"What's happening?" I whisper to a middle-aged woman beside me.
"Final game," she whispers back. "Winner takes the title."
It’s the 9-ball US Open. This is big.
The silence is eerie, hundreds of people holding their breath. Caine doesn't see me, doesn't see anyone. He's in his zone, moving around the table with that slow, deliberate grace that makes my heart race.
He has the break, and he kills it, pocketing the one ball right off the bat.
Damn, he's good.
I watch him intently as he hits the two ball and masters a combo shot. He's slow and smooth as he pockets the next ball. He's winning this. The outcome is inevitable. His opponent seems defeated, slumped in his chair.
I study him as he pockets the next balls with ease. He's so focused.
It comes down to the nine-ball, and he doesn't disappoint.
He fist bumps the air as it goes down, reveling in his victory—US Open Nine Ball Champion.
The crowd roars, and I stand to cheer him on.
He shakes his opponent's hand, and as they share a few words, I inch closer to the ring.
I stand there, waiting for him to spot me among the dispersing crowd, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I'm certain everyone around me can hear it.
My palms are slick with sweat, and I keep wiping them against my jeans, trying to steady myself. The noise of celebration swirls around us—photographers snapping pictures, officials congratulating him, spectators slowly filing out—but all I can focus on is the way he moves through it all with that trademark slow confidence, shaking hands and accepting praise like he was born for this moment.
My mouth feels dry as cotton, and I realize I haven't thought through what I'm going to say. What do you say to someone after two months of radio silence? After walking away from something that felt like it could consume you whole?
I shift my weight from foot to foot, suddenly hyperaware of my casual outfit—my worn jeans and an old band t-shirt that I'd hastily thrown on this morning.
I watch him as he tucks his cue away in his case,just like he's done so many times before when we've played together. God, he's beautiful. And I'm here, after two months of silence, about to throw myself at his mercy.
What could possibly go wrong?
When his eyes finally catch mine across the dispersing crowd, everything else fades to nothing. His face lights up—shock morphing into pure joy, that devastating smile spreading across his features like sunrise breaking over the horizon.
He drops his cue case with a loud clatter that echoes through the vast space, and I watch in stunned disbelief as he jumps onto one of the players' armchairs, then leaps clean over the ring barrier.
Photographers' cameras flash like strobes as spectators gasp and point.
Officials call out behind him, but he doesn't care. Nothing exists except the space between us, rapidly disappearing.
My heart stops beating entirely as he reaches me, as his arms wrap around my waist and lift me clean off the ground. The world spins as he pulls me against him, my feet dangling in the air.
I'm overwhelmed by the solid warmth of his chest,the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with that clean soap smell that's uniquely him.
"Jenna." My name falls from his lips like a prayer answered.
He releases me to the ground again, and when his mouth finds mine, I dissolve completely. Two months of careful control shatter in an instant.
His kiss is desperate, hungry, like he's been starving and I'm the first real meal he's seen. My hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper, trying to make up for all the lost time in this single moment. His lips are soft but insistent, moving against mine with a familiarity that makes my knees weak.
God, I'd forgotten. Forgotten how his kiss could unravel me completely, how it made every rational thought scatter like leaves in a windstorm. Forgotten how perfectly we fit together, how right this feels despite everything logical screaming that it's complicated and messy and probably a terrible idea.
The crowd around us erupts in whispers and camera clicks, reminding me where we are. I pull back reluctantly, my cheeks burning as I notice the dozens of eyes fixed on us, the smartphones recording every second.
A tournament official approaches, kindly handing him his cue case with a playful smirk.
