Page 17 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

Chapter twelve

Evan

T he ceiling had exactly fourteen water stains, and I'd counted them twice.

I replayed our fight like game footage, freezing the frame at each moment where I could have chosen differently.

I saw the hurt in Jake's eyes when I snapped about his chaos, how his shoulders had tensed when he said project.

The brutal stillness when I insisted I was the first on the team to believe in him.

I didn't fight to win. I fought to maintain the illusion that I could predict and control every variable in my life, including Jake Riley.

Especially Jake Riley.

I reached out for the watch. It was ten years old, with a digital display slightly cracked on the left side where I'd caught it against a locker door during a particularly brutal practice.

I'd worn it through three different foster placements, two junior teams, and every apartment I'd lived in since aging out of the system.

It was the only thing in my life over the past decade that had been the same for longer than two years.

I stared at water stain number nine—shaped like a hockey stick if you squinted—and admitted something I'd avoided thinking since Jake moved in:

He terrified me.

It wasn't his unpredictability, and it wasn't his habit of turning every moment into performance art. It was how he looked at me, not the careful teammate assessment or polite roommate acknowledgment—It made me want things.

Dangerous things. Messy things. Things I couldn't file under any heading in my spreadsheets.

I wanted to know what his hair felt like when I gripped it with my fingers.

I wanted to hear him laugh when we shared stories.

I wanted to watch him move through our kitchen in the morning, singing off-key to whatever pop song he had stuck in his head, and not need to pretend I was updating my practice schedule.

I wanted him to stay.

My breath hitched. All my careful distance, labeled containers, and color-coded systems—none of it was about organization. It was about building walls high enough that it wouldn't leave a scar when people left.

I moved to the living room shortly after midnight, too restless to stay in bed, too wired to pretend sleep was possible.

The couch faced away from the door, but I heard every sound: Jake's quiet curse when he stumbled slightly in the entryway, and the scrape of his key against the lock before finding its groove.

He started to walk toward the hallway, and then he froze. He'd spotted me and navigated through the dim light to approach the couch.

He stood there for a long moment, probably letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. A thin slice of yellow from the night light I'd installed in the kitchen cut across the hardwood and died somewhere near my feet.

"You're late." My voice was quiet, barely a whisper.

"Fuck. Didn't realize I had a curfew."

"Where were you?"

"Driving." He paused. "Thinking."

"About?"

"Whether you'd still be here when I got back."

He moved closer, and I bit my lip.

"You can sit," I said.

"Can I?"

"It's your couch, too."

The cushion dipped as Jake settled beside me, carefully leaving space between us. It wasn't much—maybe six inches—but we weren't touching. He smelled like lake air and something sharper underneath. Nervous energy, maybe.

"Are you still mad?" he asked.

"No, not at you."

"At yourself, then?"

I stared at the darkened TV screen, seeing our reflections like ghosts. I didn't answer his question, but my silence was probably an answer.

Jake shifted slightly, and his knee brushed mine through the fabric of my sweatpants.

"I shouldn't have told you what to do," I said finally.

"I shouldn't have broken your bowl."

"It was already chipped."

"Doesn't mean it deserved to die."

I almost smiled. Only Jake Riley could make me want to laugh in the middle of an emotional crisis. "You stress-clean when you're upset."

"You stress-bake. We're both disasters, only different flavors."

Like the air before a thunderstorm, I sensed an electrical charge between us. Jake's breathing was slightly uneven, and when I risked a glance at his profile, his jaw was tight.

"Talk to me," I said.

Jake's head fell back against the couch cushions. "I keep waiting for you to figure out I'm not worth the trouble."

"What trouble?"

"All of it. The socks, the singing, how I make everything bigger than it needs to be. And me wanting things I shouldn't."

A lump formed in my throat. "Like what?"

Instead of answering, Jake reached out and touched the back of my hand resting on my knee. It was only his fingertips.

He spoke quietly. "This. Whatever this is."

His touch was electric, sending heat up my arm and straight to my chest. I stared at our hands—his fingers tan against my pale skin. He traced each knuckle.

"I keep trying not to want this," he whispered.

"Me, too."

We moved at the same time.

Jake's hair brushed my cheek before his lips did. He pressed in, mouth opening against mine, no hesitation or apology. He reached for me, first the side of my jaw, then behind my head, fingers tangling in the short hair at my nape.

I forgot about breathing. I forgot about water stain number nine and whether or not I should be the one to make the first move. Jake took care of it.

He tasted like spearmint and winter air, and when his tongue nudged at the seam of my lips, I parted them for him. The kiss was hungry—maybe not movie quality, too messy for that.

