Chapter 28 Sophie
SOPHIE
The knock is soft, but it still makes me jump.
I smooth my braid over one shoulder, glance around the room to make sure nothing mortifying is lying around, then crack the door open.
Beck stands in the hallway in joggers, a plain black hoodie, and a backward cap—casual, a little messy from the night, and somehow even more distracting than usual. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and when his eyes land on me, that easy, lopsided smile spreads across his face.
“Hey,” he says, voice low in the quiet hallway.
“Hey.”
Before anyone else can poke their head out, I grab his sleeve and pull him inside. He stumbles a step, laughing quietly as I shut the door behind us.
“Eager, huh?” he teases.
“Just saving myself from being tomorrow’s floor gossip,” I shoot back, cheeks warm.
His grin deepens.
My suite isn’t big. Technically, it’s a single with a kitchenette in the corner and a tiny table with two chairs. The rest is just my bed pushed against the wall and a small dresser. No couch, no fancy living room setup. Just my space.
I wave a hand theatrically. “Welcome to my kingdom.”
Beck chuckles, looking around. “Nice place. Your cat already likes me.”
Snickers has trotted over like she owns the joint, wrapping around Beck’s legs. He crouches to scratch her behind the ears, earning instant approval. Traitor.
“Yeah, she’s usually a good judge of character,” I say lightly, trying not to melt at how easily Beck fits in here.
I grab my laptop and plop down cross-legged on my bed, patting the space next to me. “Sorry, no couch. You’re stuck with this setup.”
He hesitates for half a second, then climbs up, sitting beside me with his back against the wall and legs stretched out. It’s not awkward, exactly…but I’m very aware of how close we are. His shoulder brushes mine when he adjusts, and my pulse skips like an idiot.
“So,” I say, flipping through my streaming options. “Comedy? Action? Soul-crushing drama?”
“Not soul-crushing,” he says dryly. “I’ve had enough of that this week.”
“Comedy it is.”
I pick something light and silly, setting the laptop at the foot of the bed. The soft glow fills the room, painting everything in blue-white light.
For a while, we just sit like that—side by side on my bed, Snickers curled into a loaf at our feet, the outside world fading to a hum.
Beck stretches his arms behind his head, relaxing against the wall, and when he laughs at something stupid on screen, the sound hits low and warm in my chest.
I didn’t plan for tonight to feel like this. But sitting here with him, it feels…comfortable. Like we’ve been doing this for years.
About halfway through the movie, my stomach growls loud enough to break through the dialogue.
Beck glances down at me, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Hungry?”
“Apparently,” I mutter, mortified.
He chuckles and reaches for the bag of microwave popcorn I’d made earlier but forgotten on the table. He tears it open with practiced ease, pours some into the bowl on my nightstand, and sets it between us like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
We fall into an easy rhythm—passing the bowl back and forth, occasionally bumping fingers. Each brush makes my pulse jump a little more, but Beck doesn’t seem fazed. He just laughs softly when I accidentally fling a kernel onto his hoodie, flicking it back at me in retaliation.
When the bowl’s nearly empty, he leans forward, places it carefully on the floor beside the bed, and then shifts back against the wall.
And that’s when it happens.
His arm slides naturally around my shoulders, not in some practiced, flirty move, but because there’s nowhere else for it to go if he wants to get comfortable.
Still, the second it happens, my breath catches.
It’s not awkward. It’s almost too easy. Like he’s done this before—but not with me.
I shift a little closer, just enough that my side brushes his, testing the waters. He doesn’t move away.
A few minutes later, I shift again, and this time, he adjusts, too, tugging me a fraction nearer without seeming to think about it.
His fingertips start tracing light, absentminded lines up and down my arm where his hand rests, like it’s just something his body decided to do while his eyes stay fixed on the screen.
But I notice. Every slow glide of his fingers sends a shiver down my spine, goosebumps rising in their wake.
I don’t know if he realizes what he’s doing. He seems so relaxed—his breathing steady, eyes on the laptop, mouth curving when something funny happens on screen.
Meanwhile, my heart is losing it.
I sink a little further into the curve of his arm, letting the warmth of him settle around me. The movie keeps playing, but my focus has shifted completely.
Because this? This feels dangerously good.
The movie winds down into its final act, but neither of us seems to be paying much attention anymore.
The light from the laptop flickers across the walls, Snickers is purring somewhere near the foot of the bed, and Beck’s fingertips are still tracing idle lines up and down my arm like it’s second nature.
He shifts slightly beside me, glancing down. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice softer than I intend.
“What’s your family like?” he asks. There’s no judgment in his tone, just genuine curiosity. “I mean, I’ve met your parents…briefly,” he adds, a corner of his mouth lifting. “But that was kind of…a situation.”
I snort. “Yeah. ‘Situation’ is one way to put it.”
He chuckles, low and warm.
I tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear, trying to figure out how to answer.
“My family’s…complicated. My parents care a lot about appearances.
Connections. They wanted me with Zach because it made sense on paper.
It was about what it would look like and what it would do for our family name, not what I wanted. ”
Beck doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, his fingers never pausing their soft path up and down my arm. It makes it easier to keep talking.
