I nod. Once. Barely. Because Idofeel it. That stupid, awful, wonderful pull.
“I should apologize for fucking it all up in advance,” I say. The words come out too fast, too raw. And I hate how true they feel—as if I’m bracing for the fall before we’ve even started climbing.
Silas doesn’t look away. He watches me as though he’s trying to peel back every shield I’ve ever built and see what’s underneath.
“You haven’t yet,” he says.
“Give me time.” I flash a smile, instinctive and crooked, thatthingI do when I feel too much and don’t know where to put it. But he doesn’t take the bait. He never does, not really. Not when it counts.
“Luke.” His voice is low. Gentle. “Don’t flirt this away.”
I blink, momentarily thrown.
“I wasn’t?—”
He raises a brow. Just one. Just enough.
I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Okay, maybe a little. It’s like muscle memory. You get close, I get weird.”
“You’re not weird,” he says quietly. “You’re scared. There’s a difference.”
That silences me. Not because I disagree—but because he’s right. And I hate that he’s right. The space between us feels thick. Heavy with things I don’t have the courage to say.
After a beat, he clears his throat. “We still need to talk. After practice.”
I nod. Slowly. “Okay.”
“My place,” he adds, voice firm but not unkind. “Nothere. Not on the field. Somewhere without a whistle between us.”
“Wow,” I say, trying to recover with a smirk. “Your private sanctuary, again. What will the neighbors think?”
“Probably that I’m losing sleep over a mouthy running back who doesn’t know how to stay out of trouble.”
“I preferhermoso desastre,thank you very much.” The Spanish feels different on my tongue, but he’s said those words to me enough that I’m pretty sure my inflection is correct.
He almost smiles. Almost.
“You can come over after you’ve showered and eaten,” he says, already turning to open the door. “And if you show up still smelling like tequila, I’m benching you again.”
“Harsh,” I mutter.
“You’ll survive.”
As he walks out, the door swinging closed behind him, I press my hand to the edge of the desk—right where he braced himself the last time I was on my knees.
And I just stand there for a second, heartbeat loud in my ears.
We still need to talk.
Yeah. We really, really do. And for once, I think I’m ready.
TWENTY
SILAS
I vacuumed.
Which wouldn’t be notable, except I also wiped down the countertops. Straightened the stack of coasters on the coffee table. Changed out the hand towel in the bathroom. Lit a candle that’s supposed to smell like cedar-wood and sage, but mostly, it just smells liketrying too hard.
