Page 84 of The Boyfriend Zone

"You'd critique the coach's defensive strategy in the middle of team dinners," Sean countered. "And analyze the power play statistics when other partners are talking about vacation plans."

"Like that wouldn't be more interesting," I scoffed, though he wasn't entirely wrong. "Besides, who says I'd be the wife in this scenario? Maybe you'd be the journalist husband, following me to prestigious newspaper assignments around the country."

Sean's laugh was warm against my hair. "I'd be terrible at that. 'Yes, my partner writes the words. No, I don't understand most of them. Yes, I'm very proud.'"

The lighthearted banter continued until our conversation gradually shifted into a more playful mood.

"I need to practice interview questions for my final," I announced, sitting up with sudden inspiration. "You can be my subject."

"Fine," Sean agreed easily. "But only if you ask the real hard-hitting questions. None of this softball 'how does it feel to win' nonsense."

"Oh, I'll hit hard," I promised, grabbing a notebook and pen from the coffee table to complete the performance. "Prepare yourself, Mitchell. This is going to get intense."

Sean straightened, affecting a serious press-conference pose. "I'm ready."

"First question," I said, adopting my most professional tone. "Boxers or briefs?"

Sean's startled laugh was exactly the reaction I'd been hoping for. "No comment," he replied, struggling to maintain his serious expression. "Next question."

"Sources say you're dating the most devastatingly handsome journalist on campus. Can you confirm or deny?"

"Confirm," Sean nodded solemnly. "Though 'devastatingly handsome' doesn't quite cover it. I'd add 'brilliant,' 'slightly neurotic in an endearing way,' and 'makes the world's worst coffee but I drink it anyway because I love him.'"

"Hey!" I protested. "My coffee is perfectly adequate."

"It's brown water that makes my teeth hurt," Sean corrected. "But like I said, I drink it anyway because I love you."

"Smooth recovery," I conceded. "Final question: Where do you see yourself in five years, Mr. Mitchell?"

Sean's expression softened, the teasing atmosphere shifting into something more sincere. "Hopefully still playing hockey at some level," he said thoughtfully. "But definitely still with you, wherever that might be."

The simple certainty in his voice made my heart swell. I set aside the notebook, the playful interview forgotten as I moved closer to him on the couch.

"Stay with me tonight?" Sean asked quietly, his fingers intertwining with mine.

It wasn't the first time we'd spent the night together, but each invitation still felt significant somehow, a deliberate choice to share our most vulnerable selves.

I didn't answer verbally, just reached over to switch off the lamp, leaving the room in soft darkness lit only by the streetlight glow filtering through the curtains. "I always will," I whispered, settling back into his arms.

We moved together then, finding our way to my bedroom with the practiced ease of people who knew each other's bodies well. There was comfort in our familiarity now, but also a persistent wonder that hadn't diminished with time—the miracle of being known, being wanted, being loved.

Sean’s fingers traced patterns on the back of my hand where it rested on his chest. I leaned into him, head pillowed on his shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent. It felt so easy, so comfortable, yet charged with a quiet intensity. This was us now – settled, secure, weaving our futures together.

He shifted slightly, turning more towards me on the couch. His eyes, dark in the low light, searched mine. "You know," he began, his voice low and soft, "hockey used to be everything. My whole world."

I nodded, understanding the weight of his words. "I know."

"But it’s not, anymore. Not the only thing." He lifted his hand, his thumb brushing gently across my cheekbone. "I’ve got other things. Better things." He looked down at me, his gaze unwavering. "Got you."

My chest tightened, emotion lodging itself in my throat. Knowing how much he’d struggled, how tied his identity had been to the sport, hearing him say that was monumental. "Sean," I whispered, unable to find the right words.

I kissed him then, pouring all my love, all my pride, all my relief into it. He responded instantly, his lips parting, deepening the kiss. It wasn’t frantic like our first encounters, nor tenderly cautious like when he was injured. This was sure, steady, full of quiet confidence and shared history. We knew each other now, inside and out.

His hands slid under my shirt, fingers tracing the lines of my back, warm against my skin. A shiver traced its way down my spine. I pushed his shirt up too, needing that skin-on-skin contact, the reassurance of his solid warmth beneath my palms. My fingers brushed against something – the faint, slightly raised line of the scar on his shoulder. A tangible map of our journey, of the secrets and fears we’d overcome.

Without conscious thought, I leaned in and pressed my lips softly to the scar. He drew in a sharp breath, his body tensing for a microsecond before relaxing completely into the touch. It wasn't about pity or reminder; it was about acceptance. This scar was part of him, part of our story. He met my eyes when I pulled back, his own gaze filled with a depth of emotion. He didn’t need to say anything; I saw it all there.

We shed our clothes slowly, leisurely, tossing them onto the already cluttered floor. I straddled his lap, settling against him, feeling his immediate response, the hard length of his cock pressing against mine.

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