“Thanks for the ride,” I said, reaching for the door handle.
“Wait.”
I waited.
He was quiet for a moment, his hands still on the wheel, his eyes on the building in front of us like he was assessing it for threats. Then he turned to look at me, and the expression on his face made something in my chest tighten.
“If you need anything,” he said, “if anything feels off, if you’re worried about those guys or anything else—you call me. Understood?”
My mouth had gone dry. “Coach, I don’t think—"
“Understood?” he repeated, and his voice had dropped into that rough register that made my brain stop working properly.
“Yeah,” I managed. “Understood.”
He held my eyes for another moment, and I became aware of how close we were in the small space of the car, of the way the streetlight was catching the copper in his eyes, of the fact that he was looking at me like—
Like what? Like I mattered? Like he was worried about me in ways that went beyond professional concern? Like he was fighting the same battle I was fighting and losing just as badly?
I didn’t know. Couldn’t know. But something in his expression made me brave or stupid or both. “Do you want to come in for a coffee?”
I watched him consider it. Watched the way his jaw tightened fractionally, the way his hands shifted on the steering wheel like he was gripping it harder than necessary. The silence stretched between us, heavy with something I couldn’t name but felt in every nerve ending.
“Coffee,” he said finally, his voice so careful that made me think he was choosing his words with the same precision he used for line changes. “All right.”
My pulse kicked up as I grabbed my bag and led him into the building. The lobby was empty, the fluorescent lights harsh after the dim interior of the truck. I used my keycard, heard the lock click, and pushed through to the stairwell because the elevator was slow, and I was suddenly aware of every second, every breath, every step that brought us closer to my apartment.
Third floor. The hallway was the same industrial aesthetic as the rest of the building—exposed brick, concrete floors, the kind of deliberate roughness that was supposed to feel authentic. I could hear music through one of the doors, someone’s TV through another. Normal sounds. Normal building.
There was a moving truck’s worth of boxes stacked outside the apartment across from mine—the one that had been empty since I’d moved in. Someone was finally taking it. I registered that peripherally, more focused on getting my key in the lock without fumbling it, which was harder than it should have been with Kincaid standing three feet behind me radiating energy that made the hallway feel smaller.
The door opened. I stepped inside, dropped my bag, and immediately became aware of how small the space was. Studio apartment meant one room—bed in the corner, kitchenette along one wall, a door that led to a bathroom the size of a closet. I hadn’t bothered decorating. There were no pictures on the walls, no personal touches, nothing that made it feel like anything other than a temporary stopping point. I could haveafforded much better, but sending home money had been more important.
“It’s not much,” I said, suddenly self-conscious in a way I hadn’t been in the truck. “But it’s clean.”
“It’s fine,” Kincaid said, and I heard the door close behind him with a soft click that made my breath catch.
I moved toward the kitchenette, needing something to do with my hands. I had a quick pod system I wasn’t really a fan of, but like I said—quick. I didn’t need to ask, he took it black with one sugar, as my obsession went to noticing things like that.
The machine started heating with a low hum that filled the silence. I could feel him behind me, could sense him taking in the space, and I tried not to think about what he was seeing—the unmade bed, the lack of anything personal, the emptiness of a place I’d been living in for two months without actually living in it.
I turned around with both mugs and found him standing by the window, looking out at the street below.
“Here,” I said, crossing the small space to hand him his coffee.
He took it, his fingers brushing mine for just a moment. The contact sent heat up my arm that had nothing to do with the temperature of the mug.
“Thanks,” he said.
I should have stepped back. Should have moved to the other side of the room, maintained some kind of professional distance. Instead, I stayed where I was, close enough to see the unusual copper in his eyes, close enough to smell that soap again, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.
“Coach,” I said, and my voice came out rougher than I intended.
“Dante,” he said, and something about hearing my first name in his voice made my chest tight.
I set my mug down on the windowsill then took his out of his hand. Watched his eyes track the movement then come back to my face. I could see the exact moment he understood what I was about to do—saw his shoulders tense, saw something flash across his face that might have been warning or might have been want.
I leaned in anyway.
