Page 95 of Puck Your Feelings

I collapse beside him in the tiny bunk, our bodies pressed together from shoulder to ankle, both of us breathing hard. Sweat cools on my skin, making me shiver. Becker rolls onto his side, and wraps his arm around me, pulling me closer.

For the first time in days, my mind is quiet.

No thoughts of my father, no worries about tomorrow.

Just this moment, the weight of Becker's arm across my chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my side.

My eyelids grow heavy, sleep finally within reach.

I'm drifting off when Becker's voice cuts through the comfortable silence. "I really think we should talk now."

CHAPTER 24

Kane

AND JUST LIKE that, the bubble bursts.

I sigh, feeling the warm satisfaction of post-orgasm bliss battling with the dread of what I know is coming. It's like waiting for a hit during a game—you know it's going to happen and you brace for impact. But it still hurts like a motherfucker when it lands.

Becker's body is warm against mine, his skin still slightly damp with sweat. He’s perfect like that.

But now he wants to talk, and talking means thinking, and thinking means remembering all the reasons this is temporary.

I roll onto my side and wrap my arm around his chest, pressing myself against him. Maybe if I hold on tight enough, I can delay reality for a few more minutes. His heartbeat thrums steady under my palm, so unlike the chaotic rhythm of my own.

"Fine," I sigh, my breath stirring the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. "What do you want to know?"

I brace for the interrogation. But then:

"What's your favorite color?" he asks, his voice light.

I laugh, the sound startled out of me. "Seriously?"

"It's pink, isn't it." It's not even a question, just Becker being Becker.

"Fuck off," I swat his chest, but I'm smiling against his skin.

He shifts beneath me, rolling until we're face to face, our noses inches apart. There's nowhere to hide now. His eyes are so blue in the moonlight, like the center of a flame where it burns hottest.

He reaches up and traces a finger along the scar that cuts through my eyebrow, the pad of his thumb impossibly gentle. "How'd you get this scar?"

"Puck," I say, then reach up to touch the small white line on his chin. "How'd you get this one?"

"High stick."

I chuckle, the sound rumbling between us. "Guess we're both predictable."

"I prefer dedicated."

I'm just starting to relax, thinking maybe we're just going to have a nice, easy conversation about nothing important, when Becker drops the bomb.

"Tell me about your father."

My smile fades. "Becker—"

"Fine. You don't have to tell me what he said. Just... tell me about him. Help me understand. Why is he so...ugh."

I can't help the small laugh that escapes. "He's notallbad."