CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Kate
There’s a man in my bed!
I repeat. There is a man. In. My. Bed.
Okay, maybe not in it. Not under the covers. But still—technically, logistically, alarmingly—in my bed.
There has never been a man in my bed. I have never been in a man’s bed. But over the course of 48 hours, I fell asleep on Michael Lee’s floor mattress and now he’s sitting on my bed! Beside me!
He’s perched on the side like a gentle giant, balancing on the edge of the mattress like it might explode if he shifts his weight.
Meanwhile, I am unshowered, sporting cupcake pajamas and a hairstyle that could only be described as ‘post-apocalyptic birds’ nest.’
Why is he even here? And why did I agree?
He could have checked on me, dropped off some electrolytes, and gone on his merry way.
But no. He sat down. With his stupid face and his stupid kindness and his deeply concerning ability to open sports drink bottles with one hand.
How is that even operationally possible?
I sneak a glance. He’s scrolling on his phone, probably checking game stats or something. But his body is angled slightly toward me. Why does that make my stomach do that fluttery thing? Is that an emotion? Or is it still the tofu?
He clears his throat. “You okay?”
I blink at the ceiling like it holds the answers. “Define ‘okay.’ Like… physically?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“Oh. Then no. I feel like a microwaved chicken. Sweaty on the outside, cold in the middle.”
He laughs softly. “Well, at least your color’s improving.”
I instinctively touch my cheeks. Are they red? Ugh.
“Flattering.” I roll to my side, immediately regret the motion, then flatten back like a pancake.
“So, what do you wanna do?” he asks.
“Um… I don’t know, I’ve never shared a bed with anyone outside our friend group before.
” The words escape too fast, and I bite my lip.
Why did I say that? What am I trying to imply here?
“Sorry,” I mumble, gesturing vaguely in the air.
“I’m just—this is all weird. The food poisoning. The unexpected situation. The… you.”
He glances around like he’s just realized where he is. “I mean, yeah, if I zoom out, it’s definitely not how I saw this day going.”
“And yet here we are.”
He shrugs. “You knocked. I answered.”
“I didn’t knock.”
“Spiritually, you did.”
I snort and then immediately regret it because snorting hurts. “You can leave anytime, you know.”
“Do you want me to?”
“No.”
It slips out too fast. Too honest.
He raises an eyebrow, and I panic. “I mean—you probably should! Boundaries! Germs! Proximity to… vomit.”
But he just sits back and stretches his legs, somehow taking up a ridiculous amount of space without touching me. “Katie.”
“Mikey.”
He chuckles at the name. “I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to. So, pick your poison: movie, book, awkward eye contact, or deep, soul-crushing talk. I’m your guy.”
I blink at him. “You sound like a poorly designed dating app.”
“Swipe left, if you want to.” He shrugs.
I sit up slowly and crisscross my legs like I’m about to start circle time as I face him. “Okay. Let’s talk. Specifically, the Little League Finals next week.”
His brows lift slightly. “Wow. Straight into work talk.”
I ignore him. “How can we make it more memorable?”
He mirrors me halfway, leaning up but keeping his back planted against my pillows. “Basketball’s already fun. They’re going to run around, yell a lot, and dramatically fall even if no one touches them.”
“Yeah, but still.” I press.
He shrugs. “You want a real venue?”
I blink. “Like… a gym?”
He nods like it’s no big deal. “A mini stadium. We’ve got a few practice courts we use for training. I can make a call, block one off for a day. Let the kids run through the tunnel like pros. Even pipe in some crowd noise if you want.”
My jaw drops slightly. “You’d do that?”
He puts a hand on his chest like I’ve accused him of betrayal. “Kate. I’m offended. Of course I’d do that. Those little hooligans stole my heart.”
I laugh. “Okay. I’ll send out a letter to the parents. Seriously… thank you. That’s really nice of you.”
He looks at me and something shifts in his expression. “I am nice, you know.”
I nod approvingly. “Yeah, I’m starting to see that.”
He grins. “So you admit it now—you were wrong about me. I’m not a self-absorbed athlete.”
“I said you were nice,” I clarify, raising a finger. “You can still be self-absorbed and nice.”
He throws his head back with a laugh. “Fair.”
Then, for some reason, I ask, “Have you always wanted to be an athlete?”
He blinks, caught off guard, and then leans his head back against the wall. “Wow. You just hopped into o rigin story.”
“You offered soul-crushing talk,” I remind him. “I’m just cashing it in.”
He exhales. “Okay, well… yes and no.”
I squint. “Explain.”
He runs a hand through his hair, and for a second, he’s not Michael Lee, MVP, sports guy, certified menace. He’s just… a person.
“My parents died in a car accident when I was three. Trish and my grandma raised me. They did the best they could, but… they were both busy, tired, grieving. There wasn’t a lot of room for figuring out what I liked. One day, someone said, ‘Hey, you’re tall. You should play basketball.’ So I did.”
I nod, quiet now.
“And I was good,” he continues with a little shrug, like it still surprises him. “I mean, really good. And then I kept going. Next thing I knew, basketball wasn’t just something I did—it became who I was. I didn’t choose it so much as I just… grew into it. But I like it now.”
I look at him, stunned by the honesty.
“Wow,” I say, my voice quieter now. “That was… very emotionally literate of you. Proud of you, champ.”
He gives me a crooked grin. “You asked.”
“I know. I just thought you’d say something like ‘I saw Space Jam and decided to change lives.’”
“Honestly,” he laughs, “not far off.”
