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Lynsie finds a softer, silkier chemise in soft blue—still sexy, but with enough fabric to cover my bandages and bruises. “Perfect,” she declares, tossing it at me. “And this—” she adds, sliding a fresh pair of matching panties my way, “—because if you have to flash someone accidentally, at least make it cute.”

Gisele swoops in with a spritz of perfume, then helps me into the nightie, taking care not to bump my cast. “This is the good stuff. One spritz is seduction, two is a restraining order.”

When they’re done, they step back and survey their work like two Michelangelos judging a particularly difficult slab of marble. I’m sitting propped up on my pillows, foot elevated on a perfectly-fluffed bolster, feeling equal parts goddess and complete fraud.

“You look beautiful, Jo,” Lynsie says, voice softer now.

I almost cry. Because I feel beautiful. And for the first time, I don’t want to hide any of it. Not the scars, not the nerves, not even the wonky, swollen ankle.

“Okay,” Gisele says, grabbing her purse. “We’re out. Text when you want the post-game show tomorrow and we’ll bring wine and snacks.”

Lynsie squeezes my hand, eyes gleaming. “He’s going to lose his damn mind.”

I can’t even manage words. I just nod because I’m suddenly terrified and thrilled and ready in ways I didn’t know were possible.

They leave with a flourish, blowing kisses, and I’m left alone in the candlelight, heart pounding, waiting for Brogan.

I keep trying to breathe like a normal person. Not like someone waiting for their very first real “girlfriend sex” with the boy they’ve been in love with since literal elementary school. My ankle’s propped up on a pile of pillows, the silk chemise feels like butter against my skin, and the whole room glows with flickering candlelight and that warm, low promise that anything can happen tonight.

The house is dead quiet except for the faint hum of the furnace in the basement and my heart trying to launch itself through my chest. Every headlight that sweeps past the window, every branch tapping at the glass, I flinch like he might be here early. I check my phone twice—no missed calls, no texts. The girls have left a steady stream of GIFs in the group chat, mostly of cheerleaders and Channing Tatum dance moves, and one meme from Gisele that says, “Remember: Arch your back, not your expectations.” I snort out a laugh that’s equal parts terror and joy.

I hear his truck pull up before I see him—engine rumbling, a door thunking shut, his footsteps crunching through the snow. He knocks, because he’s Brogan Foster, a golden retriever in a man’s body, polite even when I’ve told him a thousand times to just walk in.

“Come in!” I call, heart thudding so hard I swear it’s audible.

The front door opens, then there’s the muffled thud of boots on the entryway rug.

Brogan’s voice calls out, just a little hesitant, “Joely?”

A pause. Then footsteps, and I swear the temperature in the house spikes. His boots thud as he toes them off and shufflesdown the hall. He stops short in the doorway, and for a second, he just… stares.

“Oh,” he says, and his voice cracks like he’s been body-checked.

I try to play it cool, which is hard when I’m blushing from head to toe, and my hair smells like fancy coconut shampoo. “Hey.”

Brogan steps inside, still in his faded Slammer’s hoodie and jeans, his cheeks pink from the cold, arms full. I spot a grocery bag and a small bouquet of wildflowers sticking out from the top—daisies and sunflowers and one ridiculous, cheerful tulip.

He lets out a long, low whistle. “Jesus, Jojo. You look—” He tries again, stepping inside, flowers dangling forgotten from one hand. “You look like the part in the movie when the hero realizes he’s been in love with the girl next door the whole time.”

I can’t help it—I laugh, even though my whole body’s a live wire. “You brought me flowers?”

“Yeah,” he says, suddenly shy, holding them out. “And, uh, snacks. In case we, you know, get hungry. Or you need to carb-load for… whatever.”

I take the bouquet, breathing in the wild, hopeful scent. “You’re adorable.”

He drops the bag on the floor and sinks to his knees at the side of the bed, face level with mine.

His eyes flick over me—hair, chemise, the heap of blankets, the cast—and the adoration there is almost too much to take. “Are you sure?” he asks, voice soft. “You want this? Tonight? With your cast and everything?”

I nod, not trusting my voice. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. You asked me to be your girlfriend. I said yes. We need to consummate it.”

He lets out a shaky breath, his hand reaching for mine. And just like that, the nerves settle. Because it’s Brogan. My Brogan.

And tonight is ours.

He doesn’t rush. That’s the first thing I notice. He’s still kneeling at the side of my bed, our hands tangled, his thumb making soft, slow circles over my knuckles like he’s memorizing them. There’s so much heat in his eyes, but also something steadier—gentle and careful, like he’s more concerned with me than whatever comes next.

He leans in, resting his chin on the mattress, close enough that his breath dances across my shoulder. “Tell me what you need,” he says, his voice so quiet it feels like a secret. “And if anything hurts, you tell me. I mean it, Jojo.”