Ember
Life after Maine settles into an electric kind of domesticity.
Every morning Sully is already in the kitchen when I emerge, the low hum of the coffee machine filling the quiet space.
Without a word, he slides my summer coffee across the island, cold brew with a splash of coconut milk and a drizzle of lavender honey.
Cassidy makes fun of me for having a seasonal coffee order as this is what I have for summer.
Fall will be a spiced maple chai latte, spring is a rose and vanilla honey latte, and for winter it is a salted dark chocolate hazelnut mocha.
It’s oddly specific, but it’s what I’ve always done.
I don’t always stick to the same drinks every year, I mix it up a little. Is that weird?
He turns to make Cassidy’s drink next, her usual vanilla oat milk latte with honey.
I lean against the counter opposite him, unable to stop myself from watching.
His back is to me, the thin fabric of his T-shirt stretching across his broad shoulders as he reaches for the oat milk.
The muscles in his arms flex when he pours, and a faint sheen of sweat from his morning run still clings to the back of his neck.
My eyes trace the line of his spine, the way his shorts sit low on his hips.
Heat pools low in my belly before I can stop it.
He turns around suddenly, with a mug in his hands, and our eyes lock.
For a split second he catches me staring.
His gaze holds mine, dark and unreadable.
My cheeks burn, and I expect him to say something, anything, but he doesn’t.
He just slides Cassidy’s drink across the island like nothing happened, then turns back to the machine without a word.
He comes grocery shopping with us. Sully pushes the cart, while Cassidy and I wander the aisles filling it.
Every time I reach for something on a high shelf, he’s suddenly there, arm brushing mine as he grabs it without being asked.
He never says anything, just places it in the cart and keeps walking like the whole interaction never happened.
A few kids and teens notice him almost immediately, wide-eyed whispers turning into shy approaches.
One boy, no older than twelve, asks for a photo with his phone shaking.
Sully crouches down to his level, smiles that easy, genuine smile, and signs the kid’s hat with a Sharpie one of the moms quickly hands over.
A couple of teenage girls hover nearby, giggling and asking for selfies.
He’s patient with all of them, kind in that effortless way that makes my chest feel strangely warm.
I forget that he’s famous because he’s always been Connor Sullivan, Cassidy’s twin, not Sully, two-time cup winner.
This is a side of him I’ve never really seen before.
I find it oddly adorable, because he’s so good with everyone, even when he isn’t in the mood.
He gives them all the same attention and time.
When we get home, he carries every single bag up from the car in one trip, muscles flexing under his shirt.
I pretend I’m not watching the way his forearms strain. I fail.
Movie nights are the worst.
Cassidy has now claimed the armchair for herself, which means Sully has to join me on the big couch.
He sits on one end, I sit on the other, a full cushion of deliberate no-man’s-land between us that neither of us will acknowledge out loud.
But I’m painfully aware of every shift of his body, every time his thigh accidentally brushes the middle cushion, every low chuckle that vibrates through the fabric and into my bones.
Sometimes, our eyes meet in the dark when something funny happens on screen.
It’s torture.
And the worst part is … I’m almost certain he feels it too.
Then there are the times he comes home from training with wet hair and his gear bag slung over one shoulder, dumping it beside the hall cupboard where it absolutely does not belong.
Then he raids the fridge like a man who burned ten thousand calories, telling us about Bouch’s latest disaster while he eats half a rotisserie chicken with his fingers.
I watch him from behind my sketchbook, eyes tracing the damp strands of hair curling at the nape of his neck, the way his training shirt clings to his back.
Every time he turns around, I quickly look back down at the page, pretending I’m focused on lines and shadows instead of the way his jaw moves when he chews.
One night we decide to cook together while Cassidy runs down to the local Italian restaurant to grab a Tiramisu.
Sully’s in charge of the pasta while I handle the sauce.
The kitchen isn’t big enough for both of us, so we keep brushing against each other, his hip against my side when he reaches for the salt, my arm grazing his chest when I grab the wooden spoon.
Every touch feels electric, charged, but neither of us acknowledges it.
