Page 68 of Worth the Shot

I heard him before I drifted off into whatever pleasure-coma he put me in. Seriously, whatever Brennan Hale is working with should be studied in a lab. Eight hours of sleep? Unheard of for me. Apparently, one really intense orgasm is the cure for insomnia. And the two he gave me this morning? Yeah. That was the second and third coming of Jesus Christ himself. Holy Trinity, upgraded. A hat trick, if you will.

I’m not going anywhere.

Those words…I don’t even know where to file them in my chest. Somewhere between finally and oh no, I think I’m falling in love. They hit every fear I’ve held onto, even the gnawing, clawing ones I pretend don’t exist. It’s like he heard every one of those thoughts, felt the fears lurking inside me somewhere deep, and answered anyway. I should probably take a cold shower or get medically sedated, but instead, I burrow closer, tucked under his arm, and practically seal myself to him. If I could unzip him like a sleeping bag and climb inside, I probably would. Everything feels undeniably right in this moment. Like that seven-letter F-word that I swore I’d never commit to again. I feel it blooming in places I thought went extinct. I lift my head just enough to look at him, at the man who has somehow become my favorite view.

“What’s wrong?” he murmurs, voice heavy and lazy and unfairly sexy.

“Nothing at all. I’m just so happy.”

He cups the side of my head, threading his fingers through my hair, thumb brushing the space above my brow in these soft, sleepy strokes that make my heart ache in the best way.

“Me too,” he whispers it right against my mouth, like a vow, and then he kisses me. The long, unhurried kind that rewires a nervous system. When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t move far, just enough to study me.

And God help me, I let him.

“I love these,” he whispers, his finger tracing the subtle freckles over my nose. My body trembles under his touch and his breath hitches as he moves his fingers to my mouth. “And these,” he says, his thumb grazing over my bottom lip, “these are my favorite. These are mine. All mine. And I need them. Need them like oxygen. Now.” He pulls my mouth to his, our lips locking instantly like a gravitational pull so strong it could merge worlds. I tuck myself closer into his chest, breathing in whatever scent he naturally carries that I’m convinced could sedate an entire hospital ward. And for a minute, we just…exist. His fingers stroke lazy patterns on the back of my shoulder, feather-light. The kind of touch that feels like a secret shared between just us two.

“You want coffee?” he murmurs, voice a low rasp against my forehead.

“No,” I mumble into his collarbone. “I want to stay here until the sun explodes.”

He laughs and it vibrates through me in a way that should be illegal.

“Okay,” he says. “You can stay for that too.”

Eventually I peel myself away because my bladder exists, not because I want distance. When I walk into his kitchen, barefoot in his T-shirt, he leans against the doorway for a minute, like he’s watching his favorite movie. I take him in: dark hair a mess, white T-shirt fitted in all the right places, and boxers exposing his thighs that look like they could crush steel. Good God.

He makes coffee while I sit on the counter like a feral raccoon, legs swinging, watching him like I’ve never seen a man this beautiful before. His honey-brown eyes are a little sleepier and dreamier than usual, and his jaw is dusted with that unfair stubble that makes him look like a sinful woodland prince.

“You’re staring,” he says, handing me a mug.

“You’re pretty. I’m allowed.”

He grins and it's slow and boyish but lethal. We drink coffee on his couch, my legs draped across his, his thumb tracing circles on my ankle. It’s stupid how intimate and right something as simple as this feels, but it does. And then the quiet shifts. Not bad, but definitely heavier. He clears his throat.

“Can I tell you something?”

I tense instinctively. “Am I going to need the defibrillator?”

“Probably not,” he says softly. “But maybe a hug.”

I snort, but my chest tightens.

He turns toward me fully, lifting my legs into his lap, holding them like it’s second nature.

“The last time I gave someone everything,” he starts, voice steady but low, “it didn’t end well for me.”

Something in me sinks. Sharp. Heavy. Familiar. “She left?” I ask quietly.

He nods. “I had a bad season, playing through an injury I was planning to fix in the offseason. I played some pretty shitty games and my stats dipped. She said it wasn’t fun anymore. That I wasn’t the guy she signed up for. And the worst part? I believed her.”

I take a slow breath, forcing my own memories down. The crash and burn of losing myself to Matt, the version of me that had no voice, no boundaries, no backbone to fight for us when he left. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He shrugs one shoulder, but his eyes stay locked on mine. “Then I came here,” he continues. “Fully convinced I wasn’t good enough. Half-convinced I never would be again. And then—” He stops. My breath stalls. “And then you walked into Shayne’s,” he says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “And suddenly everything didn’t feel so…broken.”

My pulse trips over itself. My throat gets tight. And all that fear—that old leftover ache—tries to claw its way back up my ribs. “Brennan…” My voice cracks on his name. Embarrassing.

He cups my jaw gently, thumb brushing once, soothing. “Talk to me,” he whispers.