Page 51 of Offside Angle

I sit up too fast, the blanket sliding down to my waist as a fresh wave of panic crashes over me. My breathing turns shallow almost immediately. I can hear them talking downstairs — their voices are low, but they’re still clear enough that I catch pieces of the conversation. I can’t make out the words, but I don’t need to. The fact that he’s here at all is enough to send my mind spiraling.

What the fuck is he doing here?

Why would he come to my house?

My chest feels too tight. I press a hand against it, trying to force myself to breathe normally, but it’s not working. All I can think about is the fact that Santi is downstairs with my girlfriend while I’m up here losing my fucking mind. I haven’t even told Lena the truth about what happened. And now he’s here.

A few minutes later, I hear footsteps coming back up the stairs. I’m trying to get my breathing under control when Lena appears in the doorway. She’s smiling softly, but it’s the person standing behind her that makes my stomach drop straight through the floor.

Santi is right there, holding a brown paper bag of takeout in one hand.

“Look who came to check on you, babe,” Lena says warmly, stepping aside so he can walk in.

I don’t say anything. I just stare at him.

He walks into my bedroom with an ease that makes it seem familiar, his presence somehow shrinking the space around us. He sets the takeout bag on the nightstand without a word, then turns toward me. Before I can think of anything to say, he sits on the edge of the bed and reaches out.

His fingers brush lightly across my forehead, careful enough that for a second I wonder if he’s genuinely checking for a fever.

“Hi, cariño,” he says quietly.

The pet name sends a quick jolt through me. His touch stays gentle as his fingers slide from my forehead into my hair, following the same path Lena’s had earlier. My eyes close on instinct. It feels good. Too good. Familiar, except not in any way I know how to explain.

I tell myself it’s only because I’m used to having someone play with my hair. I try to pretend my body is responding to something it already knows, something ordinary.

Except there’s nothing ordinary about Santi’s fingers moving through my hair. Somehow he manages to calm one part of me while setting off about six others.

My eyebrows pull together as the realization settles in.

This isn’t what I feel when Lena touches me.

And the worst part is… I don’t want him to stop.

I open my eyes and find Santi watching me, his expression calm but knowing. Lena is standing near the door, completely unaware of whatever has suddenly taken over the room, while my lungs seem to have forgotten how to work properly.

Then Lena sniffles softly and lets out a quiet sigh.

I frown and turn toward her, but by the time I do, she’s smiling again, the brief crack in her expression gone so quickly I almost wonder if I imagined it.

“I’ll leave you boys alone,” she says lightly. “Holler if you need me.”

Before I can say anything, she turns and walks out of the bedroom, gently closing the door behind her. The sound of it clicking shut feels way too final.

I let out a low groan and drop my head back against the headboard, dragging both hands down my face.

Santi snickers beside me. “She’s a smart girl,” he says, the amusement clear in his voice. “She sees right through you, cariño.”

My head snaps toward him, and I glare. “Stop calling me that.”

“Oh, back to glaring,” Santi comments, unbothered. “Progress, I guess.”

““We need to talk about the kiss,” he says. “Running away and pretending it didn’t happen isn’t going to work this time, Matteo. You can glare at me and insist it meant nothing all you want, but we both know that’s bullshit. You kissed me back.”

I hate his voice when he says it.

It’s always been deeper than anyone expects, low and rich enough to catch me off guard even after all these years. Santi has never fit anyone’s conventional idea of masculinity, either. His hair falls past his shoulders, his eyes are lined in black, and there are rings on his fingers and polish on his nails, but none of it makes him any less solid. If anything, the complete lack of hesitation in how he carries himself makes it worse.

He is entirely comfortable with who he is.