21. Riggs
Riggs
I wake up slow, like swimming through molasses. The warmth of Maren's body against mine is so fucking perfect that for a second I consider just drifting back into unconsciousness. But something nags at me, some responsibility I'm forgetting.
“Shit,” I mutter, the word barely a breath against her hair.
Practice started at five. Coach is gonna have my ass on a platter, served with a side of suicide drills until I puke. Missing practice this close to playoffs is basically team suicide.
But I don't move. Not yet.
Instead, I watch the gentle rise and fall of Maren's breathing, the way her dark hair spills across the pillow like an oil slick.
She's deadly even in sleep, her lips slightly parted, those killer hands tucked beneath her cheek.
There's something fucking mesmerizing about seeing her like this.
Vulnerable, if someone like Maren could ever truly be vulnerable.
Carefully, I extract my arm from around her waist, freezing when she stirs. She makes a small sound in her throat, something between a sigh and a growl, before settling back into stillness. My chest tightens at the sound. It's the most unguarded thing I've ever heard from her.
I ease off the mattress, watching her for any sign of waking. Nothing. She's out cold.
The floor is cold against my bare feet as I pad toward the kitchen. Her apartment is sparse. The place feels temporary, like she could vanish without leaving a trace at any moment.
In the kitchen, I pull open her fridge, wincing at the barren shelves. Half a carton of almond milk, a jar of pickles, some questionable takeout containers, and a sad-looking apple. Jesus Christ. Does she even eat when I’m not here?
I grab a bottle of water, twisting the cap off with more force than necessary. My phone sits on the counter where I tossed it earlier, the screen lighting up with notifications as I pick it up.
Six missed calls from Coach. Four texts from teammates.
Ignoring them all, I pull up a delivery app and scroll through the options.
I settle on Thai food. She mentioned liking it once, weeks ago. I order enough for four people. Pad Thai, green curry, spring rolls, some soup with a name I can't pronounce but looks good as shit from the picture. There’s gotta be something here she’ll like.
I down the water in one long gulp and crush the bottle in my fist. The hollow plastic crackles like kindling under my grip. Twenty-five minutes until the food arrives.
Moving back through her apartment, I make sure she’s still asleep before heading into the bathroom.
The door shuts with a soft click behind me.
Maren's bathroom is like the rest of her place.
Minimal, but with small touches that scream her name.
The black shower curtain. The single potted succulent on the window ledge that somehow isn't dead.
The neat row of products on the edge of her tub, all in dark packaging like she's allergic to anything bright.
Turning on the shower, I let steam fill the small space before stepping under the spray.
The water pressure is decent, hot enough to sting my skin in a way that makes me feel alive.
I close my eyes, letting it pound against my shoulders, working out the knots that come from literally everything in my life.
“Fuck,” I mutter, rolling my neck. I should be on the ice right now, not in the shower. But I can't bring myself to regret it.
I reach for her body wash, flipping the cap open and taking a sniff. It smells like her—woody and dark, not overly sweet like most women I’ve known. The label says something about sandalwood and black pepper. Of course she wouldn't use something that smells like fucking vanilla cupcakes.
Working it into a lather between my palms, I start running them over my chest, my arms, my abs. Using her soap feels weirdly intimate, like I'm covering myself in her scent. Marking myself with her.
Her shampoo is in a simple black bottle with no label. I squeeze a dollop into my palm and work it through my hair, scrubbing hard at my scalp. The smell is subtle.
Rinsing quickly, I’m eager to be done, to get back to her before she wakes up alone and decides I'm not worth the trouble.
I wrap a towel around my waist and step back into her bedroom. Maren hasn't moved, still curled on her side, breathing deep and even.
Finding my underwear and jeans crumpled near the foot of her bed where I'd dropped them earlier, I snatch them up. The denim is stiff and cold against my still-damp skin as I pull it on, not bothering with a shirt yet. My phone chimes from the kitchen alerting me to the delivery.