He’s behind me at one point, reaching over my shoulder for the pepper grinder, and his chest presses lightly against my back for half a second.
I freeze, as does he. I can feel the heat of his body, the dampness of his shirt from the steam, the steady rhythm of his breathing. For a moment neither of us moves.
Then he clears his throat and steps back. “Sorry,” he mutters, voice lower than usual.
“It’s fine,” I say, but my voice comes out breathy.
The silence that follows is heavy. I stir the sauce a little too vigorously, trying to ignore the low ache in my belly. Sully goes back to the pasta, but I catch him glancing at me from the corner of his eye. His jaw is tight. His knuckles are white around the wooden spoon.
We finish the meal in charged silence, the air between us thick with everything we’re not saying. When Cassidy finally bursts back in with the tiramisu, laughing about something the cashier said, the spell breaks.
But the heat in my body doesn’t.
"Come on." Cassidy grabs my wrist, practically dragging me through the lobby. "No excuses."
"Hey, I’ve been jogging every day with you, just … not in the mood today.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just a little flat,” I tell her.
“Well, a run will do you good, get those endorphins going.” She grins.
The concierge smiles and wishes us a good morning as we head for the front doors. The second we step onto the sidewalk, Cassidy takes off at an easy jog.
I follow.
One step.
Two.
Three.
My foot lands awkwardly on the uneven edge of the curb. Pain shoots through my ankle.
"Shit." I stumble sideways, grabbing the nearest light pole before I hit the ground.
Cassidy spins around immediately. "Em!" She jogs back. "What happened?"
"I rolled my ankle."
"Let me see." She crouches, already reaching for my ankle.
I wave her off. "It's fine."
She winces. "It doesn't look fine. I can see a color change.”
"I literally took three steps."
"Looks like you nearly ate concrete."
I laugh despite myself. "I'm okay," I tell her, wincing as I put my foot down.
Ouch.
She studies me for another second. “Come on, let me help you.”
I shake my head. “No, you’re meeting up with the others.
Go, tell them I’m sorry.” We’ve been running with Evelina, Camryn, and Kimberly, the wedding coordinators, who are good friends with Marlowe and her sister, Rainn, who is this gorgeous fitness influencer.
We kind of started this girls running club on Saturday mornings.
It’s safer to run in a pack together around Central Park.
"Seriously?"
I nod. "Go."
"I'm not leaving you."
"Cass, I’m literally a couple of steps away from home. I’m going to sit down, ice my ankle, and be good to go.” She doesn’t seem convinced. “I did say I was feeling flat and didn’t want to, and the universe agreed.”
This makes her laugh. “Fine, let me help you back.”
I shake my head. “You’ll be running late. I’m fine. Go.” I shoo her.
She points a warning finger at me. "Look after yourself.”
“I will.”
She gives me one last look before taking off again.
I wait until she's around the corner before testing my ankle.
Ow.
Definitely not fine.
I limp back toward the building. I hobble back through the lobby, where Cristo, the concierge, asks if I need a doctor.
I reassure him that I am fine, it’s just a little sprain, and I’ll be okay.
He holds open the elevator door for me, and I head up to my floor.
I hobble along the corridor toward our apartment, trying to hold back tears from the pain.
I lean against the wall inside the door and start easing my sneaker off my sore foot, wincing, balancing on one leg like a flamingo with a grudge.
The sound of a door opening echoes through the quiet apartment, and when I look up, I see Sully walking around in a pair of black briefs.
That's it. Black briefs, wet hair, and he stops dead when he sees me. I freeze, too, because I’m not sure if I hit my head when I twisted my ankle because I don’t believe what I’m seeing.
I'm looking, I am absolutely looking, at all of it, the chest, the stomach, the lines that run down past the waistband, the thighs, dear God the thighs.
I’m so surprised that the next thing I know, I’m going over.
My ankle gives out completely, and I start to fall.
Before I can even gasp, Sully is there, moving fast, one strong arm wrapping around my waist, the other catching my back as he pulls me against his bare chest to steady me.
