His mouth almost tilted. “That sounds like a team memo.”
“It isn’t.”
He understood.
The almost-smile disappeared.
I let one breath pass between us.
Then I gave him the order I had wanted to give since I saw him standing alone by the window.
“Text me when your door is locked.”
Jace absorbed it with his whole body.
Not because he needed it explained.
Because he didn’t.
The instruction was personal. Protective. Possessive enough to be dangerous, controlled enough to remain a boundary instead of skin.
His obedience this time was quieter.
He picked up his phone. His fingers brushed the table once before closing around it. He collected his jacket from the chair and draped it over his arm.
At the glass door, he paused and looked back.
No polished smile. No arrogance. No careless mouth trying to outrun what he felt.
Just Jace, seen too clearly to pretend he wasn’t affected.
“Green,” he said again, softer this time.
A reminder.
A promise.
Then he left.
I stayed in the lounge and watched the city until my phone vibrated eight minutes later.
Jace: Door locked.
A second message followed before I could answer.
Jace: Water too.
I looked down at the screen for a long time.
Then I typed the only thing I trusted myself to send.
Me: Sleep.
His reply came almost immediately.
Jace: Yes, Coach.
I closed my hand around the phone and understood, with a clarity that offered no mercy, that wanting him was no longer the most dangerous part.
