until they notice you’re missing,” I say. “Give me that much.”
He doesn’t answer right away. But then his hand slides up my arm, solid, sure, and he pulls me down into another kiss.
And in that kiss is the answer.
We kiss until my lips ache, until my lungs burn, until I forget what day it is and why time even matters. But time always findsa way back in. His phone buzzes from the pocket of his hoodie where it’s crumpled on my floor, the sound cutting through the stillness. He doesn’t move to grab it.
“You’re ignoring that?” I ask, breathless.
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s nothing.
“Bold,” I tease, brushing my mouth against his jaw.
He hums, the sound low and pleased, and I can almost believe we’re in some universe where he can just stay.
But then his arm tightens around me, and I know he feels the clock too.
“You ever wish you could just—” I start, then stop, the words too heavy.
“Just what?” His eyes are on me, steady, even though I know he’s running on fumes.
“Just press pause,” I say. “Hold it here. Not think about the next game, the next gig, the next whatever. Just this.”
His expression shifts, something raw flickering on his face before he covers it. “More than you know.”
His words hit harder than I expect. My chest feels too tight. I want to tell him everything—about how he’s crawled under my skin, about how the songs I’ve been writing are basically just him translated into chords and rhymes. Instead, I settle for kissing him again, softer this time, like maybe softness will last longer.
When we break, he tips his head back against my pillow, staring up at the ceiling. “You ever get scared?”
“Of what?”
“Of… wanting too much.” His voice is quiet, almost swallowed by the sheets.
I swallow, the honesty of the question catching me off guard. “All the time.”
He looks at me then, really looks, and it’s like the world shrinks down to just us and the faint morning light. His handfinds mine under the covers, fingers weaving together, and the simple pressure makes my throat ache.
“Thought you didn’t do heavy conversations in bed,” I say, trying for levity.
His lips twitch. “Guess I make exceptions.”
“Lucky me.” I nudge his shoulder with mine, but I don’t let go of his hand.
We stay this way, trading the occasional kiss, our bodies tangled and lazy in the kind of intimacy I didn’t know I’d get with him. And for a little while, I almost believe he might blow off practice and stay.
But his phone buzzes again, insistent this time, and he finally sighs, reaching for it. His brows pull together as he reads whatever’s on the screen.
“Game tape calls?” I guess.
“Yeah.” His voice is flat, resigned.
I hate that tone. I hate how it reminds me that he belongs to more than just me—belongs to a machine bigger than either of us.
“You gotta go,” I say, not hiding the disappointment.
“Yeah.” He sits up, swinging his legs off the bed. My sheets slip down his back, and I watch the muscles shift as he cleans himself off with the wipes on my bedside table, then pulls his T-shirt over his head. He looks every bit the athlete, every bit the captain, but there’s still a softness in the curve of his smile when he glances at me.
“You don’t make it easy to leave,” he admits.
