“You’re hogging the blanket.”
I glanced down. I was, in fact, lying on approximately eighty percent of the blanket while he had a sad little corner. “Survival of the fittest.”
“That’s not how that works.”
“It’s exactly how that works. Darwin would be proud.”
He reached over, tugging at the blanket, and I held on with the determination of someone defending their territory. We engaged in a brief, silent tug-of-war that ended with me losing my grip and sliding across the bed toward him.
“Cheater,” I accused, now significantly closer than I was before.
“Strategist,” he corrected.
We were face-to-face now, close enough that I could count his eyelashes if I wanted to. Close enough that I could see the way the laptop light caught in his eyes, turning them into something ethereal.
“Your feet are cold,” I said, because someone had to break the tension before I combusted.
“Your feet are freezing. I’m pretty sure you’re actually hypothermic.”
“Then warm me up.”
His pupils dilate slightly, something heated flickering across his expression before he schooled it back into casual amusement.
“Is that a line?” he asked.
“It’s a statement of fact. My circulation is terrible.”
“Mhm.” He reached down and grabbed my foot, pulling it up and tucking it between his calves. The warmth was immediate. “Better?”
“Much.” I wiggled my toes against his leg. “You’re very useful.”
“I live to serve.”
We lay there for a moment, the movie playing softly in the background.
“They’re so dumb,” Owen observed. “Just talk to each other. Use your words.”
“That’s not how rom-coms work. There has to be a third-act conflict.”
He shifted closer, his hand finding mine between us, and his fingers threaded through mine like it was the most natural thing in the world. “If I was that guy, I would have just told her the truth from the beginning.”
“Would you?”
“Yeah.” His thumb brushed across my knuckles. “What’s the point of being with someone if you can’t be honest with them?”
I thought about all the years I spent hiding my feelings for him, all the secrets and half-truths and deflections. Now here we were, tangled together on his bed.
“I think you might actually be a romantic after all,” I said quietly.
“Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
“Your reputation as what? A grumpy hockey player who critiques rom-coms?”
“Exactly.”
I laughed, and he smiled at the sound, that real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
“What’s your favorite part?” he asked.
