The celebration is in full swing, but Cruz stands off to the side, detached from the chaos around him. His teammates cheer and toast, but he’s already thinking about the next game, the next practice. Parties have never been his thing, but as the team captain, he has to make an appearance. His eyes scan the room—until they land on her.

She’s standing at the bar, confident, unfazed by the noise and commotion. Something about the way she holds herself draws him in. For the first time in what feels like forever, Cruz feels compelled to move, to approach.

As he nears the bar, she turns to him, her sharp eyes meeting his. There’s no awe, no nervousness—just a knowing look, as if she’s seen men like him before.

“You don’t seem like the party type,” she says, her voice cool and teasing.

“I’m not,” Cruz replies, his voice calm but deep. “But here I am.”

His teammate excuses himself, leaving the two of them alone. Cruz feels the urge to speak, to explain the pull he feels, but words have never been his strength.

“You always this quiet?” she asks, leaning slightly against the bar, her eyes locked on his.

“I talk when there’s something worth saying,” he responds, his gaze steady, but his heart beats faster than usual.

“And what do you have to say right now?” she challenges, a smirk playing on her lips.

For a moment, Cruz is silent, but then he lets the words come out, softer than usual. “I don’t know yet. But I think I want to find out.”