“Come on.” My voice is steady again, back to command. I help him out of the back seat and into the front. “We need food.”
He blinks at me, dazed. “Food?”
“Yeah, food. Protein. Grease. Salt. And you need water. Desperately.”
I reach over, buckle his seatbelt before he can think to move. His confusion almost makes me laugh, but I don’t. I just kiss his jaw, quick and rough, before sliding back into the driver’s seat.
The windows clear as I crack them and start the engine. Night air pours in, cool against my overheated skin. The silence between us hums, heavy but not unbearable. He’s still here. Still with me. That’s enough to keep my grip tight on the wheel instead of on his thigh where I want it.
We hit a drive-through ten minutes later, neon buzzing overhead, the smell of fries flooding the car as I pass a bag to him. He doesn’t dig in right away. Just holds it, staring out the windshield like the world out there is safer than looking at me.
I don’t let him avoid me for long.
“Eat,” I order, softer than it sounds. “You’ll feel better.”
He finally pulls a fry out, bites into it slowly, then sets the bag between us. I steal one, smirking when his brow twitches like he wants to protest. The simple, stupid normalcy of it—sharing fast food after fucking in the back of my car—nearly unravels me.
I want this. Every day. Every night. Him in my space, my hands on him, my food in front of him. The thought is dangerous, curling tight in my gut until it’s almost painful.
I don’t even realize I’ve driven us all the way to his apartment complex until he shifts beside me, tension crawling back into his body. The building looms ahead, dark and quiet, and I hate it instantly.
He doesn’t move when I park. Just stares at the steps leading up to his unit.
“Do you need help getting inside?” I murmur.
He turns to me slowly, eyes unreadable. Then he asks, voice low, almost cautious: “Will you… stay? Tonight?”
The words hit me harder than any fight I’ve ever been in. My chest goes tight, breath sharp, because fuck, I want to. I want to stay so badly it feels like a wound.
For a moment, I don’t answer. I just stare at him, at the faint bruises on his neck, at the way his hand curls against the bag of fries like he doesn’t know what else to hold. He asked. He wants me here.
I swallow hard and nod once, sharp. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”
The relief that flickers across his face nearly breaks me.
And just like that, I know I’m in too deep. Because if he asks again tomorrow, or the next day, or the one after that, I’ll stay every damn time.
10
LEANDER
I’ve stopped counting the nights I go home to my own apartment. Most of my clothes are in Phoenix’s closet now, my toothbrush shoved between his aftershave and his cologne in the bathroom. My body fits against his mattress like it’s where I belong.
And yet, every morning, we roll out of bed like strangers.
Phoenix’s car idles in the parking lot outside the rink, frost biting at the windshield. His hand is still on my thigh from the drive—possessive, grounding, like he needs the contact as much as I do. But the second headlights sweep across the lot, his fingers slide away, leaving my skin cold.
By the time we climb out, he’s Captain Locke again. Broad shoulders, sharp grin, confidence dripping from every step. I trail a half second behind, knee still aching some mornings, but I keep my expression even.
We don’t talk about how he kept me awake last night until two in the morning, his mouth on me, his hands making me forget my own name.
We don’t talk about how I wanted him again when the alarm went off at six.
We don’t talk at all.
Not here.
Inside the rink, the guys greet us like nothing’s different. It’s not unusual for me to carpool with him. The team assumes we’ve just become really good friends. No one knows I’m gay besides Jax, and I don’t think Phoenix ever mentioned being bi to the guys. Our life can just be us for a little longer.
