He grins, unrepentant, and drops onto the futon couch like he owns it. The frame creaks ominously under his weight. I swear to God it’s going to give out.
“Going to have to buy me a new one,” I mutter, easing myself down on the opposite end, leg stretched out on the pillows between us.
“Relax. These things hold like four hundred pounds.” He reaches for the remote like he’s done this a hundred times. “What are we watching?”
“Whatever doesn’t require me to think.”
He scrolls for three seconds, then lands on some cheesy baking competition show with pastel title cards and overly dramatic music. I blink.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.” He settles back, one arm draped along the back of the futon. “I’m really into baking and cooking. Don’t tell anyone. I know— I’m not gay, gay.”
I start giggling before I can stop myself. It bubbles up from somewhere low and unexpected, the meds and the absurdity and the fact that this massive, bruised football player is sitting in my dorm room defending his love of The Great British Bake Offlike it’s a classified secret.
He glances over, mouth twitching. “What?”
“Nothing. Just… didn’t peg you for a meringue guy.”
“Shut up and eat your Thai food, Texas.”
We eat in the low glow of the TV. He opens the containers on the coffee table—pad thai, green curry, mango sticky rice—and we pass them back and forth like we’ve done this before. My leg throbs, but the food is warm and perfect and exactly what I needed. The meds make everything soft around the edges. His voice. The way he keeps glancing at my braced leg like he’s cataloging the damage. The low rumble of the show’s narrator talking about failed soufflés.
At some point his hand finds the back of my neck.
Not aggressive. Not even particularly sexual at first. Just… there. Warm. Large. His thumb presses into the tight muscle at the base of my skull, then slides under my hair to the space between my shoulder blades. He starts rubbing in slow, methodical circles. Deep. Knowing. Like he’s done physical therapy on himself a thousand times and knows exactly where pain lives.
I go still. “What are you doing?”
“If I touch you here,” he says, voice low, “it’ll make you forget about the pain in your leg.”
Oddly… it is working. The steady pressure, the warmth of his palm, the way his fingers find knots I didn’t even know were there. My eyes drift half-closed. The throbbing in my hamstring is still there, but it feels farther away. Manageable.
“Told you so,” he murmurs. “It’ll last you through thirds. You want me to touch you somewhere else?”
I smack his hand without opening my eyes. “Don’t you dare stop rubbing my shoulder blades.”
He laughs, low and rough. “Bossy. I like it.”
I should tell him to leave. I should remember the flowers on my desk and the note that got under my skin and the fact that I still have Tristan’s texts sitting unread on my phone. I should remember the kiss in the hospital and the way Tristan’s cheeks went pink after and how steady he felt.
But Drew’s hand is warm and sure and the meds have made everything feel like it’s happening in a dream. His thumb finds a spot right under my shoulder blade that makes my whole spine melt. A small, involuntary sound slips out of me.
He goes very still for a second. Then his hand keeps moving, slower now. More deliberate.
The baking show drones on. Someone’s tart is collapsing. The room smells like Thai food and clean gym soap and the faint, expensive scent of the roses he sent.
I should tell him to stop.
I don’t.
Instead I let my head tip back against his arm and let myself have this one quiet, stupid, necessary thing.
Because right now, with my season on the line and two men taking up space in my head and my body aching in ways I can’t fix, this feels like the only thing that doesn’t hurt.
And that is dangerous in an entirely new way.
His fingers slide higher, brushing the nape of my neck, then back down. Steady. Patient. Like he’s willing to sit here all night if that’s what it takes to make the pain back off.
