My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I want to ignore it. I don’t. I grab it immediately and see new texts in the group chat in response to Weston’s message from last night.
Weston: if anyone sees my dignity at carter’s, can u return it?
Asher: you’re alive. that’s a win.
Weston: i would rather be dead than hungover.
Kai: practice at 8. don’t be late.
Weston: mercer texted like an angry dad again. noted.
I smile despite myself, then lock my screen before my thumb can drift to the other notification. The one I’ve trained myself not to treat like oxygen, barely. The insomnia thread. I’m still not one hundred percent sure why they call it that when you can break off into private chats, but whatever. I’m not checking it right now. I’m not desperate.
I toss my phone onto the other side of my bed like it offended me and drag myself into the shower.
Cold water and a quick scrub make for a solid half-hearted attempt at feeling more human. I dry off, throw on sweats and a hoodie, and shuffle into the kitchen like a zombie—which is pretty much how my body feels. Kai is already there. Of course he is.
Kai Mercer doesn’t believe in sleeping in. He’s at the counter in a PCU hoodie, pouring coffee like it’s a sacred ritual. I glance at the clock.
6:24.
“This is sick,” I tell him.
Kai doesn’t look up. “We have practice.”
He slides a mug toward me without asking, because he already knows I’ll take it. One sip and my soul crawls back online just enough to feel annoyed instead of dead. Second sip and I choke, bringing my arm up to cover the coughing fit that follows. When Kai makes coffee, it’s strong enough to qualify as a performance-enhancing drug.
He’s already pulling breakfast together with the same efficiency he plays with: no wasted motion, no hesitation. A few eggs and protein powder, the breakfast of two college hockey players who spend more time in the gym than in the grocery aisles. I make a mental note to swing by the store today to grab some essentials.
I watch him work for a second and wonder, not for the first time, how someone can be both calm and terrifying at the same time.
“What’s the plan today?” I ask.
“We have practice, a lift, and then we have the team barbecue.”
I blink. “Team barbecue?”
He pauses like I’m slow. “I told you.”
“You told me in what language?” I ask. “Because it sure wasn’t one I’m fluent in.”
Kai’s eyes flick to mine. “You were on your phone.”
I point at him. “Slander.”
“It’s true,” he says, and while infuriating, he’s not wrong.
He turns back to the stove, then adds, casually like it’s a minor footnote, “And Harlow’s coming.”
I pause mid-sip.
“Harlow as in…your sister?” I ask, because apparently my brain needs to clarify he hasn’t acquired a random second Harlow.
Kai’s gaze sharpens. “Yes. Harlow as in my sister.”
“Cool,” I say quickly. “That’s cool.”