“My sister Claire’s kind of the golden child. She’s getting married soon, which is why we went to her bachelorette party last weekend.” I smile faintly. “She means well, though. She’s always been there for me.”
He nods, eyes on me now instead of the screen. “Sounds like you two are close.”
“We are,” I say, and it comes out gentle. “She’s my person.”
For a few quiet seconds, it’s just our breathing and the faint hum of the laptop. Then I nudge him lightly with my shoulder. “Your turn.”
He tilts his head. “My turn?”
“You asked about my family,” I say. “Fair’s fair.”
He goes quiet for a beat—not tense, exactly, but I can feel him retreat inward a little.
Then he exhales slowly. “My dad’s great.
Remarried when I was just finishing middle school.
Caroline, my stepmom, is amazing. They had two kids, obviously—Alyssa and Joey.
They’re…honestly my favorite part of life outside football.
I spend Sundays over there. Family lunch, helping the kids with homework, stuff like that. ”
His voice softens when he talks about them, and something in my chest tightens.
“What about your mom?” I ask gently.
His fingers still for just a fraction of a second before resuming their path on my arm. His jaw works once before he clears his throat. “I don’t really talk to her often.”
The way he says it tells me not to press, so I don’t.
I just nod slowly. “Sounds like your siblings adore you.”
His lips quirk. “Yeah. They keep me grounded. I don’t deserve either of them, but they’re kind of my world.”
Something about the way he says that makes my throat feel tight.
The credits roll, but neither of us moves to shut it off. Beck’s arm is still draped over my shoulders, his fingers drawing lazy shapes on my skin like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it anymore.
I tilt my head just enough to look up at him. His profile is softened by the low light, lashes dark against his cheeks. He looks…relaxed. The kind of relaxed that sneaks up on you when you’re not trying.
“Tell me something real,” I whisper.
His eyes flick down to me, one brow lifting. “Something real?”
“Yeah.” My voice is quiet.
For a second, I think he’s going to deflect. That’s usually his thing when anything gets too personal. But then he lets out a slow breath, eyes drifting back to the ceiling.
“When I was a kid,” he starts, voice low. “I used to stay up late listening to my dad’s old records. Real vinyl, old rock stuff. I’d sit on the floor in front of the speakers and pretend the lyrics were talking to me. Like if I could memorize every line, I’d figure life out somehow.”
My chest squeezes. “That’s actually kind of adorable.”
He chuckles softly. “Don’t tell Logan. He’d never let me live it down.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I promise.
Then he turns his head toward me, eyes catching mine. “Your turn.”
I bite my lip, thinking. There’s so much I could say—but the way he’s looking at me makes me want to give him something true.
“Okay,” I say finally. “When I was little, I used to pretend my house had a secret passage. I’d search every wall, every closet, convinced I’d find some hidden door that would take me somewhere that was just mine. Quiet. Safe.”
He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t tease. He just watches me, expression soft in a way that makes my stomach flutter.
“Did you ever find it?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No. But sometimes when things got too loud at home, I’d lie under my bed with a flashlight and a book, pretending that was it. My secret place.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. It’s just breathing. Warmth. The quiet buzz of something between us that’s been growing slowly over the last few weeks.
“Guess we’re both kind of weird,” he murmurs.
“Guess so,” I whisper back, smiling against the lump in my throat.
We don’t stop after that.
The “tell me something real” moment opens some invisible door, and suddenly we’re just…
talking. About everything and nothing. Favorite childhood snacks.
The weirdest thing we’ve ever Googled. The songs we secretly love but would never admit in public—he knows way too many early 2000s pop lyrics, which I store away for later teasing.
It’s simple. The kind of conversation that stretches time without you noticing. He’s lying halfway back against the wall now, one leg dangling off the bed, the other bent up. I’m curled into his side, my head resting lightly against his shoulder.
Every now and then, he says something that makes me laugh so hard I have to bury my face in his hoodie to muffle it, which only makes him laugh more.
And then—
His phone buzzes.
He shifts, pulling it from his pocket and squinting at the screen. “Logan,” he mutters, thumbs tapping a quick reply. His eyes widen slightly when he checks the time. “Holy crap. It’s two in the morning.”
“What?” I sit up, blinking at the laptop still sitting forgotten at the foot of the bed. “No way.”
“Way,” he says, grinning. “Guess I should head out before Logan decides to come drag me home himself.”
A pang of something bittersweet hits my chest. I don’t want him to leave—not after this. But I nod, trying to play it cool. “Yeah. Probably smart.”
He stands, stretching a little, and I walk him to the door. The room suddenly feels smaller without him sitting there, warm and solid beside me.
At the door, he hesitates. Just for a second. And then he leans down, wrapping me in a hug—strong and warm, his hoodie soft against my cheek.
Before I can fully process it, I feel it.
A gentle brush of his lips against the top of my head.
It’s quick. Probably unplanned. But it sends a shiver down my spine, warmth blooming in my chest so suddenly I almost forget to breathe.
“Night, Soph,” he says quietly when he pulls back. His voice is softer than usual, almost rough around the edges.
“Night,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
He gives me one last little smile before heading down the hall, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket.
I stand there for a long moment after the door clicks shut, heart racing like I’ve run a marathon, fingers ghosting over the spot where his arm had been.
This started as pretend. So why does it suddenly feel so real?