Page 23 of Worth the Shot

Delaney

That kind of confidence is either very attractive or deeply misplaced. I’m leaning toward the second one. See you soon.

Butterflies, actual butterflies, over a simple text message. Jesus Christ.

I tidy the apartment again, like an idiot who doesn’t know what else to do with his hands, then awkwardly sit on the couch until I hear the knock at the door. I try to act casual as I walk over, reminding myself that we’re just friends. Friends who watch “trash TV.” Friends who absolutely do not feel their pulse spike at the thought of opening the door for each other.

But as soon as I see her, my heart loses its cool entirely. It feels like a personal betrayal, and I will never forgive my own body for it. How is it even possible to look that good after a twelve-hour shift? Criminal.

Her dark brown hair somewhere between curls and waves, her green eyes catching every bit of light, her skin flushed from the cold. She’s smiling—trying to hide it, but failing—and I swear I want this moment framed. She just stands there, effortlessly, like God himself placed her here, in my apartment, and forgot to tell me what to do next.

“What is this, a meat locker?” she says, hesitating before taking off her jacket. I laugh, and the corner of her mouth curves up revealing half a dimple. It’s just enough to wreck my ability to breathe properly until, probably, the end of time.

“I, uh, I can turn on the heat?” I offer, already walking toward the thermostat that, sure enough, reads sixty-five. What can I say? Cold rooms just feel…cozier.

“Don’t,” she says, unzipping her coat. She’s changed out of her scrubs into joggers and a long-sleeve tee and I’m still not sure how someone can look comfortable and so effortlessly beautiful at the same time. “I don’t mind the cold. I’m sure you’ve got a blanket or something I can steal if I need it.”

“Of course,” I say. “Whatever you need.” I rake a hand through my hair, pretending it’s casual when it’s anything but. She does a slow walk through the living room, taking it all in. Her eyes stop on the fireplace. Of course they do. What is it about a fireplace that makes women feral?

“I can start a fire, if you want,” I say, even though one’s already burning somewhere in my chest. She turns to me, surprised, like no one’s ever been that quick to notice what she wants.

“I’d love that,” she says softly. I get one going, the smell of wood smoke filling the air. When it catches, we settle on opposite ends of the couch. The fire crackles between us, filling the silence that somehow feels comfortable instead of awkward. She curls her legs underneath her and pulls the blanket off the back of the couch.

“Alright,” she says, remote in hand, “prepare to have your brain permanently damaged. In the best way.”

“I’m intrigued and concerned,” I say.

“You should be. It’s called Love on the Line. Twenty singles trapped in a mansion with zero internet access and zero dignity.”

“Sounds educational,” I say, deadpan.

She snorts, eyes flicking toward me. “See? You get it.”

Half an hour in, I’m more entertained by her commentary than the show itself. She yells at the screen, makes dramatic sound effects, and mimics the contestants with frightening accuracy. Every laugh that slips out of her lands right in my chest. She tosses me a look when something ridiculous happens, like we’re already sharing some kind of inside joke. I shake my head, but smile anyway.

This shouldn’t feel so easy, but it does. Maybe that should scare me a little more, but for some reason it doesn’t. I try to remind myself to be more careful, to remember how things ended the last time I let myself fall. Instead, I find myself already looking forward to the next time we end up like this.

At some point, she tugs the blanket across her lap, and it brushes my leg. Just a whisper of warmth, but it’s enough to set every nerve on alert. I glance over. She’s pretending not to notice, eyes glued to the TV, lips twitching like she knows exactly what she’s doing.

I study her for a moment. It’s easy for anyone to see how beautiful she is on the outside, but it’s what’s on the inside that has me captivated. The way she puts everyone else first, like it’s second nature. The way her eyes soften when she’s talking about her family or her patients, or the way her mouth quirks like she’s holding back something sarcastic half the time. She’s sharp, she’s smart, funny without trying but she’s also strong. In the quiet, steady kind of way that doesn’t need attention or to prove it exists.

The fire pops. My pulse does the same.

For a moment, the air feels heavier, and I can tell this “friends” thing is already in dangerous territory for me. But she leans her head back against the couch, lids drooping, that little smile still playing at her mouth and my eyes are glued to it.

“See?” she murmurs. “Told you it would change you.”

I laugh quietly. “Yeah. Guess you were right.”

She doesn’t answer. She’s already half asleep, bathed in firelight, hair tumbling over her shoulder. I tell myself not to keep staring, then I do it anyway.

This version of her feels like a secret, and I’m honored to witness it. All that bite and armor gone quiet for the night, leaving someone warm, worn out, and softer than she’d ever admit to being. It makes me want to hand her the parts of me I keep hidden, too.

And just before the credits roll, I whisper, mostly to myself,

“Yeah, I’m in trouble.”

Chapter Ten