It’s not like dinner. Not like the gym. Not like the ice where we had drills and teammates and plausible reasons to be aware ofeach other. There’s no reason now.
No excuses left.
Just the quiet and the space and both of us in it not moving, just staring at each other like we can’t look away anymore.
Jamie swallows and my eyes follow the movement of his throat.
Then lower.
When I look back down, I see it.
I should look away.
I'm a decent enough person to know I should look away.
But Jamie’s body is not pretending, so I’m not going to either. He’s hard. Not in a way that would be very obvious to anyone not already looking for every single sign of him losing control.
But I am looking.
And he knows I see it.
His face goes still.
Not blank.
Panicked. Deer in headlights, hand caught in the cookie jar, secret ripped clean into daylight. For a second, I don’t move. Because this isn’t fun. Not entirely. Because I know that look. Different place. Different reason. Same feeling.
The power of it hits me harder than I expect. Jamie Nash, who controls everything, who lives like discipline can save him, standing there exposed in the smallest way and looking at me like I could destroy him with it.
So I don’t smile. I don’t make a joke. I don’t say anything loud enough for even the room to remember.
I just step closer. Slowly.
His hand tightens around the locker edge. Knuckles going white. But he doesn't move back even though I know he’s one second away from bolting.
“Rhys,” he says. My name sounds different in his mouth like this. Not a warning. More like a plea. I stop in front of him, close enough that this is already too much.
“You can tell me to stop,” I whisper.
His breathing changes.
Just that. One small hitch. His chest expanding and not quite coming back down. Holding his breath. His eyes are locked on mine, wide and furious and terrified and wanting. All of it at all at once.
He says nothing. Doesn’t tell me to stop either. I lift my hand slowly, giving him every chance to move, and touch two fingers under his chin.
His whole body goes rigid.
Not pulling away.
Just still.
Like if he moves even an inch, he’ll fall apart.
I tilt his face up toward mine.
“Jamie.”
His eyes close for half a second and he moves forward maybe a centimeter. That's it. That's the thing that does it. That one unguarded moment where he stops fighting it.
