Page 37 of Worth the Shot

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask sooner,” I start. “Shayne told me last week, and I’ve just been waiting for the right moment to, I dunno, apologize? If I’d known, Delaney, I never would’ve said it. Especially not more than once. I feel like an asshole.”

She gives a small, tired smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes and it makes my chest ache. I can tell this isn’t easy for her and all I want to do is pull her into my arms and tell her she doesn’t have to say a word.

But I stay still, giving her a minute, because I can’t rush her. I can’t rush this.

She takes her time, breathing slowly, before she finally says, “I don’t know why I didn’t correct you. Maybe because hearing it felt…good. Like a part of him came alive every time you said it. I think it was just about the right person bringing it back, and it had to happen naturally. That’s why I didn’t stop you.” She looks away for a second, then back at me as she whispers, “I don’t want you to stop calling me that.”

My mouth goes dry. I just stare at her—at this strong, complicated, breathtaking woman—silently begging her to let me in. And for the first time, I think maybe she already has.

I clear my throat, searching for words that don’t sound like I’ve just swallowed my own heartbeat. “Well,” I say finally, “that’s good to know. I’ll, uh…do my best to keep the legacy alive.” Her laugh is soft and sleepy, filling the space between us and the heaviness lifts a little.

“Careful,” she says, “I might start charging you royalties every time you say it.”

“Worth it.” I smile. “Every time.”

We sit there for a beat too long, both pretending we’re not memorizing this moment. Her cheek is pressed against the couch cushion now, hair slipping loose from the bun she threw it into before we cleaned up. Her voice drops to that quiet, honest tone she only uses when she’s not trying to be funny.

She yawns, and I know this is the part where I should leave and tell her to get some sleep, but I’m not ready to go yet. So I watch her eyelids grow heavy and let the silence stretch between us, soft and unspoken.

“Hey, Laney?” I whisper.

“Hmm?” she murmurs, burrowing deeper into the couch.

“I’m really glad you came out tonight.”

Her lips curve into a tired smile. “Me too, Bren.”

Just like that, her eyes close. Her breathing evens out as she drifts off beside me. I grab a blanket from the back of the couch and drape it over her, tucking it around her like it’s something I’ve done a hundred times instead of something I’ve wanted to do all night. Then I brush the strand of hair from her face, finally giving in to the urge I’ve been fighting for hours.

I take a second to memorize her like this—peaceful, warm, content.

“Night, Laney girl,” I whisper.

Then I turn off the lights around her, grab my things, and quietly lock the door behind me.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. My brain replays the way she looked when said Me too, Bren on a loop, the way her voice softened right before she yawned, how her guard slipped just enough for me to see the person underneath it tonight in so many ways.

At some point, I finally pass out.

When I wake up, the room’s washed in pale morning light and my phone’s face down beside me. The sun peeking through the shades feels almost warm, but I know it’s barely twenty degrees outside.

My chest feels lighter and heavier at the same time. It’s ridiculous. I’ve had real relationships that didn’t get under my skin like this, and Delaney and I have spent the last three months being “just friends.”

I roll out of bed and make coffee, trying to get my head straight. The smell fills the kitchen, mixing with that faint trace of woodsmoke from the fireplace I still haven’t cleaned out. The place looks the same as it always does: neat, calm, a little too quiet, but somehow, she’s everywhere.

The mug I hand-wash instead of tossing in the dishwasher, because she once mentioned liking the smell of soap on clean glass. The blanket draped over the back of the couch—the one she’s almost fallen asleep under during trash TV nights. Her hair tie on the counter that she keeps here in case she forgets one and wants to throw her hair up. I’m in trouble. And the worst part? It doesn’t even feel bad. It feels like I’m waking up from something I didn’t realize I’d been sleeping through.

My phone buzzes.

A text from Delaney.

Delaney

Morning, superstar. Don’t forget to drink water and try not to fight anyone today.

Me

No promises, but I’ll try. For you.