He kisses me one last time, quick but still possessive enough to make a mess of my pulse, then stands before I can drag him back down and ruin both our lives. He grabs his bag from the chair, checks his phone, and looks back at me from the doorway.
The room is still dark around him. His hoodie stretches across his shoulders. His hair is messy from my hands. He looks like he belongs in some tragic hockey commercial about discipline and cheekbones.
Annoying.
“Text me when you’re up,” he says again.
“Needy.”
“Obsessed.”
“At least you admit it.”
“I never denied it.”
That one lands too.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
Cade notices, because of course he does, and his expression shifts into something almost smug.
“Go back to sleep, Pip.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
He leaves before I can answer, the apartment door clicking softly a minute later.
For a while, I just lie there in the quiet, staring at the ceiling while the ghost of his mouth stays on mine and the weight of everything he said settles slowly inside me.
You’re the only friend I’m getting benefits from.
I’m off the market whether you’re ready to call me yours or not.
I should be terrified.
Technically, I am terrified.
But underneath it, beneath the fear and the exhaustion and the Luke-shaped shadow still waiting outside this room, something warm keeps spreading through my chest.
Cade has blown every reason I had for keeping him at a distance straight to shit.
And the worst part is, he didn’t even do it dramatically.
He did it by waking up in my bed.
By making plans.
By kissing my wrist.
By leaving for practice and making sure I knew he was coming back.
I roll onto my side and bury my face in the pillow that still smells like him.
Friends with benefits, my ass.
27
