“Yeah,” I lie.
He studies me. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
“Are you sore?”
“I said I’m fine,” I snap. I can’t do this right now.
I drop to the edge of my bed and run a hand through my damp hair.
He sighs. “I don’t like that you didn’t let me take care of you afterward. It made me worry that you were hurt and didn’t want to tell me.”
My head snaps up. “I said I wasn’t hurt. And I don’t need you to treat me like a girl.”
He rolls his eyes so hard I hear the muscles strain. “It’s called aftercare, and it’s a fully gender-neutral process. And that was your first time. It’s normal to have… You know,feelingsabout it.”
“I did not?—”
“You clearly did,” he says gently, infuriatingly certain that he knows me better than he knows himself. “But you didn’t have to hide that from me.”
I hate how he sees through me. I hate it almost as much as I love it.
“You didn’t hurt me,” I repeat, in case he has any remaining concerns about that. Clearly, I was the one that hurt him. “I’m sorry that I didn’t make that clear. I just feel kind of confused. And the pressure to talk about it or have feelings about it is making it harder to process.”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“I am too. I was kind of a dick after you were so good to me.”
Brody raises his eyebrow.
“Get over yourself, Miller. I just meant that you were kind, or whatever. You were just trying to take care of me, and I got in my head about it. I’m not used to anyone taking care of me.”
“I figured as much.” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry I pressured you.”
“I don’t know that you did. It just… felt too big.”
His lips quirk, and I throw a pillow at him.
Desperate to change the subject before I combust, I ask, “How do you feel about tomorrow? Going against your old team?”
He exhales, leaning back on his palms. “Honestly? I kind of have mixed feelings about it. I liked it here. I miss some of the guys. Some of my friends who I’ve still kept in contact with will be coming tomorrow. It’ll be good to see them. But I feel like I’ve got something to prove, too.”
I always feel that way. I nod understandingly. “I can relate.”
“I know,” he says quietly. He moves to sit beside me on my bed, our knees brushing. He smells warm and comforting, like bar soap and laundry detergent and his cheap, spicy deodorant. How can he smell so good when he hasn’t even showered yet?
“I meant what I said about there being no pressure, Beckett,” he murmurs. “Aboutanyof this. You know that, right?”
And I do. It’s the one thing I’m completely certain of. Brody pushes me, yes. He takes control, yes, but only because he knows I want him to—need him to. He’s never truly forceful and would never cross that line. Somewhere, deep down, I trust him in a way that terrifies me.
Wanting to change the subject again, I bump my shoulder against his and ask him why he moved if he liked it here so much.
Brody sighs, and it’s like I can hear torment in that simple exhale.
“You know how Pierce is always cracking jokes about my family? The beer cans everywhere, stuff like that?”
“Yeah, I don’t really get the joke about your last name. Because his last name is Jamison, but you don’t see anyone making fun of him for that.”
