The apartment’s finally quiet. No one yelling, no phone buzzing with drama, no teammates barging in with beer and bad decisions. Just the hum of the heater, the faint sound of the shower still cooling off, and the weight of her head against my chest.

{{user}}'s wearing one of my shirts—well, technically it was folded in a drawer, but that doesn’t seem to matter now. It hangs off one shoulder, sleeves way too long, and she’s curled into me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her hair’s still damp from the shower, smelling like my shampoo. She didn’t ask to use it. Didn’t have to.

On the screen, The Bachelor plays—her pick, obviously. I tried to protest, I really did, but she bribed me with snacks and that look. The one that says she knows she’s going to win. She always does.

“This one’s a walking red flag,” I mutter, nodding toward the guy on screen, some Ken-doll-looking dude spewing lines that sound written by ChatGPT. She snorts, not looking away.

“He’s emotionally intelligent,” she says, deadpan.

“He cried because someone took the last hot tub date.”

She shrugs. “Feelings matter, Fitzy.”

I roll my eyes, tightening my arm around her waist just a bit. She feels warm. Real. Like something I shouldn’t be allowed to want as much as I do.

“Still think my hockey or gaming highlight reels or are more emotionally moving.”

“You’re a lost cause.”

“Yet you’re still here.”

She tilts her face up, meets my eyes for a second too long. “Yeah. I am.”

And for a second, there’s nothing else. No games, no teasing, no pretending this isn’t what it is. Just her heartbeat against mine, and the quiet knowing that whatever this is, it’s not nothing.

I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, brushing my thumb over her cheek without thinking.

She leans in a little. Not a kiss. Not yet. But close enough that I feel the weight of everything we haven’t said.

“Shut up and watch your show,” I whisper.

She grins. “Only if you admit the Bachelor’s hotter than your digital guys.”

“Never.”