Page 145 of Unmanageable

And as I collapse against her, our hearts beating in a frantic, shared tempo, I realize I’m not calculating my next move.

I’m just thinking about how many years I can spend making her feel exactly like this—breathless, adored, and undeniably mine.

41

Scottie-girl

I don’t tell people this part of me.

Not because I’m mysterious or guarded in a sexy way—which, to be clear, I am—but because this particular fear feels too big to joke my way around.

Every time I try to drag it into the light, it feels stupid. Or dramatic. Or dangerous.

It’s too sharp to dull with sarcasm, too fragile to exist in the open air without breaking something vital inside my chest.

Usually, our apartment is loud.

It’s been five weeks since we moved in together, and our daily routine is basically a competitive sport of seeing who can leave the most junk on the floor before the other one snaps.

I’ve had to learn how to navigate a living room littered with size-twelve goalie pads by the front door, empty protein shake bottles on the kitchen counter, and a blanket permanently tangled at one end of the couch because Finny falls asleep ten minutes into every movie and refuses to admit it.

It’s messy, it’s chaotic, and I love it.

But tonight, the air feels heavy.

Cash is sprawled on the couch, his long legs stretched across the cushions, wearing only one sock. He’s half-watching a nature documentary about penguins while scrolling through hockey trade rumors on his phone. His arm is slung over the back of the sofa, just waiting for me to sit down.

Instead, I pace.

I’ve walked from the kitchen island to the front door fifteen times. I’ve straightened the books on the coffee table three times. I even started organizing his box of flannels by color, which is basically the psychological equivalent of a five-alarm fire.

Cash tracks me with that lazy, hooded gaze.

He’s learned my tells. It’s deeply unfair that a man who gets hit in the face with frozen rubber for a living has developed the intuition of a seasoned therapist.

He knows exactly when I’m strategizing, and he knows when I’m spiraling.

“Scottie.”

I keep walking. “I’m busy.”

“Scottie.”

“What?”

“You’re pacing.”

“I’m moving,” I correct, adjusting a throw pillow for the fourth time. “There’s a difference. It’s called burning off excess energy. You should try.”

“Are you going to keep haunting the perimeter,” he asks, his voice dropping into that low, amused register, “or do you want to sit down before you wear a literal path into the floor?”

I stop by the window and glare at a streetlamp. “I’m thinking, Cash. It’s a complex process. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Right, because that doesn’t sound ominous at all,” he says, tossing his phone onto the cushion and sitting up straight. “Come here, you menace. Stop dragging your feet.”

He makes a sharp, teasing whistling sound through his teeth, the kind you’d use to call a dog.

I stop in my tracks and glare at him. The look on his face immediately makes me annoyed. It’s that soft, steady look—the one that means he’s completely dialed in on me.