Page 100 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

She watches me for a second longer. Not pushing. Not asking.

Then she says softly, “I’ll stay down here if you want.”

No questions. No need for me to explain why my head’s still spinning.

“Yeah,” I say, voice low. “I’d like that.”

She gives a small nod, the barest smile at the corner of her mouth. Then moves back to the couch, grabbing a blanket and her book.

I set up at the kitchen island, laptop open. The film’s already queued from earlier. Boston pinching hard, crowding us in the neutral zone, winning battles we shouldn’t have lost.

I lean forward, elbows on the counter, pen tapping a slow rhythm as the footage rolls.

Across the room, Ava’s tucked into the corner of the couch, blanket pulled around her, book resting open in her lap.

The longer I watch the clips, the harder it gets to lock in.

Because every few seconds, my eyes drift off-screen.

To her.

The curve of her shoulder beneath the blanket. The way her hair falls loose over one side. The slow turn of a page, fingers light and sure.

I try to keep watching, pen tapping against the counter, attempting to stay locked in.

But after a few minutes, my focus shifts for good.

I give up, closing the laptop. Water bottle in hand, I head for the couch.

Ava looks up as I drop down beside her. “Done for now?”

“Yeah.”

She shifts without a word, blanket sliding as she makes room. I pull her in gently, arm around her shoulders, her head fitting against me like it’s been there a hundred times before.

Neither of us speaks.

The film plays on, muted now: Boston celebrating, analysts breaking down the game.

I don’t pay attention.

Ava’s breathing slows against me, her head heavier against my chest.I close my eyes for a beat.

After a few moments, I feel her stir lightly, her voice soft. “You should sleep.”

I press a kiss to her hair. “You too.”

I stand, reaching for her hand.

“Come on,” I say, voice low. “Let’s head up.”

She lets me pull her to her feet with a tired smile. She doesn’t let go of my hand as we climb the stairs.

The kids haven’t noticed Ava stays in my room now. But we won’t be able to keep it quiet much longer.

I’ll need to tell them. The right way. When the time’s right.

In my room, the quiet settles deeper. Ava moves to the dresser, pulling out one of my shirts to change into. I tug off my hoodie and drop it onto the chair.