The heat of his skin is shocking. He’s still damp from the shower, and the scent of his body wash fills my nose as I’m pressed flush against all that hard, warm muscle.
“Easy,” he murmurs, voice low and rough with concern. His grip tightens, one big hand splayed across my lower back, holding me upright. “I’ve got you.”
My hands land on his chest instinctively, palms flat against warm, smooth skin. I can feel his heartbeat, fast, strong, thumping under my fingers. My face is inches from his, close enough to see the way his jaw is clenched with worry.
“Are you okay?” he asks, blue eyes searching mine.
There’s real concern there, as his gaze drops to my mouth for half a second. His thumb unconsciously strokes a small circle on my back, right where my shirt has ridden up. The touch is light, but it sends heat rushing through me.
“I … yeah.”
His brows pull together. “I thought you were going on a run?”
Oh yeah, I was. “Twisted my ankle,” I manage, voice shaky.
Concern falls across his face. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head, and before I can protest, he bends slightly and hooks one arm under my knees, the other around my back, and lifts me clean off the ground like I weigh nothing.
A surprised sound escapes me as I’m suddenly pressed fully against his bare chest, my arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.
His skin is still warm and damp from the shower, muscles flexing under my hands as he carries me down the hall. My breath catches.
“Easy,” he murmurs, voice low and rough near my ear. “I’ve got you.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. I can feel every inch of him, the hard planes of his chest, the steady beat of his heart, the way his arms hold me securely like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
His breath fans across my neck, warm and steady, and I’m hyper-aware of how little fabric separates us.
My thigh is pressed against the firm muscle of his abdomen, and I can feel the heat of his body everywhere.
He carries me into the living room and lowers me carefully onto the couch, one knee braced on the cushion beside me as he keeps a hand on my waist to steady me. For a moment, he doesn’t pull away. His face is close, eyes dark with concern … and something else.
His hand then moves down to my sock. He removes it, and his eyes widen as he sees the bruise coming through. “Does this hurt?” he asks, voice quieter now, fingers gently pressing along my ankle.
The pain is nothing compared to the way my body is reacting to him, to the scent of his skin, the strength in his arms, the way he’s looking at me like he wants to do a lot more than just check my ankle.
In your dreams, Em, you really must have knocked your head.
I swallow hard. “A little.”
He nods once, but doesn’t move right away. His gaze drops to my mouth for half a second before he catches himself and clears his throat.
“I’ll get ice,” he says, voice rough as he finally pulls back.
But the heat of his touch lingers long after he disappears into the kitchen.
Sully returns a minute later with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel. He drops to one knee in front of the couch, gently lifting my injured foot onto his thigh. The position puts him between my legs, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his bare skin.
“Hold still,” he says quietly.
His fingers are careful as he examines my ankle, warm and slightly calloused from years of hockey.
Every brush of his fingertips sends little sparks up my leg.
I bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
He’s so focused, brow furrowed, jaw tight with concentration.
A drop of water from his still-damp hair falls onto my knee and slides down my skin. I watch it, throat dry.
“Does this hurt?” he asks, pressing lightly on the swelling.
“Hmm,” I mumble.
He nods, then carefully wraps the cold peas around my ankle, securing it with the towel. His hands linger longer than necessary, thumbs stroking the skin just above the injury like he can’t help himself. When he finally looks up, our eyes lock.
The air between us goes thick.
“You scared me,” he admits, voice low. “I heard you stumble and thought …” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.
For a second I see raw emotion flash across his face, concern, frustration, and something hotter underneath. His hand is still resting on my calf, thumb absently stroking the skin there in slow, soothing circles.
“I’m okay,” I say softly.
His gaze drops to my mouth again. The silence stretches, heavy and dangerous. I can feel my pulse everywhere, especially where his hand is touching me. He leans in just a fraction, like he can’t stop himself, and for one breathless moment I think he might kiss me.
Then he pulls back, clearing his throat.
“You should keep it elevated,” he says, standing up abruptly. “I’ll get you some water.”
He disappears into the kitchen, leaving me on the couch with my heart racing and my body aching for something I know we can’t have.