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He whispers mine right back.

And in this moment, wrapped up in his body and his warmth and his everything—I finally feel seen.

Like maybe I was never invisible to him after all.

He doesn’t let me go—not even when we’re both spent and breathless. Instead, he pulls me even closer, burying his face in my hair, arms wound tight around my waist like he’s afraid I’ll slip away. For the first time in my life, I feel wanted in a way that has nothing to do with how I look or what I do for everyone else. He holds me like I’m the only thing that matters, like he needs me as much as I’ve always needed him.

I’m not one of those girls who cries after sex.

Usually, I roll over, grab some water, and get on with it. But tonight? I’m lying here in Brogan Foster’s arms, and my entire life feels like it just shifted off its axis.

His arm is draped over my stomach, his face buried in my hair like he belongs there, like this is normal. Like this has happened before and it’ll happen again.

But for me? This is a one-way ticket to what the hell did I just do?

My brain starts spinning. Too fast. Too loud.

Because I know Brogan. I’ve known him since the third grade. I know he sucks at texting back. I know he gets lost in hockey season and forgets birthdays—even his own once. I know he’s not a heartbreaker, not intentionally, but he’s also never had mine in his hands before.

Until now.

“Hey,” he murmurs against my shoulder, his voice rough from sleep or sex—or maybe both. “You okay?”

“I’m good,” I lie, plastering on a smile he can’t see.

But of course, he doesn’t buy it.

His fingers stroke my side gently, like he’s trying to coax the truth out. “You sure? Because your body’s relaxed, but your brain’s doing laps.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “You always this observant after getting laid?”

He props himself up on one elbow and meets my eyes, serious now. “Only when it matters.”

Shit.

My heart does this weird little flip, and I hate how easily he can do that. Just a look. Just a sentence. And I’m all mush again.

“I’m just…” I trail off, unsure how much to admit. “I’ve liked you for a long time, Brogan. And now, I don’t know what happens next.”

He nods like he expected that. Like he was bracing for this, too.

“Then let me help you figure it out,” he says. “Because this? What we just did? That’s not casual to me. That’s not a one-time thing.”

My breath catches.

“I don’t know how to do this right,” he admits, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “But I know I want to try. And I want it to be with you.”

I blink up at him. “So we’re doing this?”

He grins, slow and crooked and pure Brogan. “Yeah, Joely. We’re doing this.”

He leans down, kissing me again, softer this time, more like a promise than a demand.

And as he pulls me closer, wrapping me up in those strong arms and that steady warmth, I stop spinning.

Because for the first time in years, I’m not just wishing for something.

I have it.