He worked like he did everything else when he stopped joking—focused, methodical, more competent than I wanted him to be. His fingers pressed, eased, circled. He avoided the worst of the injury, never pushing into sharp pain, always waiting for my breathing to change before moving higher.
And he did move higher.
Not at first.
At first, I could tell myself this was care.
Sports medicine.
Fake boyfriend excellence.
Then his hands slid another inch up my thigh.
Then another.
Still slow.
Still careful.
But past where my hamstring ached.
Past where he needed to be.
My breath caught.
Drew noticed.
Of course he did.
His thumbs stilled against my skin.
“You want me to stop?”
The question was quiet.
No teasing.
No pressure.
Just there.
I turned my face against my folded arms, heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
I should have said yes.
I should have remembered the rules.
No falling in love.
New Year’s Eve.
Clean break.
Instead, I whispered, “No.”
Drew exhaled.
I felt it more than heard it.
