Page 90 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother
She bites her lip, considering. "I should study…"
"I'll bring food to wherever you're studying," I offer, already planning the gesture. "No distractions, I promise."
A smile tugs at her lips. "Just your presence is a distraction, Connolly."
"Is that a yes or a no, Porter?" I counter, pulling on my jeans.
"It's a yes," she says with a soft smile. "Same study room as yesterday."
"I'll be there." I finish dressing, then sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly reluctant to leave. "Hannah, about last night…"
"I meant what I said," she interrupts gently. "No regrets."
"Me neither," I assure her. "It's just—I want you to know this isn't…I don't usually…" I run a hand through my hair, frustrated by my inability to find the right words. "This matters to me. You matter."
Her expression softens. "You matter to me too."
It's not a declaration of love, but it's enough for now—this mutual acknowledgment that we're in uncharted territory together, that what's happening between us is significant.
I lean down to kiss her goodbye, intending a quick peck, but she pulls me closer, deepening the kiss until I'm tempted to forget about practice, about classes, about everything except her.
"You're making it very hard to leave," I murmur against her lips.
"That's the point," she whispers back, and I can feel her smile.
With considerable effort, I pull away, pressing one final kiss to her forehead. "I'll see you tonight."
"Tonight," she agrees.
I force myself to stand, to gather my keys and phone, to walk to the door like a rational human being and not someone who's just discovered a fundamental truth about himself.
At the door, I turn back for one last look. She's sitting up in bed, sheet wrapped around her, hair tousled from sleep and my fingers, watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
"Bye, James," she says softly, and the sound of my name on her lips nearly undoes my resolve to leave.
"Bye, Hannah," I manage, then slip out the door before I can change my mind.
The hallway is mercifully empty as I make my way to the stairwell, not wanting to risk the elevator and potential witnesses. But even if I encountered the entire women's volleyball team right now, I doubt it would dampen the ridiculous smile spreading across my face.
I step out into the crisp morning air, the campus still quiet in the early hour. My car is where I left it, but somehow everything else feels different—sharper, clearer, more vivid. Like I've been seeing the world through a filter that's suddenly been removed.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I unlock the car. It's a text from Miller, followed quickly by several more from the team group chat:
Miller:Where the hell are you? Coach is looking for you. Practice in 20.
Cory:5 bucks says he's with his brother’s ex.
Peterson:Make it 10. No way he stayed all night.
Rodriguez:If he got lucky, I'm buying him a beer. If he struck out, he's buying ME a beer.
I shake my head, typing a quick response:
Sanderson:On my way. Traffic.
Miller:Traffic at 6am? Try again.
I ignore the follow-up, tossing my phone onto the passenger seat as I start the engine. They can give me shit all they want; nothing's going to ruin this morning.
