Page 89 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

I wake before dawn, disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling, the narrow bed, the warm weight pressed against my side. Then it all comes rushing back—Hannah, her dorm room, last night.

Hannah.

She's curled against me, one arm draped across my chest, her breath warm against my skin. In the dim light filtering through her half-closed blinds, I study her sleeping face—the fan of dark lashes against her cheeks, the slight part of her lips, the complete absence of the guarded expression she usually wears.

I've woken up with girls before. More than I'd care to admit. But it's always been followed by the immediate urge to leave, to escape before morning could bring conversations, expectations, and complications. Now, I can't imagine being anywhere else.

What the hell is happening to me?

This wasn't supposed to get serious. It was attraction, curiosity, maybe a bit of forbidden allure because of her history with Cade. But somewhere between that first mistaken night and now, everything's changed. I've changed. I'm willing to put everything on the line for her, and this is becoming dangerous.

I carefully brush a strand of hair from her face, marveling at how peaceful she looks. Last night plays in my mind—not just the sex, though that was beyond anything I've experienced, but the moment she said my name. My real name. Not Sanderson or Connolly or Sandy, but James. No one calls me that except my mom and hearing it from Hannah's lips did something to me I still can't quite explain.

She stirs slightly, pressing closer in her sleep, and I instinctively tighten my arm around her. This protective urge is new too—this desire to shield her from anything that might hurt her, including me.

Because that's the truth I've been avoiding. I'm not good for her. My track record speaks for itself—a string of hookups with no follow-through, a reputation as the puck boy, the guy who never calls back. Add in the mess with Cade, and I'm basically a walking red flag.

But looking at her now, feeling the gentle rhythm of her breathing against me, I want to be better. I want to be the kind of man who deserves her trust, her smile, the way she looked at me last night like I mattered.

I think I'm falling in love with Hannah Porter.

The thought should terrify me. Instead, it settles in my chest with a rightness that takes my breath away. I'm falling in love with her intelligence, her determination, the way she challenges me without even trying. The way she sees through the persona I've carefully cultivated, straight to the person I've kept hidden from everyone else.

Her eyelids flutter, and I hold my breath, suddenly worried about what morning will bring. Will she have regrets? Will the clear light of day make her reconsider everything that happened between us?

Her eyes open, focusing slowly on my face. For a moment, she just stares, and I brace myself for the shift—the return of barriers and careful distance. Instead, she smiles, soft and genuine.

"Morning," she murmurs, voice husky with sleep.

"Morning," I reply, my own voice unexpectedly rough. "Sleep okay?"

She nods, stretching slightly beside me. "Better than I have in days."

"Me too." The admission comes easily, honestly.

She props herself up on one elbow, studying me with those perceptive eyes. "No regrets?"

"None," I say immediately, wanting—needing—her to know I mean it. "You?"

Instead of answering directly, she leans down and kisses me, a gentle press of lips that somehow feels more intimate than anything we did last night. When she pulls back, her expression is open, vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache.

"No regrets," she whispers.

We stay like that for a moment, just looking at each other in the early morning light, a thousand unspoken words in the space between us. Then her alarm clock blares, shattering the moment with its insistent beeping.

"Shit," she mutters, reaching over to silence it. "I have class in an hour."

Reality crashes back—we're not in some private bubble, but in her dorm room on a weekday morning, with responsibilities and commitments and people who might notice if I'm seen leaving her building at dawn.

"I should go," I say, though it's the last thing I want to do.

She nods, understanding the practicalities even as disappointment flashes across her face. "Yeah, probably smart."

I sit up, scanning the floor for my scattered clothes. "What's your schedule like today?"

"Classes until three, then more Bio Ethics review," she says, pulling the sheet around herself as she watches me dress. "You?"

"Morning practice, then classes until four." I find my shirt, badly wrinkled from a night on her floor. "Dinner later?"

---