“Do you think it would be okay if I got your number? You know, just in case you have a hard day and need someone to talk to.”
“I’d like that.” Smiling, mostly to myself, I rattle off my number as soon as he fishes his phone out of his pocket, adding my name to his contact list. “Thank you for asking, unlike some other people in this room.”
“You’re not whisperingthatquietly, lovebirds,” Weston says from his spot on the floor.
I can’t stop the giggle that comes out as I hide my face in Grayson’s shirt.
We watch the rest of the movie in silence, and when the credits roll, Kai reappears, scanning the room. His gaze lands on us instantly. On Grayson’s arm around my shoulders. On my head resting against him.
For one terrifying second that feels more like eternity, the world holds its breath.
But then Kai simply nods once and doesn’t push it, moving his attention to Weston and Asher instead.
“All right, boys, game tomorrow. Out you go,” he says. “Harlow, you staying?”
I nod slowly, untangling myself from Grayson with reluctance that feels physical.
“Yeah, if that’s okay,” I say. “Do you want me to take the couch this time?”
Kai shakes his head. “My room is already ready for you.”
As I walk past Grayson toward the hall, he murmurs, so softly only I can hear, “Goodnight.”
I glance up at him, and my heart feels like it stutters. His blue eyes are searching mine, and by the pleased look in them, he finds what he was hoping for.
“Goodnight,” I whisper back before heading down the hall.
And when I close the door behind me, my body finally gives in. I press my fingers to my lips, smiling hard. Because I want more.
And for the first time, the yearning doesn’t feel like something that will destroy me. It feels like something that might save me.
20
GRAYSON
Game days don’t begin with an alarm.
They start somewhere deeper—in muscle memory, in the quiet place under my ribs where anticipation coils long before my brain catches up. I wake already half-braced for impact, my nervous system humming like it knows what’s coming even if I haven’t opened my eyes yet.
My legs twitch. My jaw aches. My chest feels tight in that familiar way that means today matters.
This part isn’t new.
What’s new is the way her face slides into the edges of the feeling before I can stop it.
Harlow Mercer.
The thought lands soft and sharp at the same time, like a blade wrapped in fabric. I stare at the ceiling and let the sensation exist instead of fighting it, cataloging everything the way I always do on game mornings.
Energy in my calves.
Tension in my shoulders.
A weight in my chest that has nothing to do with nerves.
And then—because my brain is cruel—memory takes over.
Her shoulder brushing mine on the couch. The steady warmth at my side, like my body recognized something before I did. The quiet way she stayed.
