He slowly comes to a stop, his hands a bruising grip on my thighs. I lay there, breathless, sated, and in awe of what just happened.
“We just flip fucked,” I wheeze out, my breath coming in ragged pants. Cull carefully lets go of my legs and falls next to me on the bed, his breathing just as labored as mine.
“Hell yes, we did, and it won’t be the last time. That was fun.”
The smile that spreads across my face feels cartoonish. “Agreed. How the hell did you get me on my back so fast?”
He grins. “Years of elite athletic training.”
“You’re a soccer goalie,” I remind him, chuckling.
“Exactly. Peak human performance.” He elbows me. “Laugh all you want, but when the robots rise up, you’ll be grateful for my lightning-fast reflexes.”
I snort. “Pretty sure that’s not going to happen.”
“That sounds exactly like something a future robot casualty would say.”
Still grinning, he slides off the bed and stretches. “I need to hit the gym. My legs are pathetic. Soccer season ends and suddenly my quads decide retirement sounds nice.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
He points at me. “Tell that to my quads.”
I glance down at my body, still lean from my time in the hospital. “I think the gym might be a good idea for me, too. May start with the leg press or stair climber.”
“Look at us.” Cullen takes my hand and helps me stand. “Two hot dudes trying to get swole. Give it a week and we’ll be posting workout videos online.”
I laugh as he leads me into the bathroom. “Let’s not.”
“No promises.” He starts adjusting the shower knobs. “I’ll text Coach later and see if we can still get the student-athlete discount at Maxwells Fitness. If not, we’ll just stand outside looking sad until they let us in.”
The joke lands, but something about him feels off. His smile lingers, yet his attention seems fixed somewhere beyond the bathroom wall. When he reaches for my hand and pulls me beneath the warm spray, that uneasy feeling settles deeper in my chest.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” The answer comes quickly, clipped.
“Cull.”
“I’m okay, Hud.”
But he’s not. His shoulders are tight again, and there’s a strain around his eyes that wasn’t there just a minute ago.
I lather shampoo into his hair and massage his scalp. He relaxes slightly, bracing his hands against the wall as the water runs over us.
“You’re not okay,” I say quietly. “I know you’re not sleeping well, and your mood swings like a pendulum. You went off by yourself to Mason’s house, and whatever happened there ended in a pretty bad panic attack.”
His breathing changes. Water streams down his bowed head, carrying suds toward the drain. He doesn’t answer.
“Cull, talk to me.”
He takes a long, shaky breath before finally turning around. Tears track through the water on his cheeks, but his eyes are guarded.
“I guess I’m just tired,” he admits. “Like you said, I’ve not been sleeping well. And I’ve been having nightmares.”
His hands rest on my hips, fingers tightening slightly as he rests his forehead against mine. I slide my arms around him and rub slow circles across his back.
“That’s my fault. I’m sorry.”
