Aweek goes by without anything catastrophic happening. Which feels… weirdly suspicious. Like the universe is saving up some boss-level shit for me later, but for now?
For now, I’m floating.
The last two games of the season were both solid. A nineteen-point night at home and a fifteen-eight-five stat line on the road. Coach high-fived me so hard after the last game that my hand stung. The scout from Oregon emailed Coach, telling him there’s some “continued interest” for next season. And I didn’t spiral once.
Miguel and I have a little routine going now, one that feels embarrassingly domestic for two men in their early twenties who spend half their days either sweating or panicking. He picks me up from practice three nights a week and I stay at the condo. We cook together—badly—and pretend we’re meal prepping when really it’s just rice, chicken, and Miguel burning onions.
He has drawers set up for my clothes and space in the closet, and he even bought and put together a small desk for me, so I don’t have to sit on the couch or at the table. Jokes on him though, because my favorite spot tends to be his bed…orourbed. Midterms are coming up, which means my stress threshold is slowly creeping toward the red zone, but nothing’s overflowing yet.
I’m tired and stretched thin. But in a manageable way.
Tonight, I’m lying across our bed, face smushed into his pillow, highlighters scattered everywhere like vomited Skittles. My hoodie is tugged halfway off one shoulder. My laptop glows beside me, open to my statistics notes. I am exactly four problems away from throwing myself out the window.
Miguel walks into the room with two steaming mugs. One is mine, a brown sugar cinnamon latte from his stupid expensive machine. The other is his, straight black coffee that could burn holes in cement. He sets mine on the nightstand and kisses the side of my head. “Drink,” he says. “You look like you’re trying to astral-project out of this midterm.”
“I am,” I mutter into the pillow. “I’ve decided I’d like to reincarnate as someone who’s good at statistics.”
He laughs, leans over me, and takes my laptop out of my hands. “Break time,” he declares. “Ten minutes.”
“But—”
Miguel climbs onto the bed, nudges my hips until I roll over, then settles with his back against the headboard and pats his thigh.
I blink. “You want me to…?”
“Yep.” He taps again. “C’mere.”
I crawl into his lap, straddling one thigh, my arms draping automatically around his shoulders. The moment I settle, his hands slide up my back and under my hoodie, warm and sure.
“How’s your brain?” He murmurs, kissing the corner of my jaw.
“Fried,” I whisper. “Crunchy. Like burnt toast.”
“Delicious,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over my neck. “I love burnt toast.”
I shouldn’t be turned on during midterm week.
But Miguel always smells like cedar and clean laundry and heat, and I’m only human.
“Thought you wanted to help me study,” I mumble, even though I’m already rolling my hips, barely a grind, just enough pressure to make my breath catch.
“I am helping,” he says, sliding his hands down to my waist. “A relaxed brain learns better.”
“That is not a real scientific fact.”
“Yes, it is,” he deadpans.
I snort—then gasp when he guides my hips forward, slowly, over the thick muscle of his thigh.
Oh.
This is what we’re doing.
I drop my forehead to his shoulder, fingers tightening on his upper arms. “Miggy…”
“Easy,” he says against my ear. “Slow. Just feel me.”
God, I do.
