Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Cal
The apartment is quiet.
Too quiet.
I lean against the counter, water glass in hand, thumb skating condensation up the sides.
Somewhere down the hall, the bathroom fan hums low. That’s it. No TV. No music. Just the whisper of snow still falling outside the windows, soft and slow like the night forgot how to end.
The walk back from The Pit shouldn’t have stuck with me as much as it did. But the sound of her shoes crunching alongside mine won’t leave my ears.
Neither will the way she looked when I found her outside—chest rising, eyes guarded, wrapped in that long coat like armor.
I shouldn’t have offered.
But what else was I going to do? She couldn’t drive home in this mess.
Not to mention, she just…looked tired. Tired in that way you feel in your bones.
And I knew what that felt like.
I rub a hand over the back of my neck, muscles still tight from the cold. The heat kicks on with a click and a low groan, blowing warm air through the room. I barely notice.
All I can think about is the sound of her voice when she said lead the way.
No hesitation. Just…trust.
Even though I’ve only known her a couple of months through the Vipers organization, I get the feeling getting trust from someone like her?
That’s something.
She hasn’t said a word since she walked into the bathroom, but already, this place feels full. Like her presence reshaped the air. Like the walls are holding their breath, waiting to see what comes next.
I glance toward the hallway, where the light under the bathroom door still glows soft and gold. Something about knowing she’s here—in my space, barefoot, probably in my shirt—sits low in my chest. Heavy and hot.
Not bad.
Just…unfamiliar.
I don’t bring people here. Not often. Not unless I have to.
This apartment was supposed to be a clean start. Close to the arena. Quiet. Neutral. The kind of place where nothing sticks.
But she’s sticking.
And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.
The door creaks open and I straighten, glass still in hand, heart beating like I’m about to take the ice in overtime.
Footsteps. Soft ones. Slower than before.
I don’t look yet. I give her the moment. Let her find her footing again before I turn around.
Because I already know.
I’m not ready for how she’s going to look in my clothes.
She rounds the corner into the kitchen like she’s done it before. Like she belongs here. Like my oversized T-shirt and flannel hanging off one bare shoulder isn’t a fucking weapon.
Jesus.
My fingers tighten around the water glass.
She’s rolled the sweatpants to hell and back just to find her feet, all that reddish brown hair twisted into some kind of bun that’s falling apart like it’s trying to keep up with her. Her face is clean. Bare.
And all I can think about is how good she smells.
How much better my shirt looks on her.
“Your bathroom is cleaner than mine,” she says casually, sipping from the glass I gave her like it’s no big deal we’re standing here alone in the middle of a snowstorm, dressed like we share a bed every night.
I don’t even blink. “I just cleaned it yesterday.”
A smile flickers at the corner of her mouth—fast, almost shy.
I catch it anyway.
She leans her hip against the other counter, mirroring me. The gap between us is maybe three feet. Feels like less.
“You keep it clean in here,” she says, scanning the kitchen. “Didn’t expect that either.”
I shrug. “I like knowing where everything is.”
She lifts her glass. “Everything but a spare bed.”
“Didn’t expect you.”
Her gaze cuts to mine, sharp but unreadable. She doesn’t look away.
And for a second, the quiet gets louder. Not awkward. Just full.
The kind of silence where something’s about to shift, and you can feel it building behind your ribs.
I look away first. Set my glass in the sink so I don’t drop it.
Because the way she’s looking at me?
The way she fits into my space like she’s always been here?
It does something to me.
Something I’m not supposed to want.
Something I sure as hell can’t afford.
“You hungry?” I ask, just to break the current.
She hesitates, then shakes her head. “Not really.”
“Thirsty?”
She lifts her glass again. “Covered.”
I nod once, then lean back against the counter like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Because this is fine. This is nothing.
She’s just here to wait out the storm.
But still…
The scent of her in my clothes clings to the air like smoke.
And no matter how many reasons I stack in my head, none of them make me stop looking.
Not the fact that I can’t imagine what a sophisticated, beautiful, smart woman like her could want with a young guy like me. I don’t even have the professional athlete thing going for me since she’s around them all the time.
Even thinking about how I don’t get too close to anyone is enough to stop me from looking at her.
But looking is all I’ll ever do.
She’s still holding her water glass when I finally say it.
“You can take the bed.”
Her head tilts. “What?”
I nod toward the hallway. “You should sleep. It’s yours.”
The moment hangs, thick. Too quiet again.
Her gaze sharpens, like she’s searching for the catch. I keep my voice even, but it still lands heavier than I mean it to.
“I’ll take the couch.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer.
Just stands there in my shirt and borrowed sweats, lips parted like she’s about to say something but hasn’t decided what yet.
And damn if that doesn’t do something to me.
I grip the back of the couch to keep my hand from doing something stupid. Like reaching. Like brushing the hair off her face or tugging the collar back over her shoulder.
“You don’t have to do that,” she says eventually.
“I know.”
She waits. I wait.
Her pause is short. But it still makes something catch in my chest.
Because it shouldn’t matter where she sleeps. This isn’t a thing. It’s logistics. One bed, one couch, one snowstorm that won’t quit.
But the truth is…
The truth is, I don’t want her to go.
Not to the bed. Not anywhere.
I keep my voice steady. “You sure this isn’t part of your shelter-from-the-storm hero arc?”
Her mouth curves. Not quite a smile, but close. “You sure it’s not?”
I watch her for a long second, something in me loosening without permission.
“Doesn’t feel like an act.”
Her throat works around the swallow.
And just like that, the moment stretches again. Thin. Fragile. Real.
She finally nods and heads for the hallway, leaving behind the soft scent of her shampoo and the echo of her bare feet on my floor.
The couch squeaks under my weight when I sit. I don’t turn on the TV. Don’t check my phone.
Just sit there in the quiet she left behind.
She should feel like a guest.
Temporary. Passing through.
But she doesn’t.
The truth is I’ve had a crush on her since the first time I saw her when Sloane introduced her in the locker room.
But now that I’ve seen her outside of a professional work setting and seen her in my clothes?
I don’t know what to make of the feeling in my chest.
It’s a feeling I don’t want to have because I know where it can lead to, and I never want to feel that pain again.
And that might be the part that scares me most.