I rush toward the door. The last thing I need is some asshole delivery guy pounding on the door, waking Maren from a peaceful sleep. She'd probably kick us both out—me for letting it happen, him for existing in her space.
Stepping into the hallway, I wait for the guy to come up the stairs.
The delivery guy steps out with two large bags, looking confused as he checks his phone.
“Hey,” I call out quietly, waving him over. “That for 3B?”
He gives me a once-over—shirtless, wet hair, probably looking like I just crawled out of someone's bed, which I fucking did. His expression shifts from confusion to understanding, and he nods.
“Yeah, man. Delivery for Rhodes?”
I take the bags from him, the smell of spices and coconut milk wafting up. “That's me. Thanks.”
He turns and leaves, and I walk back into the apartment, closing the door with my foot as I carry the food and unpack the containers on her countertop.
The smell hits me immediately—spicy, fragrant, mouth-watering. My stomach growls in response. When was the last time I ate? Breakfast, maybe? It was definitely before class, so it’s been entirely too long.
I arrange the containers in a neat line, grabbing plates from her cabinet and setting them beside the food. The domesticity of the gesture isn't lost on me. Here I am, half-naked in Maren Marino's kitchen, setting out dinner like some kind of fucking house pet.
That's what I am, really. A wild animal trying to play domestic, bringing her food, creating a nest, doing whatever it takes to stay in her orbit. It's pathetic. It's desperate, and I don’t give a shit.
I'm still arranging the takeout boxes when I hear her. I don't turn around right away, letting the anticipation build in my chest like I'm some lovesick teenager instead of a grown-ass man who's missed practice for this woman.
“Why the hell do I smell Thai food?”
Her voice is raspy from sleep, that low, smoky tone that makes my skin tighten. I turn around slowly, leaning back against the counter to take her in.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Maren stands in the doorway of her kitchen, hair mussed from sleep, wearing nothing but a worn St. James University tank top and maroon panties. The tank rides up just enough to show a sliver of pale skin at her hip. The sight hits me like a physical blow, knocking the air right out of my lungs.
This is how I want to remember her—not in class or her cheerleading uniform, not naked and writhing beneath me—just like this.
Half-asleep, guard down, looking soft despite all her sharp edges.
It's the most honest version of Maren I've ever seen, and something in me wants to hoard this image, lock it away where no one else can see it.
She rubs at her eyes with the heel of her palm, looking around the kitchen with sleepy confusion before her gaze settles on me. One eyebrow arches perfectly, her lips twisting into that sardonic half-smile that both infuriates and fascinates me.
“Oh,” she says, voice flat. “You're still here. Figured you would have left by now.”
The words should sting, but I'm starting to understand her language. The translation isn't 'why are you here?' but 'why didn't you leave like everyone else does?'
I gesture to the spread of food with a sweeping arm. “Okay, Maren, put the snark away and let me feed you.”
“Feed me? I’m not a stray cat. I didn't ask you to get food,” she says, but she's already moving toward the kitchen, drawn by the smell or hunger or maybe just curiosity.
“Yeah, well, your fridge is a fucking wasteland as usual.”
She slides onto one of the barstools at her counter, crossing her legs at the ankle. The motion draws my eyes to her bare thighs, the smooth curve of her calves. Christ, I'm in deep.
I grab one of the plates, watching her face for any reaction.
“Stop me if you don't want something,” I say, but she just shrugs, a lazy roll of one bare shoulder.
I scoop a generous portion onto the plate, the tangle of noodles steaming in the cool air of her kitchen.
No objection. Next comes the green curry, vibrant and aromatic, pooling at the edge of the plate.
Spring rolls, crisp and golden, arranged in a neat row.
The soup I can't pronounce ladles into a small bowl I find in her cabinet.
Handing her the plate she murmurs a quiet, “Thank you.”
She takes a bite of the pad Thai first, twirling the noodles around her fork with surprising delicacy. She’s literally humming as she eats. The humming continues as she moves from the noodles to the curry, a sound of pure contentment that makes my chest feel too tight for my lungs.
Piling my own food onto a plate, I lean back against the sink so I can eat and watch Maren.
