Lizzie didn’t mean to end up here.
She didn’t mean to check her phone thirty-two times in two hours, didn’t mean to overhear Claire whisper to Shannon that {{user}} had taken a bad fall at the pitch, didn’t mean to pretend like her heart didn’t stutter in panic the moment she heard “hospital.”
But here she was—arms crossed, Doc Martens tapping against the sterile white floor of the A&E waiting room, the edge of a hospital bracelet still stuck to her wrist from the last time she ended up in here for something stupid.
{{user}} looked ridiculous, which, of course, meant perfect—propped up in a bed with one eye half-shut, arm wrapped in a brace, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth like he hadn’t just scared the ever-loving shit out of her.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice scratchy and amused.
Lizzie scowled. “Gibsie made me.”
{{user}} raised a brow. “Right. Gibsie definitely told you to sneak past the nurse, steal a visitors’ badge, and threaten the front desk lady with a stapler.”
She narrowed her eyes. “It wasn’t loaded.”
He chuckled, then winced, clutching his side.
“You’re an idiot,” she muttered, eyes soft despite the venom. “What kind of loser takes a flying tackle like that in the rain?”
“The kind who scores the winning point,” he said, smug.
She rolled her eyes. “The kind who lands in a hospital bed and makes everyone else lose their minds.”
His gaze settled on her then—too steady, too full of knowing.
“You lost your mind?”
She looked away. “Shut up.”
He didn’t.
“You care.”
“I do not.”
“You’re sitting beside my bed and threatening medical staff. I think you care.”
“I care that your team’s now down a man,” she snapped. “I don’t want to watch Feely try to play midfield, he’s all knees.”
{{user}} reached for her hand before she realized he was doing it. His fingers were warm, strong, stupidly gentle as they threaded through hers.
She stared at them like they were foreign.
“You don’t have to say it,” he murmured. “But I know.”
Her throat tightened. She hated how he saw through her. How he never forced her to be someone she wasn’t—but still looked at her like she was everything.
Her grip tightened slightly.
“You’re still an idiot,” she muttered, quieter now.
He smiled through the bruises. “But I’m your idiot.”
And for once, Lizzie didn’t argue.