12. Wren #2
His legs are too long for the space. One knee is bent against the wall, and the blanket has twisted around his ankle.
This is ridiculous.
Against my better judgment, I fling back the covers. “Get in the bed.”
“No.”
“I wasn’t asking. You have a game tomorrow.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re going to ruin your hip because you’re determined to be noble.”
“I’m being appropriate.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
He lifts his head and looks at me. “Dramatic?”
“Yes. Very brave. Very self-sacrificing. Terrible for joint health.”
“My hip is fine.”
“Straighten your leg.”
He doesn’t.
Got ya.
“It’s a king bed. We can both fit. Plus, it’s not like we haven’t shared a much smaller bed many times in the past.”
His mouth twitches. “There’s a lot that we used to do.”
I ignore his comment because I do not need my brain going there before we share a bed, completely platonically. “You stay on your side, I stay on mine, and tomorrow we never speak about this.”
He studies me through the darkness. “Are you sure?”
“No. But if you limp tomorrow, I’ll feel responsible.”
“You wouldn’t be.”
“Welcome to my brain. It doesn’t care.” I might regret letting him into my space, but the responsible, kind, “always take care of others first” part of me won’t get the hint.
The humor fades from his expression.
I wish I could take the sentence back before he examines it too closely.
“Get in the bed, Kai,” I say, quieter.
Kai stands, trying and failing to hide the stiffness in his hip. He folds the floor blanket before sitting on the far side of the mattress.
The bed dips beneath his weight.
Every nerve in my body notices.
I turn toward the window. He settles onto his back, leaving enough room between us for another person.
That should help.
It doesn’t.
The dark turns him into heat and breath and the familiar outline of a body I used to know. I remember lying beside him when we were sixteen, too nervous to do anything but hold hands beneath a blanket while his thumb traced my wrist.
Nothing happened that night, but I thought about it for months.
Apparently, I’m still thinking about it.
“Wren,” he says.
I jump slightly. “Yeah?”
“I’m not going to touch you.”
An unexpected wave of disappointment crashes through me, but I huff a laugh to cover it. “I know.”
Silence stretches between us.
Then, because I’m incapable of leaving a fragile situation alone, I whisper, “That isn’t what I’m worried about.”
His breathing changes.
I close my eyes, regretting every choice that brought me here.
The mattress shifts. When I look again, Kai is lying on his side facing me, still keeping the distance between us.
“We should sleep,” he says.
“We should.”
Neither of us moves.
Eventually, exhaustion pulls at me, and I roll over, giving Kai my back and letting the sound of rain and sleet on the window mixed with his breathing pull me under.
When I wake the next morning, I’m warm.
Too warm.
For one second, I think the heat in our room might be stuck on high, but then I notice that my pillow is moving, breathing…and smells fantastic?
My eyes fly open, and reality checks me hard. My cheek rests against Kai’s chest, one hand curled into his T-shirt. His arm is wrapped around my waist, and one of his legs is tangled with mine.
My entire body locks, causing Kai to wake.
His arm tightens, bringing me even closer before he’s fully conscious—a sleepy instinct that almost undoes me.
Then he freezes too.
“Wren,” he says, voice rough.
The sound vibrates beneath my cheek.
I sit up too fast and nearly knee him. “Sorry.”
His hands lift. “You’re okay.”
“I know. Nothing happened. Obviously. I know that.” Words continue leaving my mouth without permission. “Let’s try that again. Good morning.”
His mouth twitches.
Do not smile.
“Morning.”
I scramble to my side of the bed and reach for my phone.
7:02.
“Crap. Breakfast is at seven-thirty.”
Kai sits up and runs a hand through his hair. It sticks up on one side, making him look warm and rumpled and unfairly good.
I look away.
“I’ll use the bathroom first. Wait, no, you should.
” Pausing and turning back to face him. “It’s game day, do you still do that whole…
” I move my hand around in front of me, regretting the path I’ve gone down, again, because I know exactly what game mornings used to be when we were together.
He wasn’t someone who wanted to be alone.
He spent every second he could kissing me before he had to go.
Shaking my head, I start rummaging in my bag. “Ya know, never mind.”
“Wren,” Kai says softly.
“What?”
“Breathe.”
I stop with one hand inside my bag.
Right. Breathing. Classic.
“We slept,” he says. “That’s all.”
My grip tightens around my clothes. “Is it?”
He doesn’t answer, which is answer enough. I escape into the bathroom.
When I emerge twelve minutes later, Kai is making the bed.
Actually making it.
“Absolutely not.”
He looks over his shoulder. “What?”
“You cannot make that bed right now.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s deeply unhinged.”
“It was messy.”
“Does anyone actually make their beds at hotels?”
He raises a brow at me and smooths one last wrinkle because apparently he has chosen violence.
He heads to the bathroom while I finish packing, then we head downstairs.
The lobby is full of players in team sweats and staff clutching coffee. Weston is wearing sunglasses indoors like someone who either committed a crime or slept for four minutes.
He sees us. His mouth opens, but Asher covers it with one hand. “Don’t.”
Weston makes an offended noise into his palm.
Grayson looks from me to Kai, then at our faces.
Before anyone can say anything, Donnelly appears beside me with a clipboard. “Calloway.”
I jump. “Yes?”
He studies me. “You look like you fought a ghost.”
“Hotel pillows.”
He hands me the clipboard. “Grab some food, then meet me at the van. We’re going to head over to the arena and get things in order.”
Across the lobby, Coach calls Kai’s name.
Kai starts toward him, then pauses beside me. His hand hovers near my back without touching.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
I should make a joke, but suddenly I have no words. I nod my head.
Something in his face softens. “Good.”
Then he walks away.
The team moves toward breakfast in a loud, hungry pack. Kai goes ahead with Grayson while I follow beside Donnelly.
The distance is appropriate.
Professional, but it also feels fake now.
I remember what Kai’s heartbeat sounds like beneath my ear. I know he reaches for me in his sleep.
At the dining room entrance, he glances back.
It lasts barely a second. Still, one look can carry more weight than a touch when you’re already ruined enough to understand it.
Sadly for me, Kai still holds every shred of my broken heart in his hands.