Each time she swallows, her throat works in a way that's fucking hypnotic.
“This is good,” she admits between bites, gesturing at the spread with her fork. “Really good, actually.”
“Yeah?” I take a bite of my own food, barely registering the explosion of flavors. It really is fucking good.
She dips her spring roll in the sweet chili sauce, and when she bites into it, the crisp shell shatters slightly, and a drop of sauce clings to her lower lip. Without thinking, she licks it away, a quick dart of pink tongue that makes me want to suck it into my own mouth.
“Missed practice, didn't you?” She asks suddenly, her eyes flicking up to mine. There's no judgment in her voice.
But it’s proof she does keep track of my schedule.
“Some things are more important.” I shrug, trying for nonchalance and probably failing miserably.
Her fork pauses halfway to her mouth, those killer eyes narrowing slightly. “Hockey is your thing, Rhodes. Your ticket. Your future. Don't fuck it up.”
I shrug, shoving another forkful of curry into my mouth to buy time. Swallowing, I finally answer, “Yeah.”
“Your coach will be pissed.”
“Coach is always pissed. It's his default setting.”
She snorts at that, a small sound that's the closest thing to a laugh I've ever heard from her. “Fair point.”
There's something so fucking intimate about watching someone enjoy food, especially someone like Maren who seems to take so little pleasure in anything.
“You're staring,” she says without looking up.
“Can't help it.”
“Try harder.”
But there's no real heat behind her words. If anything, there's a hint of amusement.
I push off from the sink and move to stand across the counter from her, setting my plate down. Bracing my palms on the cool surface, I lean forward slightly, into her space. She doesn't back away.
“You know what I'm thinking right now?” I ask, voice low.
She raises an eyebrow, fork poised halfway to her mouth. “That you're going to be running suicides until you throw up everything you just ate.”
I laugh, low and soft. “Nah, that really wasn't on my mind.”
“No?” She takes another bite, chewing slowly, those eyes never leaving mine.
“I was thinking about this. Us. Doing this more often.”
Her fork freezes midway to her mouth. The tiny muscles in her jaw tighten, a barely perceptible change that I only notice because I've memorized every inch of her face like a man studying for salvation.
“This?” she repeats, gesturing vaguely between us with her fork. “Eating Thai food in my kitchen while we're half-naked?”
“All of it,” I say, not backing down. “Waking up next to you. Showering in your bathroom. Ordering food you actually eat instead of whatever expired shit's in your fridge. Watching you when your guard is down.”
I can see it happening in real time—the way her body tenses, her shoulders drawing up tight like a bowstring about to snap. Her grip on the fork tightens until her knuckles go white, the metal pressing hard against her palm.
“You're causing me to break out in hives,” she says, voice flat but with an undercurrent of something that might be panic. “You're making me itchy as fuck, Rhodes.”
She scratches absently at her collarbone, as if to prove her point. The movement draws my attention to the delicate hollow of her throat, the slight flush creeping up her neck.
She's like a feral cat, I realize. Feed her, and she might stick around. Push too hard for affection, and she'll claw your eyes out before disappearing for days.
I back up a step, giving her space to breathe. My hands come up in surrender, a gesture that says I'm not a threat.
“Alright, alright. No need to get your knife,” I say, injecting just enough sarcasm to lighten the moment. “Just eat your food before it gets cold.”
She’s quiet for too long after that. I fucked up. Pushed too hard, too fast. I can see it in the rigid set of her shoulders, the mechanical way she's eating now—no more little hums of pleasure, just fuel going into the machine.
She finishes eating and slides off the stool and moves away from me.
Leaning back against the counter, I drag a hand down my face.
I know what comes next. I've been studying her patterns like a goddamn wildlife researcher.
When Maren feels cornered, when someone gets too close, she doesn't just retreat—she hunts.
Goes looking for some poor bastard who won't see her coming until it's too late.
It’s her way of taking back control, and I need to make sure I have her back.
Good fucking job, Riggs, you fucking idiot.