His voice is calm. Controlled.
Too controlled.
I turn in my chair and instantly regret it.
He’s still damp from practice, dark hair curling slightly at the ends, gray Venom training shirt stretched tight across his chest. My eyes betray me immediately, dropping to the strong line of his throat before lower-level survival instincts finally kick in and force me to look back up.
Mistake.
His expression is worse.
Guarded. Careful. Like every word coming out of his mouth now has to pass through twelve layers of emotional security clearance first.
I hate it instantly.
Which is ridiculous, considering I’m the one who started this whole disaster by fleeing his condo without a word.
“Great,” I say, because apparently I’ve lost the ability to form complete human thoughts around this man. “I’ll finish them tonight.”
“Okay.”
That’s it.
Just okay.
The silence stretches awkwardly between us.
Before orgasm-gate, silence with Owen had felt sharp. Charged. Like both of us were bracing for impact. Now it feels worse somehow. Softer in all the wrong places.
My body remembers everything.
His mouth.
His hands.
The rough sound he made when I touched his hair.
Heat curls low in my stomach so fast it’s almost infuriating.
I force my attention to the laptop screen. “You looked good out there today.”
God. That sounded painfully sincere.
“Thanks.”
Another quiet beat passes.
Then, carefully, “You looked like you wanted to murder Adler.”
“There may have been a brief moment,” he admits.
A surprised laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
That finally pulls a small smile out of him. And there he is. Not the goalie or the emotionally barricaded version he’s been forcing himself into all day.
Just Owen.
Everything in me clenches painfully at the sight of him because I like him better open. That realization lands hard enough to make my pulse stumble.
