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“And you must be Kingston,” she says, tilting her head. “The infamous quarterback-slash-pancake artist.”

He chuckles and offers her a glass. “Only the best for Mya’s best friend.”

“Oh, smooth,” she drawls, accepting it. “But just so we’re clear—if you hurt her, I’ll break both your legs and make it look like an accident.”

There’s a beat of silence before Kingston laughs, deep and genuine, like the threat amuses him more than it unsettles him. “Fair enough,” he says. “Noted.”

Reese arches a brow, pleased. “Good. Now that we’ve established the rules, let’s talk football.”

They settle onto the couch, and I perch on the armrest, watching them like a spectator at the world’s weirdest game of social ping-pong. To my absolute relief, they click instantly. Reese is all sass and snark, throwing out stats and asking about his last shoulder injury like a seasoned sports journalist. Kingston answers every question with that quiet confidence he wears like armor, but he’s softer around her, somehow. Less guarded. More himself.

And I sit there, exhaling a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding.

Because this could’ve gone so wrong.

If Reese hadn’t liked him… If he’d thought she was too much…

But instead, she laughs at his dry humor, and he listens when she talks like what she’s saying actually matters.

It’s easy. Seamless.

And I think… maybe this is what safe feels like.

Maybe this is what possible feels like.

Dinner shows up twenty minutes later—Kingston ordered pasta from my favorite little place in SoHo, because he remembered. Reese teases him about being a terrible cook, and he just grins and tells her he has other talents.

Reese chokes on her wine.

I roll my eyes and kick his shin under the table.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like a girl who’s holding her breath waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I just feel… lucky.

Dinner’s barely been cleared when Reese curls one leg under her and levels me with the kind of look that says she’s about to stir chaos and call it casual conversation.

Wine in hand. Lip gloss perfectly intact. Trouble.

Kingston offers to refill her glass from the kitchen, moving with that effortless confidence that makes expensive sweatpants look like a tailored suit. “Another?” he asks, already reaching for the bottle.

Reese tips her glass toward him with a grin. “Please. If I’m spending the night in this high-rise penthouse like a spoiled socialite, I intend to drink like one.”

He chuckles, pouring her a healthy amount while I sink into the corner of the couch, toes tucked under Kingston’s throw blanket. My back aches from too much walking and too much pasta, but for the first time in days, my shoulders aren’t up around my ears.

Reese and Kingston clicked so fast it’s disorienting.

And also a freaking relief.

The way they’re vibing—Reese asking him questions about training camps and playoff pressure, Kingston actually answering without deflecting—makes my chest unclench. I didn’t realize how tense I’d been about this. If Reese hadn’t liked him… or worse, if he’d written her off? Awkward wouldn’t have even scratched the surface.

They’re still talking when she changes gears without warning, like a turn taken at 90 mph with no signal.

“So,” she says, twisting to face me, “Eli’s first birthday is next weekend and I still have no idea what I’m doing.”

I blink. “I thought you said you were keeping it simple.”

“I did. I lied.” She lifts her wine glass. “Now I’m knee-deep in Pinterest boards and wondering if it’s too much to order a miniature petting zoo.”