“Hey,” he says casually, like his heart isn’t hammering in his chest at 150 miles per minute. God, you look so damn good in that dress, and it’s taking him every ounce of self control that he’s ever had in his entire life. It’s like his mind isn’t his anymore—it’s yours, and every waking hour of his is spent with thoughts of you: in his jersey, in his kitchen, cooking him breakfast, wearing that goddamn dress, without wearing anything at all.

He’s a man gone mad, and it’s all for you.