Mag-log inThe breakfast table felt like a minefield disguised as normalcy. I sat across from Caleb again, the same spot that had become both torture and secret comfort. My ribs throbbed with every breath, the deep bruises hidden beneath my hoodie but impossible to ignore in the way I held myself. The team chatted around us—Riot recounting a ridiculous story from last night’s video games, Tank and Liam arguing over who got the last pancake—but the air between Caleb and me crackled with everything we couldn’t say. His foot remained hooked around my ankle under the table, a small, hidden anchor. Every few seconds he would shift, the subtle pressure sending warmth racing up my leg. I kept my eyes on my plate, but I could feel his gaze on me—stormy grey, heavy with restraint and the memory of his body over mine just hours earlier. Riot suddenly leaned forward, eyes narrowing playfully. “Yo, Jones. You’re moving like you got hit by a truck yesterday. That last hit from Harlow still got you me
Morning light filtered through the thin curtains like an unwelcome intruder. I woke slowly, cocooned in warmth and the steady rhythm of Caleb’s heartbeat beneath my ear. His arm was banded around my waist, careful even in sleep, palm resting protectively just below my bruised ribs. The other hand cradled the back of my head, fingers tangled loosely in my hair. Our legs were tangled, his thigh pressed between mine, and I could feel the heavy, morning-hard length of him against my hip through his sweatpants. For one perfect, suspended moment, everything felt right. No team. No Kane. No Coach’s calculations. Just us. Then reality crept in. Caleb stirred, a low rumble vibrating through his chest as awareness returned. His arms tightened around me for a heartbeat — instinctive, possessive — before he exhaled sharply and loosened his hold. His grey eyes opened, meeting mine in the soft light. The conflict was already there, raw and immediate. “Morning,” he whispered, voice gravel-
The walk back from the arena felt longer than usual, the night air sharp against my flushed skin. Every step sent a dull throb through my bruised ribs, but the real ache lived somewhere deeper — in the memory of Caleb’s mouth on mine, the way his hands had trembled against my skin, the raw honesty in his voice when he admitted he was done pretending. My lips still tingled. My body still hummed with unfinished need. And through it all, the thin thread of fear that someone might have seen us. I slipped into 114 Oak Street as quietly as I could. The house was dark and still, only the faint hum of the refrigerator downstairs breaking the silence. I paused at the top of the stairs, palm pressed against Caleb’s door for one heartbeat, then forced myself into my own room. The paper-thin wall between us felt both a mercy and a curse tonight. I changed into soft sleep shorts and a thin tank top, then lay down, staring at the ceiling. Sleep refused to come. Every time I closed my eyes I s
The arena felt like a cathedral built for secrets. I returned the next night, unable to stay away. My ribs still ached with every breath, the deep bruises a constant reminder of Kane’s promise to finish what he started with Lila. But the ice had always been my sanctuary, the one place where the noise in my head quieted and the world made sense again. I laced up under the low emergency lights, the familiar ritual steadying my trembling hands. I had barely completed my first lap when the side door opened. Caleb stepped onto the ice like he belonged to the shadows themselves. No helmet. No pads. Just dark sweats and a fitted thermal that clung to every line of muscle he had earned carrying this team. His eyes found me instantly across the vast sheet, grey and stormy and full of the same conflict that had kept both of us awake through thin walls. He skated straight to me without hesitation. “You keep coming back here alone,” he said, voice low as he slowed to a stop inches awa
The rink lights had been dimmed to their lowest setting, casting long silver shadows across the ice that made the entire arena feel like a dream half-remembered. I should have gone back to the house after our stolen moment against the glass, but my legs refused to carry me away. Instead, I kept skating slow, lazy circles in the center, each glide pulling at the deep bruises along my ribs like a reminder that yesterday had been real. Kane’s hits. Lila’s ghost. Coach’s cold calculations. Caleb’s mouth on mine. The side door clicked open again. I didn’t need to turn to know it was him. The shift in the air was immediate—thicker, warmer, charged with the same electricity that had crackled between us since the first day I stepped onto his ice. Caleb glided out of the shadows, helmet tucked under his arm, dark hair tousled from running his hands through it too many times. He wore the same black thermal and sweats from earlier, the fabric stretched across shoulders still tense from hol
The arena lights were still on when I slipped back inside the next evening, long after official practice had ended. My body protested every movement—the deep bruises along my ribs had turned a violent shade of purple overnight, making each breath feel like a reminder of Kane’s promise to break me the same way he’d broken Lila. But the ice called louder than the pain. It always had. I laced up alone under the dimmed house lights, the familiar ritual grounding me. When my blades hit the fresh sheet, the crisp sound echoed through the empty cavern like a heartbeat. I pushed off hard, crossovers carving clean arcs, each stride pulling at the bruises but clearing the chaos in my head. This was where I had always belonged—where physics mattered more than politics, where no one could tell me I was too much or not enough. I didn’t hear Caleb arrive until he was already on the ice. He glided out of the shadows near the tunnel, helmet off, hair damp from the shower he must have taken af
The house had fallen into that deep, post-midnight hush where every creak sounded like a confession. I couldn’t sleep. The bruises along my ribs throbbed in time with my heartbeat, but it was the memory of Caleb’s arms around me, his forehead pressed to mine, his whispered “I’m done pretending” t
Morning light crept through the blinds in thin, golden slats, painting stripes across Caleb’s bare chest and the tangled sheets. I woke first, still wrapped in his arms, my back pressed to his front, his breath warm against the nape of my neck. One of his hands rested possessively over my stomach
The weight of Caleb’s body over mine should have felt crushing. Instead, it felt like the only solid thing left in my world. We stayed tangled on his bed, his chest pressed to mine, one thick thigh slotted carefully between my legs. He kept most of his weight on his forearms, mindful of every b
The lamp cast a soft golden glow across Caleb’s room, turning the tension between us into something almost sacred. I stayed straddling his lap, arms wrapped around his neck, forehead pressed to his. His hands rested on my lower back—warm, steady, reverent. Neither of us moved to deepen the contac







