The hallway light turns him into a neon sign in the middle of all that beige—his Firebirds hoodie bright enough to guide ships through fog, hair sticking up like he lost a fight with a pillow, eyes still heavy with sleep.
He’s holding a cardboard drink carrier with two cups.
For a second I just stare at him, because this was not the plan. The plan involved an app notification and plausible deniability, not Lucas physically appearing outside my door at five in the morning looking like someone I’m already half in love with.
“You’re here,” I say, my voice even quieter than I intend. “I thought you’d just send a delivery.”
Lucas shifts his weight like he’s suddenly unsure whether he should be here at all, which would almost be funny if my insides weren’t doing somersaults.
His voice is rough with sleep and so low, it feels like the whole hallway dropped a few feet. “A delivery doesn’t care if you’re okay at five in the morning, Quinn,” he says, holding the carrier out. “I took a risk getting you a prickly pear latte, so I got you a sea salt caramel mocha, too. Just in case.”
My fingers brush his when I reach for the tray, and the tiny spark that jumps between us jolts me wider awake than caffeineever could. For a second we just stand there like idiots, his messy hair and my ridiculous pajamas and the smell of coffee beans drifting between us.
And then I hear it.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Heavy footsteps echoing down the hall.
My stomach falls straight to the carpet.
Mel Turner.
The bullpen coach runs the stairs early every morning, like the team won’t be in shape if he isn’t.
If he catches Lucas outside my room at this hour, Lucas being branded a “clubhouse distraction” will be the least of our troubles.
“Mel!” I whisper.
Lucas glances down the hallway and then back at me. For a split second he freezes, not because he doesn’t care, but because he doesn’t know what to do. Lucas doesn’t cross lines.
Which would be admirable if it weren’t currently going to get us fired.
I grab the front of his hoodie, yank him inside, and push him against the wall.
The door clicks shut moments before Mel’s footsteps thunder past, and suddenly Lucas and I are standing in the narrow entryway of my room, his back against the wall, us chest to chest in the dark except for the faint blue light from the laptop on my bed.
My fists are still bunched in his sweatshirt.
His breath is warm against my forehead.
“I told you not to break the rules,” I whisper, though I don’t let go.
“I didn’t,” he says quietly. His hands hover for half a second like he’s asking permission before settling on my waist, steady and careful. “I knocked, and you opened the door.”
It’s so Lucas it almost makes me laugh. He’ll bring me coffee before sunrise, but he’ll still stand outside the line I drew like it’s an electric fence.
My heart is pounding so hard I’m surprised the whole hallway can’t hear it. “You know you could’ve just had it delivered,” I say.
“I know,” he says.
“But you didn’t.”
“No. I wanted to see you.”
