Chapter 25
Drew
Three days later, the apartment didn’t feel so heavy.
Maybe that was Miguel’s fault.
I’d thought the awkwardness would hang around after that night—after he held me on the couch while I came apart quietly in his arms. I remembered waking up against him the next morning, disoriented, my cheek pressed to his chest, his arm still around me.
The faint scent of his shampoo. The steady rhythm of his breathing.
For a moment, I just let myself stay there—without guilt, without the need to hide, letting the quiet settle somewhere deep.
It had been a long time since I’d felt that kind of peace.
And he’d just been… solid. Calm. Making coffee like it was the most natural thing in the world. Talking about what we should have for breakfast, about practice, about anything but my breakdown. The normalcy in that had made everything easier.
When he’d started to leave that evening, I’d followed him to the door. I wanted to ask him to stay but couldn’t make the words work.
He paused anyway, like he could read it in my silence. Then he stepped close—close enough for his breath to brush my cheek—and said quietly, “Another time.”
His hands came up to my face, warm and sure, and he kissed me—slow, deep, sure—a promise wrapped in restraint. Until my knees forgot what they were for. And before I could catch my breath, he was gone, the air still warm where he’d been.
Since then, practice had been a minefield of almosts.
Accidental touches that weren’t accidents. Lingering looks that lasted a beat too long. Texts that read casual but felt anything but.
He’d messaged me this morning:
Miguel: Don’t forget it’s Wednesday. I’m coming hungry.
Miguel: And wear something you don’t mind getting dirty. Cooking’s serious business.
I’d stared at the screen longer than I’d admit. There was nothing flirty in the words, not really—but it still felt like flirting, because it was him.
I couldn’t stop smiling after that.
JB had given me a look during practice—half suspicion, half amusement. Justin flat-out asked if I was dying because I was smiling too much. I’d just shrugged. Let them think what they wanted.
What I wanted was Miguel.
Alone.
By the time evening rolled around, my pulse had been running ahead of me all day.
I must’ve checked the clock a dozen times, pretending it was about the chicken slowly simmering in its lemon-and-caper sauce—not the man I knew was on his way.
Then came the knock.
Three quick raps—confident, familiar. He’d done that to my office door before entering for the last five years.
When I opened the door, I didn’t even get a word out.
Miguel stepped in like he’d been holding his breath all day and I was the air. His hand fisted in my hoodie, tugging me forward, and then his mouth was on mine—rough, hungry, sure.
I hit the wall, not hard, but enough to feel it at my back. His body pressed against mine, solid heat, the kiss deepening until the world narrowed to the taste of him, the sound of our breaths, the way his tongue swept over mine like he needed this as badly as I did.
My hands found his hips, his shirt, the hard line of muscle beneath. He groaned when I dragged him closer, and something low and dangerous sparked in my gut.
My skin went hot, my pulse hard. I wanted him stripped bare, wanted to feel every inch of him.
He pulled back, breathing ragged, his forehead resting against mine.
“Hi,” he said, a crooked grin ghosting across his lips.
“That your way of saying hello?” My voice came out hoarse.
“Been thinking about doing that since Sunday.”
I swallowed hard. “Can’t say I minded.”
He chuckled, and that sound—deep, warm, pure Miguel—snapped me back to why we were here.
“Let’s finish cooking our meal,” I managed.
Miguel grinned. “You sure you want to focus on food right now?”
“Positive.” I slipped out from under his arm, even though my whole body protested the space. “Wednesday night. My rule.”
He followed me to the kitchen, still close enough that I could feel the heat of him at my back.
The skillet sizzled softly on the burner, lemon and garlic in the air.
I gave it a slow stir while the sauce thickened around the chicken.
Miguel leaned a shoulder against the counter, pretending to help but really just watching me, teasing under his breath, stealing roasted potatoes from the tray whenever he thought I wasn’t looking.
“Pretty sure you’re supposed to stir that,” he said, grinning.
“I am stirring,” I said. “You’re hovering.”
“Supervising,” he corrected. “Coach needs coaching sometimes.”
“Then make yourself useful and hand me the pepper.”
He glanced around until I nodded toward the spice rack. He picked up the pepper, brushing his knuckles along mine as he passed it over, deliberate and slow.
“This one?” he asked.
I exhaled a laugh. “You’re terrible.”
“Terrible looks good on me.”
“Debatable,” I said, but I was smiling, and he knew it.
The food came together fast—chicken simmered in a lemon-caper sauce, roasted potatoes crisping in the oven, the smell rich and warm, like home.
We didn’t bother with plates. We ate right there at the counter, sharing from the skillet, passing a fork back and forth, laughing when he stole the last potato.
“Hey,” I said, nudging him with my elbow. “That was mine.”
“Possession’s nine-tenths,” he said, still chewing.
I rolled my eyes, and before I could fire back, he leaned in, voice low against my ear.
“You can have it back,” he murmured.
The joke died somewhere in my throat when he kissed me again—slow this time, the smell of dinner still in the air between us. I kissed him back, setting the fork aside.
The skillet clicked softly as I pushed it onto a cool burner behind us, forgotten.
We didn’t move far—just enough that my back met the counter’s edge, his hands braced on either side of me, heat rolling off him in waves.
“Drew,” he murmured against my mouth, voice low, rough, “tell me to stop.”
“Not a chance,” I said, tugging him closer until our hips met.
Heat rolled between us, unhurried.
“Bedroom?” he asked, his breath catching as my hand slid up his chest.