People are paying attention now: parents, sponsors, schools, cities. They’re listening because she made them look. I can’t find it in me to hate her for it. She didn’t ask for credit or insert herself into the narrative. She showed up, supported, and smiled—proud to stand beside me instead of trying to stand in front of me. I want to do the same for her.
Thankful. That’s the stupid word I don’t want to admit.
I’m fucking thankful.
Thankful that when I walk into those meetings now, the room leans in instead of bracing. Thankful the academy isn’t treated like a risk anymore but an inevitability. Thankful she’s making my fight easier without ever making it about herself.
I don’t say it out loud. I wouldn’t know how.
She’s changing the game for me without stepping on the ice. I don’t know how to take something that good without wanting to keep it.
The TV murmurs behind me—some early sports recap I’m not actually watching. Above it, bare feet on wood and the faintest rustle of fabric: she’s coming down the stairs.
My body reacts, spine straightening, shoulders squaring, like I’m about to step onto the ice instead of turning in my kitchen.
I shouldn’t be thinking this hard. We fucked. That happened. I don’t do morning-after spirals. I don’t stand around wondering what a woman thinks of me. Yet my mind starts sprinting.
Did last night change anything, or did it complicate everything? Will she put walls back up now that I’ve been inside them? Is she quiet again, guarded, sharp-tongued like nothing happened? Did she wake up and regret trusting me, decide she shouldn’t have let me be the first and now hates me more?
The thought lands ugly and unexpected in my chest.
I grab the second mug and force my face neutral, ready for impact.
She walks in wearing shorts and a tank top, hair loose and sleep-soft around her shoulders. She’s walking a little slow—I know why—but it’s the look on her face that gets me.
She doesn’t look pissed.
She’s smiling.
She walks a path straight to me, and my heart kicks.
“Good morning,” she says, her voice adorably sleepy.
I hand her the coffee without a word, and our fingers brush. She murmurs thanks, steps closer, looks up with clear eyes—no regret. Then she goes on tiptoes and kisses me softly. I lean down automatically, meeting her halfway.
When she pulls back I can only stare, trying to get used to this version of her. She doesn’t hate me. She’s okay. The relief is embarrassing.
She catches me staring and her mouth curves. “Used to women leaving before dawn, Captain?”
There they are: the claws. Light, but present.
I huff, about to answer, when she shifts onto the barstool and winces. Heat rolls low in my stomach, dark and immediate. She can still feel me inside that swollen place. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from doing something about it.
She plays it off, straightening, defensive. I’m already moving, mug forgotten as I step into her space.
“Something wrong?” I murmur, amused.
“I’m fine.”
“Mm.” I lift a finger, hook it gently under her chin, tilting her face up. Her lips part and I study the softness beneath the sass. “Guess all it took was one night to get you to retract the claws,” I say quietly, a corner of my mouth lifting.
“I can start giving you hell again if you miss it,”
I let go with a chuckle. I don’t step back. I like her right here—caught between bold and flustered.
“Go ahead,” I tell her. “Try it.”
“Oh yeah?” Her brows lift.