There’s a pause, and then he adds, “So what about you? Did you always want to be… this? Preschool teacher and occasional baker of the best cookies in the world?”
I chuckle, playing with the edge of my blanket. “Well, I…”
And that’s when I hear it.
Footsteps. Not the casual kind.
Fast ones.
Panicked, I try to sit up with some semblance of dignity—which, of course, backfires because my entire body forgets how gravity works after being in bed for hours. In the blink of an eye, I lurch forward like a sentient sack of rice and fall (no, crash) into Michael.
He grunts, winded, but because he has the reflex of a jungle animal, he somehow catches me. Like, actually catches me, with his hands on my waist.
And now here we are. I am, for lack of a better word, on him.
My palms are pressed against his chest, which is unfortunately very solid and very real.
His hands are still on my waist, warm and steady.
Our faces are inches apart. His breath fans across my cheek while my breath is nowhere to be found.
I think I forget how to breathe. But I think I somehow squeak? I don’t know.
Then the bedroom door swings open with a bang, and Bon appears, holding a plastic bag in one hand.
“Okay, I brought crackers, ginger ale, and—” She freezes. Blinks. “Michael Lee is in your bed and you are on him.” She looks away, her eyes scanning the room, landing on everything except us. “I obviously walked in on something here…”
“No, you didn’t!” I yell, and I make a sound somewhere between a scream and a squeak as I try to roll off Michael, but only manage to tangle myself further in the blanket. Michael helps me get the blanket off, and I sit, tying my hair again because it flew out of the hair tie.
Michael waves lazily from his half-reclined position. “Hi, Bon.”
Bon raises an eyebrow at me as she sets the bag down. “So, you’ve already got the best company.”
“Bonita,” I hiss. “Boundaries.”
“You literally don’t have any.” She walks in like she owns the place and drops the bag dramatically onto my side table. “Anyway. Ginger ale, crackers, fruits, and my lingering judgment. Enjoy.”
She’s halfway out the door when she adds, “Also, I expect details—maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow—but one day, when you’re emotionally stable and less… pale.”
“I hate you,” I hiss.
“You don’t.” Bon rolls her eyes as she leans on the doorway.
“Fine, I dislike you in a very gentle way.”
She chuckles, then she’s gone.
I flop back on the pillow, groaning into the fabric. “So. That happened.”
“You’re gonna need more lessons on crisis management. I’ll introduce you to my PR team,” he says.
I groan even louder. Michael laughs but I don’t join him. I’m too busy planning my relocation to a remote island where my friends can never find me.
“So, anyway,” he adds. “Where were we?”
I slowly peel myself off the pillow and sit up again, gathering the blanket around me like it’s a shield. I glance at him.
He’s still here. Still reclining against my bed frame. Still on my bed, legs stretched out. His hair’s slightly rumpled from the way I accidentally crash-landed on him, and he doesn’t even look remotely flustered. If anything, he looks amused.
“You’re used to that, aren’t you?” I ask, tilting my head as I study him.
He raises a brow. “Used to what?”
“Those kinds of encounters,” I say, motioning vaguely toward the door like it still contains the ghost of Bon’s dramatic exit. “Girls falling on you. Getting caught in weirdly compromising positions. Unbothered energy. You didn’t even flinch.”
Michael grins, leaning forward just a little, like he’s about to share a secret. “May I remind you,” he says with mock patience, “you didn’t exactly give me time to flinch. You launched yourself at me, Katherine.”
I sigh, dramatically this time. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
“You flew into it, really,” he says with a soft chuckle, adjusting his posture so he’s seated more properly now.
Elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them.
Less lounging, more engaged. “But to answer your question, no, I’m not used to that.
And don’t think I didn’t notice that deflection. You never answered my question.”
I raise an eyebrow, cautious. “What question?”
Michael gives me that look again. The one that’s playful, but not unserious. “You can avoid it all you want,” he says, voice a little quieter now, “but I have a feeling there’s more to you than just wanting the small-town life.”
And just like that, my throat tightens.
Because I do want it. The small town, the simplicity, the rhythm of days that feel familiar.
Teaching kids, baking cookies, movie nights with friends.
A life with clearly marked edges. But sometimes I wake up with a restlessness I can’t explain.
A buzzing in my chest like I’m meant to be doing more, or going somewhere, or being someone else.
“I don’t know,” I say finally, fiddling with the hem of the blanket. “Maybe I’m just… not brave enough to want anything bigger,” I finally admit. It feels weird to say it out loud.
Michael doesn’t speak right away. He just studies me for a moment, then says, “You know,” his voice is careful now, as if he’s choosing each word like it might break something, “it doesn’t take less courage to stay. Especially when you know you could’ve run. So you’re being really brave right now.”
I blink at him. For a second, I forget how to breathe. Again.
He doesn’t break eye contact, and he’s not smiling this time. Not in the usual playful way. There’s a different look on his face now—one that’s gentle and clear, like he’s not trying to convince me of anything, just telling the truth because it’s what he sees.
I shift, not quite sure what to do with the way my chest tightens again, this time for a whole different reason. “You make it sound like I’ve figured something out.”
Michael lifts one shoulder in a small shrug. “Maybe you did. Or maybe you’re still figuring it out. That’s allowed too.”
I study him then, really look at him. And I take his words into heart.
“Who knew, the arrogant athlete has substance…” I trail off.
Michael grins. “Stick around. I might surprise you.”
And I nod and smile like a rational person, while inside, I’m already drafting an apology to Future Kate for letting this situation spiral out of hand.