“Good,” I shoot back, grinning despite myself. “Wouldn’t want to.”
He leans down and kisses me once more. It’s quick, but lingers just enough to promise more. When he pulls away, his eyes catch mine, and for a beat, neither of us moves.
“Tomorrow afternoon,” I remind him, my voice rough.
“I’ll be there.” His tone leaves no room for doubt.
I watch him shoulder his duffel, hoodie half zipped, hair somehow looking pristine despite him shooting his load. He looks like he should be on his way to conquer another court, and yet he pauses at my door, glancing back.
There’s something in his eyes I can’t quite name—longing, maybe, or fear, or both.
“Text me when you’re done,” I say.
He nods, then slips out, the door clicking shut behind him.
The room feels too quiet without him, the sheets too cool. I fall back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling where his question still hangs:You ever get scared of wanting too much?
Yeah. Every damn day.
The front door closes with a snick, and the apartment swallows the sound. For a second, I think I hear his footsteps in the hall, the creak of the stairwell—but then it’s gone, and it’s just me, sprawled in sheets that still smell like him.
I drag a hand down my face, groaning into the quiet. Sleep isn’t coming. Not after that. Not after him.
My body’s wrecked in the best way—every muscle loose, every nerve still humming—but my head? My head’s a riot. Ollie Marshall just walked out of my room after kissing me like he’d drown without it, after holding my hand like it meant something, after admitting he doesn’t want to think too hard or he’ll choke. And he’s still the golden boy, still too careful to let anyone see him this way.
But he lets me.
Time and time again.
I roll onto my side, burying my face in his side of the pillow. My heart is pounding like it’s trying to write its own damn song, and for once I can’t shut it down. Because this isn’t just lust, isn’t just heat and hunger and the thrill of sneaking around. I’ve had all that before. Easy, shallow, and forgettable.
This?
Fuck.
This is different. This is dangerous.
I’ve never felt it before—the way he gets under my skin, into my ribs, into my bloodstream. The way a glance from him can light me up or level me. The way his blush still plays in my mind like a hook I can’t get rid of. I’ve written songs about obsession, about attraction, about wanting somebody until it hurt. But this—this thing that’s happening every time I’m with Ollie—it isn’t just wanting.
It’s falling.
And the worst part? I’ve already hit the ground.
I’m in love with him.
There it is. The words I’ve been ducking, dodging, dancing around like it might bite. It feels too big, too fast, too much, but the second I admit it, my chest loosens like I’ve been holding my breath for days.
I’m in love with Ollie Marshall, the guy with the weight of a team on his shoulders, the guy who compartmentalizes his life so carefully that I’m probably the only crack in the armor. The guy who can’t stay, but still shows up at my door before dawn, worn-out and smiling like I’m the win he wanted most.
I press the pillow tighter to my face and laugh into it, raw and helpless. I’m so screwed.
But I wouldn’t trade it. Not for anything.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
The court lookslike it’s seen better decades. Half the paint’s been bleached out by the sun, and weeds are starting to bully through the cracks. The hoop leans a little left, the chain net rattling in the February breeze. But Ollie dribbles a ball across it like it’s Madison Square Garden, and I stand here, hoodie sleeves shoved up my arms, wondering how the hell I got here.
