Page 106 of Broken Blades

My brain stopped again. Completely flatlined. "Me?"

"Optics. Relationship narrative. Blah blah." He waved a hand dismissively. A beat of silence. Then, quieter, "You should be there."

My pulse jumped.

He didn't look at me when he added, softer than I'd ever heard him speak, "If you want."

The words hit differently. Not a command. Not manipulation. An invitation wrapped in the careful packaging of someone who'd been rejected too many times to ask directly.

I didn't trust my voice. Didn't trust the way my chest tightened or the way my traitorous heart leapt at the thought of watching him play. Of being in the stands wearing his colors. Of people seeing me as his.

Even if it was fake.

Even if it shouldn't matter.

"Yeah." I swallowed, barely managing the words. "I'll… I'll come."

He nodded once. Not relief. Not satisfaction. Something deeper. Something dangerous. Something that looked like the beginnings of hope he didn't know what to do with.

He left without another word, disappearing into the kitchen with his empty mug. Left me sitting there with buttered toast and Advil and the crushing realization that everything had shifted.

I'd defended him to his ex-wife without hesitation. I'd touched him on that dance floor like I had every right. I'd woken up in his care, wrapped in blankets he'd tucked around me, drinking coffee he'd made specifically for me.

And now I was going to his game. Not because I had to. Because I wanted to.

Because somewhere between this ruse and the careful touches and the moments he let his guard drop, I'd stopped pretending this was just an arrangement.

I took a bite of toast, the butter melting on my tongue, and pressed my hand against my racing heart.

Thirty days, my father had said.

We were only a week in.

And I was already in too deep.

The shower was scalding. I turned the heat up until steam filled the bathroom, until my skin flushed pink, until I couldn't think about anything except the pounding water against my shoulders.

My head throbbed with each pulse. The hangover clung to me like a second skin, making every movement feel weighted and wrong.

I braced my hands against the tile, letting the water cascade down my back, and tried desperately not to think about the way Wyatt's hand had felt against my cheek. Clinical, he'd said. Checking for fever. Making sure I was hydrating properly.

But his thumb had lingered.

I squeezed my eyes shut against the spray. "Stop it. Just stop."

The water didn't answer. Didn't offer absolution. Didn't wash away the memory of dancing with him, hands on his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him under my palms.

I scrubbed at my hair harder than necessary, punishing myself for the thoughts I couldn't control. For the way my pulse had jumped when he'd invited me to his game. For the traitorous warmth spreading through my chest every time he did something unexpectedly kind.

By the time I emerged, wrapped in a towel with my hair dripping down my back, the throbbing in my skull had intensified into a full percussion section.

I dressed in the softest clothes I owned—oversized sweats, a hoodie I'd stolen from my college roommate, thick socks. Armor against feeling anything else today.

The living room was empty when I returned. Wyatt had disappeared somewhere—his room, maybe, or the gym he'd forbidden me from entering. I didn't look for him. Couldn't handle another interaction that would leave me more confused than the last.

I collapsed onto the couch, pulled the blankets back around myself, and grabbed the remote.

Netflix loaded with familiar efficiency. I scrolled past romantic comedies I absolutely could not handle right now, past action movies that would make my head worse, until I landed on a true crime documentary about a woman who'd faked her own death.