“Harlow.” I stop her softly. “You don’t have to earn it.”
Her mouth closes. Her eyes go shiny again. She looks away like she hates it. Then she looks back, voice smaller. “Okay.”
I nod like I’m steady, even though my insides are doing somersaults.
“Come here,” I say before I can overthink it.
Her brows lift. “Why?”
“Because you asked me for my jersey like it didn’t just ruin my ability to function,” I say, deadpan. “And I need to recalibrate.”
That earns me a soft huff of a laugh. She steps toward me slowly, like she’s still learning how to be bold in a body that’s used to bracing. I meet her halfway. Not with a grab. With a hand at her waist—soft, asking—and my other hand brushing her cheek. Her breath catches.
Always.
I lean down and press my mouth to hers. Not a hungry kiss. Not yet. A slow one. Warm and steady. The kind that says yes without making it a demand. Harlow makes a quiet sound thatgoes straight through me. I pull back just enough to look at her. Her eyes are wide, dark, and so focused on me that it makes my chest hurt.
“Tomorrow,” I murmur.
She swallows. “Tomorrow.”
I brush my thumb along her cheekbone. “If it’s too much?—”
“I’ll leave,” she finishes, voice steady now. “Without apologizing.”
My mouth curves. “Good.”
She stares at me for a second like she’s about to say something brave.
Then she does.
“And you won’t be mad if that happens?”
I shake my head. “I could never be mad if you’re doing something to protect yourself.”
She nods, letting out a long exhale. “Okay, Gray.”
I fucking love it when she calls me that.
“Yeah?” I manage, voice rougher than I intended.
Harlow’s mouth twitches, letting me know that she noticed too. “Go get your jersey.”
I blink, trying to break myself out of whatever trance this woman has me in. “Bossy.”
“Accurate,” she says.
I laugh—real, startled—then turn toward my room, like my legs remember how to work again. But halfway there, I stop because I need to say one thing to myself before I forget how to be a person. I’m standing in my hallway, heart pounding like I just scored in overtime. And the thought lands clean and terrifying.
I’m in love with her.
Not out loud. Not yet. But it settles in my chest like something that’s been looking for a home.
I grab my jersey anyway. Tomorrow, she’s going to wear my number.
And I might not survive it.
But I’m going to try.