Jake kissed like he played: all-in, reckless, and a little wild. My teeth caught his lip, and he grinned into my mouth, a flicker of surprise and delight.

I pulled him closer, my hand sliding up between his shoulder blades. The heat coming off him was ridiculous. He wore multiple layers and felt like a radiator pressed against me.

He broke the kiss first, but stayed close when he asked, "Do you want to stop?"

How could I answer that?

I'd labeled Jake from the moment he moved in—Chaotic Roommate, Viral Disaster, Beautiful Mess—like I could file him away in some mental container marked "Temporary" and pretend my pulse didn't quicken every time he walked into a room.

Sitting in the dark with his lips near mine, breathing the same air, I realized I'd been wrong about the label.

It should have read: Mine. If I'm brave enough to keep him.

Jake pulled back to look into my eyes, his thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone. "Evan."

"Yeah?"

"I'm scared I'm going to mess this up."

I studied his face in the dim light—his hair falling across his forehead and a flush spreading across his cheeks.

"Then we'll mess it up together," I said.

Jake responded with a small, vulnerable smile. "Fuck, that's... that might be the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."

"Your standards are tragically low."

"Lucky for you."

Jake's fingers were still tangled in my hair, and his pulse throbbed against my thumb resting on his throat—fast and unsteady, matching my own.

"I think it's time," he murmured.

"Time for what?"

Instead of answering, Jake reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The screen's blue glow threw harsh shadows across his face as he scrolled through his contacts. He turned it just enough so I could see what he was doing.

He found Juno Park's name.

"Jake—"

"I know." His thumb hovered over the screen. "But I'm tired of letting everyone else write my story."

I watched him type, surprised by how steady his hands were. The message was simple, direct, and nothing like the performative Jake most people knew:

Jake: I'm ready to talk. On the record. With Nik Vanko. If you still want to.

"You don't have to do this," I said quietly.

"Yeah, I do. The team deserves better than... than whatever I've been. And you deserve better."

You deserve better. The words hit me sideways, unexpected and devastating. Jake thought I was worth him making efforts to improve.

He hit send.

The phone buzzed almost immediately—the response lit up the screen:

Juno: Always. Tomorrow at 3? Common Thread?

Jake: See you there.

He set the phone face-down on the coffee table and leaned back against the couch cushions, suddenly looking exhausted. "Feels like jumping without a net."

He was terrified, I realized, not of the interview, but of what came after. Of whether taking control of his narrative would change anything, or he'd just be giving people new material to twist.

I spoke softly. "You'll fall into something better."

"Is that what this is? Something better?"

I reached for his hand, interlacing our fingers and squeezing. "I don't know what this is yet, but I want to find out."

Jake smiled, real without performing. "Me, too."

He stared at the ceiling, and I watched the line of his throat when he swallowed.

"Hey," I said softly.

He turned to look at me.

"I'm proud of you."

Jake winced, like I'd slapped his face with the words. Next, his eyes opened wider, glistening slightly in the dim light. For a second, I thought he might cry.

He gripped my fingers tighter. "Say it again."

"I'm proud of you, Jake Riley."

A small, broken whimper escaped before he kissed me again. I knew I'd said something no one had ever said to him before.

Pulling back from the kiss, he stared into my eyes.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing. Just..." He shook his head. "You keep surprising the hell out of me."

"How?"

"You're not running."

The words weighed heavily between us. How many people had run from Jake when things got complicated? How many times had he watched someone decide he wasn't worth the effort?

I looked down at where our fingers wove together. Jake's knuckles were slightly scraped from practice. A thin white scar I'd never noticed before ran along his thumb.

He reached out and touched the ridge of a vein on my forearm. He leaned in.

My pulse was rapid under my fingertips, and when he pressed lightly, I sucked in a sharp breath. In that moment, I wanted him so much.

I don't think I'd ever wanted anyone that much.

I gazed into his eyes, seeing my desire reflected back at me. Jake parted his lips.

"Evan, do you—"

"Soon."

He didn't ask what I meant. He didn't need to.

A promise hung in the air between us—not only about sex, though that was part of it.

It was also about letting him see me without my walls.

Trusting him with the parts of myself I'd kept locked away since I was fifteen and learned that caring too much only led to disappointment.

I was choosing him, mess and all.

"Yeah," he breathed. "Soon."

The apartment was quiet again. The radiator wasn't hissing. No cars passed outside. No one slammed cabinet doors or sang Rihanna off-key.

Only our breathing, and Jake's fingers tangled with mine.

For the first time since Jake moved in, the silence felt warm instead of empty. Like home.