Page 80 of Hometown Touchdown
We don’t say anything at first. He just walks straight to me, slow and certain. When he’s close enough, I reach for him without thinking, and he’s already pulling me into his arms.
The tension in my chest gives out the second I feel him wrap around me. I press my face into his shoulder, breathing him in, the scent of sweat and fresh air and something I’ve always known as safety. His hand slides up my back, steady and warm, and I let myself melt into the moment. Into him.
“You did it,” I say quietly, my voice catching even though I’m trying to stay composed. “Knox, you did it. It’s so silly to be emotional over a high school football game, but it was amazing to watch.”
He pulls back slightly, enough to look down at me. His thumb brushes my cheek. “The win feels great, but not as good as it felt to look up and see you in the stands.”
The way he says it, it’s not a line. It’s not about impressing me. It’s just the truth. Simple. Certain. That’s always been him. He doesn't say more than he has to, and when he does, it matters.
“I wanted to run down to you,” I admit, my fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie. “Right after the game. It was so hard not to.”
“I wish you could have,” he murmurs. “But this is okay.”
“You looked like the heart of the whole team,” I tell him, voice soft. “Like they’d follow you anywhere.”
“They would,” he says. “And I’d do the same for them.”
There’s a beat of silence as I look at him, the man I loved once, the man I love again. The one who showed up when I didn’t ask, who makes anyone in his orbit feel cared for. The one who carried an entire town’s pride on his shoulders and made it look like it was his honor to do it.
“I’m proud of you,” I say, my voice thick. “Not just for tonight. For all of it. For the way you’ve built those boys up. For how much you care. You’re doing exactly what you were meant to do.”
He presses his forehead to mine, and I feel his breath as he exhales slowly. “Hearing that from you means more than I can explain.”
When he kisses me, I know he’s pouring every emotion he has into it—steady, certain, and unspoken. There’s no rush, no frantic edge. Just a calm, undeniable pull between us. Like we both understand this isn’t about going back. It’s about choosing each other again—this time for something real.
Waking up tangled in Knox Dalton’s sheets should not feel like the new normal, and yet…here we are. Again. My leg is slungacross his, my arm draped over his stomach, and my face is smushed ungracefully against his bare chest, which—by the way—isveryunfairly sculpted for a high school football coach who claims he “doesn’t have time for the gym.”
I don’t know how long I’ve been awake. Ten minutes? Twenty? Long enough to register the fact that Knox is still asleep and his thigh is doing unspeakable things to my pussy just by existing in proximity. The morning light is sneaking in through the slats of the blinds, illuminating his skin, giving shadows to his form and my resolve slowly eroding.
This is fine. Totally fine.
Except it’s not. Because my self-control isso closeto waving a white flag.
I want to have sex with him. There, I said it. No whispering, no internal denial, no pretending I’m some enlightened, patient goddess of restraint. I want him. Naked. Now. And possibly forever.
I’ve been trying to be good. I’ve been trying to honor the timeline my very responsible, emotionally mature boyfriend laid out—the one where I “ease into intimacy” and “let trust rebuild naturally” and “don’t just jump back into bed with your rekindled flame even if he now looks like a GQ spread come to life in sweatpants.”
But holy hell. Have youseenhim?
And sleeping beside him every night, feeling his hand curl around my hip like he never wants to let me go…it’s torture. Beautiful, sexy, emotionally safe torture.
His breathing shifts deeper now, and he starts to stir beneath me. His arm tightens for a second, his lips press into my hair, and then he inhales softly.
“What time is it?” Knox reaches for his phone, squinting at the screen. “Shit. It’s already ten?”
He drops the phone back onto the nightstand and turns toward me, looping an arm around my waist and pulling me into him. His voice is thick with sleep, warm against my neck. “You make it too damn easy to sleep in. I’ve gotta get up—meeting Cam for lunch.”
I consider launching a full protest. A dramatic sit-in. Maybe even a sensual hostage negotiation. But instead, I give a lazy stretch, fake a yawn, and murmur, “You’re going to ruin me.”
He kisses my forehead before sliding out of bed, wearing nothing but boxer briefs and the kind of casual confidence that should be illegal before noon. I roll onto my back and shamelessly admire the view, biting back a sigh. If this were a 2004 rom-com, I’d be biting my knuckle and fanning myself dramatically.
Knox pulls a T-shirt over his head, scratching the back of his neck as he catches me staring. That knowing smirk appears, the one that wrecks me a little more every time.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he warns, trying not to smile.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re planning something illegal.”
