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"You’re wound up like a goalie in overtime."

"It’s bar prep. I’m allowed."

"Yeah, but you’re not alone in this. You’ve got me now."

The way he says it sends a ripple down my spine.

His thumbs work slow circles along the base of my neck, moving up toward the edge of my scalp. It’s innocent enough at first, but there’s heat underneath. A current.

I close my eyes.

He leans in, close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath at my temple. "You smell like mint and stress."

"And you smell like AXE and ego."

He laughs. "Fair."

I glance over my shoulder again, teasing. "So… how do you celebrate after a win, usually?"

He smirks. "Cold beer and watching terrible movies I can quote by heart."

"Like what?"

"Point Break. Road House. Anything where someone gets thrown through a window. Helps burn off the post-game adrenaline, you know? Keeps me from bouncing off the walls all night."

I snort. "That explains so much."

"Hey, that stuff’s elite."

"So you're telling me your post-game recovery involves shirtless brawls and bad one-liners?"

He grins. "If I’m doing it right."

I laugh, leaning back into his hands. "And here I thought you’d be the type to come home and wind down with cartoons or video games, not… Patrick Swayze doing roundhouse kicks."

"I’m a mystery," he says. "Layers."

"Like an onion."

"Like a sexy, humble onion."

I laugh again, biting my lip to stifle it. He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear.

"What about you? What’s your post-study ritual?"

"Normally? Ice cream and one very judgmental episode of true crime."

"Judgmental how?"

"I talk to the screen. I yell at people. It’s therapeutic."

He grins. "Remind me not to commit a crime near you."

"Remind me not to hang out with a guy who thinks he can out-snark me."

"Too late," he says, his voice dropping as his hands flex at my shoulders. "You’re already losing."

"Am I?" I challenge.