Small mercies.
“This is so unrealistic,” Owen said, gesturing at the screen where the female lead had just literally fallen into the male lead’s arms after tripping over absolutely nothing on a perfectly flat sidewalk. “Who trips like that? In broad daylight? On cement?”
“It’s romantic.”
“It’s a liability lawsuit waiting to happen.”
I nudged him with my knee. “You have no soul.”
“I have a soul. It just has standards.” He shifted, his ankle hooking around mine in a way that sent warmth spreading up my leg. “If I tried to catch a woman who fell like that, we’d both end up in the hospital.”
“That’s because you have the reflexes of a sloth.”
“Excuse me?” He twisted to look at me, mock offense written across his face. “I’m a hockey player. My reflexes are elite.”
“On the ice, maybe. In normal human situations, you’re a disaster.” I grinned at him. “Remember when you tried to catch that glass Syn knocked off the counter last summer?”
“That glass was defective.”
“You punched it into the wall, Owen.”
“It was a reflex.”
“An elite reflex?”
He grabbed my ankle and tugged, making me yelp and slide a few inches down the bed. “Keep talking, and I’ll push you off.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
His eyes glinted with challenge. “Try me.”
I held his gaze, neither of us blinking. On screen, the rom-com couple was having their first awkward coffee date, but I completely lost the plot. All I could focus on was the warmth of Owen’s hand still wrapped around my ankle, the way his thumb was tracing circles against my skin.
“Truce?” I offered.
“Truce.” He released my ankle but immediately hooked his leg over mine, keeping us connected. “But only because I want to see how this trainwreck of a movie ends.”
“It’s not a trainwreck. It’s a classic.”
“The guy just said ‘you’re not like other girls’ unironically. That’s a red flag the size of Texas.”
I laughed, the sound muffled against my arms. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet here you are.” His voice had gone softer, losing its teasing edge. “Watching terrible movies with me on a Wednesday night.”
“Thursday.”
“What?”
“It’s Thursday. It’s past midnight.”
He was quiet for a moment, and I felt him shift on the bed, his body turning until he was lying on his side, facing me. I mirrored him, rolling onto my hip so we were looking at each other, our legs still tangled in the middle like neither of us wanted to break that connection.
The laptop kept playing, forgotten.
“Hi,” Owen said.
“Hi yourself.”
