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My heart clenches. For a split second, I’m eight years old again, trusting him with my scraped knees and untied shoes. Now it’s my battered ankle, my whole body, my whole heart. “I need you,” I say, and it comes out a whisper. “I need you to be here with me.”

“I’m here.” His hand ghosts up my arm, fingertips just barely grazing the straps of the chemise. He doesn’t pull, doesn’t tug—just looks at me, waiting for permission. When I nod, he slides his palm to my cheek, and I melt under the softness in his touch.

He kisses me like he has all the time in the world—soft and slow and deep, like he’s trying to pour every word he’s ever left unsaid into the space between our mouths. My fingers curl in the back of his hoodie, pulling him closer, and he hums against my lips, shifting his weight so he can join me on the bed. He’s careful, always careful, moving slowly as he slides in beside me, leaving plenty of space for my propped-up cast and my nerves.

He settles on his side, one arm braced above my head, the other hand trailing light up and down my good leg, as if reassuring himself I’m here, I’m real, I’m okay. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, eyes flicking over my body, lingering at the pink flush on my cheeks, the way my hair tumbles over the pillows. “Even if you do look a little bit like an injured Disney princess right now.”

I bark out a laugh that dissolves into something soft and giddy when he dips down to press a kiss to my forehead, then the tip of my nose. “Which one?” I ask, teasing.

He grins. “Sleeping Beauty, obviously. If she’d broken her ankle and had a team of best friends who bathed her and picked out her underwear. Because there’s no way you could have done all this to yourself. Remind me to buy Lynsie a drink the next time I see her.”

The laughter helps—eases the nerves, reminds me that this is what I’ve always wanted. Not the perfect, movie-montage kind of sex, but this. The intimacy, the caretaking, the feeling of being adored even when I’m at my most vulnerable.

His hands never stray far from safe territory—my hair, my shoulder, the edge of my jaw—like he’s waiting for my signal. And when I tug him closer, threading my fingers through his, it’s not about what we can’t do, or what’s awkward, or even what hurts.

It’s about letting him love me, exactly as I am.

And as he kisses me again—so tender, so deliberate—I realize I’ve never felt more wanted, or more safe, in my entire life.

Brogan props himself up on his elbow, facing me with that devastating combination of heat and pure, undiluted devotion. He strokes my hair back from my forehead, his fingers gentle as a whisper. “You sure you’re comfortable?” he asks, glancing at the mountain of pillows and the awkward angle of my leg.

I nod, my pulse fluttering. “Just promise me you won’t make any jokes about my toenails. It’s winter. And I’ve got enough issues.”

He grins, leaning down to brush his lips against my jaw. “No promises,” he murmurs, lips curving against my skin, “but I think I’m into your cast. Makes you look dangerous.” He shifts a pillow beneath my knee, never losing contact, his big handcupping my ankle with reverence. “Tell me if anything hurts. Seriously, Jojo. If you need me to stop—”

I tug him in for a kiss, stopping the spiral before it starts. “Brogan,” I whisper, my words feathering against his lips, “you’re the safest thing I’ve ever known.”

The air shifts, thick with anticipation. His hand skims my thigh, careful and slow, igniting goosebumps in his wake. Every touch is deliberate—no hurry, no pressure. Just worship. I arch into him, hungry for more but greedy for the tenderness, too. He buries his face in my neck and inhales, the warmth of his breath sending sparks down my spine.

“You smell like strawberries and Gisele’s expensive perfume,” he says, and the way he says it—like it’s the highest compliment he’s ever given—makes me flush all over again.

“Don’t give her the satisfaction,” I mutter, breathless, even as I tilt my head to give him better access.

His laughter vibrates against my collarbone, and then he’s back to kissing, exploring, coaxing my body to trust him with every slow movement. His hands map a path over my hips, my waist, my ribs, careful never to jostle my cast or push too far. He murmurs encouragement, low and rough—beautiful, gorgeous, perfect—until I believe every word.

And when he finally reaches the edge of the lacy underwear Lynsie and Gisele picked out, he pauses, giving me a look that asks a question only I can answer.

“Are you ready?” he whispers. “You’re not in too much pain.”

“More than ready,” I breathe, and it’s the most honest thing I’ve ever said.

He smiles, the kind that’s all relief and gratitude, and starts to peel the fabric away—inch by careful inch, never letting me feel exposed, never letting go of my hand. His mouth follows the path his hands make, kissing every patch of skin he uncovers,worshiping me like I’m some sacred relic and not just a girl in a borrowed chemise with a bum ankle.

I’ve never felt more beautiful. Or more seen. Or more loved.

He stretches out beside me, bracing his weight on his forearm so I don’t have to move an inch. His other hand traces the edge of my chemise, pushing the fabric up with excruciating patience, until I’m bare from the waist down—ankle propped perfectly, leg cradled just so.

Brogan watches me with a reverence that almost undoes me. “God, Joely, look at you,” he whispers. “You’re so fucking beautiful. You have no idea, do you?”

His fingers are warm, a little rough from hockey and hard work, but when he slides them between my thighs, he’s gentle—so gentle it’s almost a tease. He finds me already wet and makes a sound in his throat that’s half-groan, half-laugh.

“Yeah, that’s my girl,” he murmurs, thumb circling, two fingers slipping inside in one smooth, perfect motion. “Let me take care of you. Just relax, baby. I’ve got you.”

His hand moves slowly at first, deliberate, learning me all over again like he’s mapping the route to my undoing. He leans in, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to my throat, my collarbone, the top of my breast—never rushing, never greedy, just savoring every shiver, every gasp.

“Is this okay?” he asks, voice so low it’s barely more than a vibration against my skin. “Tell me if you need more. Or less. Or anything. I want to make you feel good.”

I can barely speak, just nodding, clutching at his shoulder as he starts to build a rhythm, fingers crooking just right, his palm pressing where I need him most. My hips lift, instinct taking over, and he hushes me, his mouth at my ear, “Easy, Jojo. I know you want to move—let me do the work. You just let go for me.”