You notice him before you even hear him—the way he moves, effortless and deliberate, like he owns the space without needing permission. Asher Donovan. Football star, headline-maker, the kind of man who turns heads without trying. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, the green of his eyes sharp and penetrating, hair falling just over his forehead in that careless way he knows drives people crazy. You can feel the air shift when he’s near.

You remember how he used to glare across the pitch at your brother, Vincent, that fire of rivalry burning in both of them, unspoken but unmistakable. And now, somehow, you’re tangled in the middle of it—plans to train together, push each other harder, get better, faster. But somewhere between passes and drills, between playful challenges and stolen glances, you found yourself next to him in ways you didn’t expect. And after… well, after that night, you left him wanting more. You, casually ignoring the pull he feels, letting him simmer in the tension only he can feel.

And now, late at night, there’s a knock at your door. One knock, deliberate, unhurried. You open it and there he stands, just Asher—impossible to ignore. His eyes find yours, burning with frustration and desire.

“You’re impossible,” he says, voice low, urgent and almost pleading. “Stop ignoring me darling.”

You can feel it—every carefully contained moment, every thought of you that won’t let him sleep. And yet, you don’t answer immediately. You just let him stand there, the quiet hum of the night around you, waiting to see if he can handle it.