Page 79 of Offside Angle

Worth it.

Then his hand drops lower and closes over me through my sweats, and whatever victory I thought I’d just scored disappears instantly.

“Oh, fuck—”

The sound comes out much louder than I intended, and my hips jerk toward his hand before pride has any chance to intervene.

Santi hums like he’s just gotten the answer he wanted.

“Or…” I breathe, suddenly reconsidering several things at once. “Not.”

“Not,” he agrees.

Then the bastard lets go.

I stare at him in disbelief as he sits back, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “What the fuck? You can’t just—”

Santi is already climbing off me. “Get up, cariño. Breakfast.”

I stay flat on the mattress for another second, staring at the ceiling.

I have made a terrible mistake.

Not the Santi thing.

Definitely the Nico thing.

I swallow hard, trying to remember how to make words again. “You’re evil,” I mutter, trying to process the fact that I liked every second of it.

Santi just chuckles and stands, offering me a hand with absurdly perfect manners. The contrast is almost unfair. “Come on, cariño. Damian will kill us both if we’re late.”

I take his hand and let him pull me up. The socks he put on me earlier feel weirdly intimate now. Everything about this morning feels intimate.

Santi opens the wardrobe and I stare.

“Did you take out your clothes for two nights and put them in the wardrobe??” I ask, completely baffled. Nobody unpacks for two nights. That’s just weird.

He ignores the question, pulls out one of his soft, loose button-ups, and turns back to me with that calm little smile. “We don’t want wrinkles now, do we?”

Before I can protest properly, he’s already sliding the shirt onto me. My heart jumps straight into my throat. Never in my life has a man dressed me. Never. The fabric is ridiculously soft — so soft I can barely feel it against my skin — and Santi’s fingers work the buttons with quiet focus.

“I can do it myself…” I protest, even though I’m leaning into it without meaning to.

“Didn’t say you couldn’t,” he answers mildly, buttoning me up.

When he’s done, he rests both hands on the sides of my neck, thumbs brushing lightly under my jaw. His expression softens. “Estás bien, cariño?” he asks, more serious now.

I look at him. I’m confused as hell about this whole dynamic — the way he takes care of me, the way he pins me, the way he teases and then checks in — but somehow… “Yeah… yeah, I’m okay,” I whisper.

Santi smiles, leans in, and presses a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth. Then he points to a pair of shoes by the bed. “Grab those.”

I stare at them. “You’re joking.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you want to go downstairs to eat in socks?”

I roll my eyes but grab the shoes. Surprisingly, they fit perfectly. “How did you know they’d fit though?” I ask.

“We’ve always had the same shoe size,” he says simply.