“Yeah, that sounds nice,” I mutter.
He lingers a second longer, watching me, then smiles and heads toward the bathroom. The sound of water starts up a moment later, faint through the walls.
I exhale slowly, dragging a hand over my face.
The bed feels emptier without him in it, colder. My body misses the weight of him pressed against me, and I hate myself a little for it.
I can still feel his arms around me. The way he held me like I was something worth keeping.
And the truth I don’t want to admit sits heavy in my chest: I liked it too much.
The sound of water cuts off, and a moment later Phoenix comes out of the bathroom, steam trailing behind him like he’s dragging the shower with him. His dark hair is damp, messy, curling just enough at the edges that I want to reach out and smooth it down. He looks good in a simple hoodie and jeans, casual in a way that makes him dangerous. Like he doesn’t have to try.
I’m still sitting on the edge of his bed. I’ve been here long enough for my leg to start bouncing, but I can’t make myself move. Last night—God, last night—was messy and blurred, the kind of party I usually avoid. I remember flashes: people laughing too loud, the burn of liquor down my throat, Phoenix pulling me into his room like I was something he owned. I remember being pissed at him, at Alison draping herself over him, at his reckless smirk when he let it happen. I remember him cornering me with words and then kissing me like my anger was just another way of wanting him.
And then—nothing. Just heat, his mouth on mine, his hand in my hair. Until the world tilted and we ended up here.
In his bed.
“Do you want to shower? I have some clothes that might fit you.” He starts digging in his dresser, pulling out some joggers and a green T-shirt.
I get up awkwardly. “Um, yeah. That’d be nice, actually.”
He drops the clothes into my hands, his eyes drifting to my neck. He smiles softly. “Use whatever you need.”
When I’m done cleaning up, I step into the bedroom to see Phoenix on a made bed.
“C’mon,” he says, shaking his keys at me. “I need coffee to cure this hangover.”
I blink at him. “Coffee?”
“Yeah. Around the corner. Best place in the city.”
There’s a spark in his eyes when he says it, like he’s daring me to challenge him. I don’t. I just follow him out the house, pulling my hoodie tighter against the morning chill.
The air outside is crisp, the kind of clean that cuts right through leftover alcohol in my system. Phoenix’s neighborhood is quieter than I expected. Small houses with porches and peeling paint, dogs barking somewhere behind a fence, a woman in a robe dragging her trash can to the curb. It doesn’t scream “hockey star.” It screams ordinary.
Phoenix walks like he owns the cracked sidewalk, long strides, shoulders loose. He doesn’t look at me, but I feel his awareness, sharp and humming, as if he’s cataloging every step I take.
“You always wake up this early after parties?” I ask, mostly to fill the silence.
He smirks. “Early? It’s almost noon, rookie.”
Right. My sense of time’s wrecked. I never drink like I did last night. I shove my hands deeper in my pockets and keep walking.
The coffee shop is tucked into the corner of a brick building, the kind of place you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it. The sign is hand-painted, the glass windows cluttered with flyers for local bands and community events. When we step inside, the air smells like fresh espresso and warm cinnamon.
Phoenix is different here. The second we walk in, a middle-aged woman behind the counter lights up. “Phoenix! Haven’t seen you all week, honey.”
Phoenix grins, easy and familiar. “Yeah, schedule’s been brutal. You keeping these kids in line, Marcy?”
“Trying,” she says, rolling her eyes toward the two college-age baristas struggling with a broken milk steamer.
Phoenix doesn’t hesitate. He heads behind the counter, like he belongs there, and starts fiddling with the machine. The baristas look both relieved and embarrassed.
“Thanks, Phoenix,” says the pierced goth girl.
“Seriously?” I mutter under my breath, watching him twist knobs and explain something about pressure valves like he’s done it a hundred times.
