The world keeps turning endlessly,
But I’m yours tonight.
The morning’s gonna come too fast,
Sunlight bleeding through the blinds.
Love like this was made to last,
So let’s keep stealing time.
The song is slow and heartfelt, almost folksy compared to the musicLest Is Mooretypically plays. He bends the strings of the guitar like he’s bending them to his will, making their notes sound as raw as his voice. The verses repeat, with refrains about stealing time woven throughout, until eventually the last notes reverberate quietly into the silent room. I blink back at Jesse like I’m seeing him for the first time again. Even though he looks so different from how he did back then, it’s like having the echo of past Jesse blended with the current version. It reminds me just how impossible it is that we’ve found each other again,and how his voice and the way he strums his guitar can bring me back to that night so thoroughly.
“Is that the same guitar?” I ask, looking at the faded black acoustic.
Jesse nods. “This is my favorite instrument to write with. She always helps me find inspiration in the wildest places.”
“Oh, really? Like where?”
“Busking on street corners in disguise, in the middle of some woods I wandered into once when our tour bus got a flat. On a beach, where I found a bonfire and sang the corniest song I could think of to get this guy’s attention.” He grins widely.
“You had it before you started playing, but I’ll admit to being a little impressed.”
“Only a little?” He pouts.
“Well, until you played Rage,” I laugh. “Do you ever wonder how things might have been different if we–”
“I did. But not anymore,” Jesse says, putting his guitar down gently and walking over to the bed, crawling up to put his face in front of mine. His green eyes look back and forth between mine intently. “All the what ifs drove me so far out of my mind that I lost myself. I was lucky enough to get a second chance to make up for walking out that morning, and I’m not going to take a single breath for granted.” He smiles against my lips and kisses me softly, humming that ridiculous song.
“Can you stay again tonight?” I whisper, pulling him closer so he’s straddling my lap and kissing up the column of his neck.
“Don’t you have a team dinner or something?”
“Yeah, but I’ve got this terrible headache…”
Sweat pours down my face under my helmet. Too much sweat considering this is a night game in the middle of fall. My nerves are the most likely culprit, but I’m trying to keep my head in the game.
I blame Jesse. Or I’d like to blame Jesse, but I’m the one that begged him to stay last night. I should know better than to assume I’d have any sort of willpower. How could I waste all those hours sleeping when I don’t know how long it’ll be before I see him next?
Of course, he waited until morning to surprise me with the news that he’d be at today’s game. I thought he was out of his mind, but he just petted me like a silly, but very pretty dog and told me not to worry so much. No one would notice he’s even there, and even if they did, it’s not like they’d have reason to draw any sort of connection between the two of us. I’ll give him credit for the second point, but did he forget who he is? He's JessefuckingMoore. He’s basically this generation’s version of Mick Jagger. Of course he was spotted right away, sitting up in the owner’s box, and wearing my goddamn jersey for fuck’s sake!
I’m going to kill him.
Every time he jumps up and cheers–usually when I’m part of a big play, considering he knows little to nothing about football–I can see my number 14 emblazoned boldly across his chest. My only saving grace, and the silver lining to the smile, is that more of my jerseys have been sold lately. I didn’t even know I hadmerch before I accidentally hit the viral pages for something so stupid.Yes, I’m still salty.
I’m having a lot of conflicting feelings and nerves about his audacity. I’m on edge. Every time they show Jesse on screen, they pan to me like they’re hoping for a reaction.Never again, bastards.
On the other hand, there is a not insignificant part of me that kind of loves seeing him in my number. Now just imagine him wearing a cropped version of it, with a pair of black lace–
“Martín!”
Shit.
Fucking Jesse. I scowl up at the owner’s box before I settle into my stance, focusing on the Falcons’ quarterback across the line. We’re at fourth and five and getting too close to the red zone for comfort. So far, this game has been neck-and-neck. If we don’t keep them from driving forward, we’ll basically be handing the game over to them. This drive is our chance to stop them in their tracks and hand the game back over to our offense.
Head in the game. Head in the game. Don’t look at Jesse. Keep your head in the game.
The ball snaps, and the line shifts. Dez explodes off the edge, and AJ rushes the guard, putting pressure on the quarterback right away. His eyes shift downfield, shoulders twisting to find his window. I check the field, but my eyes are drawn up, Jesse’s face is blown up on the halo board, his attention riveted on the field. On me.
