He looks at me for half a second longer than he needs to, like he already knows there’s something I’m not saying.
And that’s worse.
I take a step toward the door. Then another.
He follows.
No more talking. Nothing left to say that wouldn’t change this.
I unlock the door and step inside. He comes in behind me.
The door clicks shut, and the silence of my apartment changes shape.
Not empty. Not lonely.
Expectant.
This isn’t Pittsburgh.
That was urgency. A collision in the dark after weeks of denial.
And this isn’t the other night either.
That night, I could call it a bad decision if I needed to. A late-night lapse in judgment. A body-over-brain situation with a hockey player who brought his cat to my apartment and looked at me like he already knew where the night was going.
Hot.
Reckless.
Survivable.
This feels different.
There’s no rush now. No accident. No easy label I can slap over it afterward so I don’t have to look too closely at what he’s doing here.
Jax’s jacket is off. His keys are down. He’s looking at me like this isn’t a question anymore.
Like he came here for me.
Not for one night.
Not for a mistake.
Me.
Which is a deeply inconvenient thing to realize when I am standing in my own living room with no idea what to do with my hands.
It should feel simple.
It does not.
It feels bigger than a hookup. Bigger than a bad idea. Bigger than the thing I told myself I could survive as long as nobody named it.
He steps closer.
I don’t move.
That’s the first mistake.
