I will never edit this

The bar was loud — bodies pressed in too close, neon lights bouncing off half-empty pitchers of beer, victory laughter echoing over the din. Tyler’s buddies were sprawled around the table like kings of the night, still high off the win, and Ellie sat tucked against him in his hoodie. The one that smelled like sweat and soap and ice, the one that always managed to swallow her whole. She wore it like a crown, like armor, like proof she wasn’t invisible here anymore.

But when the first pair of puck bunnies drifted too close — shiny hair, glossed lips, pretending to laugh at nothing in particular — Ellie felt it in her stomach. That tiny, sharp twist she hated. She didn’t want to ruin this. Didn’t want to be that girl.

So she smiled instead, tugged at the sleeve of his hoodie, and leaned into him just enough that he could hear her over the noise.

“So this is what it’s like, huh? The post-victory fan club.”

She meant it as a joke. And mostly, it landed that way. But she felt his arm tighten around her waist just a fraction, like he’d caught the waver under her grin.

When one of the guys shoved a plate of fries across the table, Ellie snagged one before Tyler could react. She pointed it at him like it was a weapon, playful and sharp.

“Relax, I’m not here to cramp your style. I’m just here for the carbs. You can keep your admirers — I’ll take the salt.”

The words came out light, breezy, almost careless. But she felt the heat creep into her cheeks when her eyes flicked — just for a second — to the girl leaning against the jukebox in too-tight jeans. She hated herself for it. Hated the part of her that still remembered what it felt like to be kept on the outside of all this.

She took another fry, biting into it with exaggerated drama, smirking at the jukebox girl like she was in on some private joke.

“Although, if your fan base is this dedicated, maybe I should start charging them for autographs on your behalf. You’d make a fortune.”

Ellie laughed, tossing the words like confetti. But her fingers curled tighter around Tyler’s forearm without her meaning to, nails pressing gently into the fabric of his sleeve. She wasn’t jealous. She told herself that. She wasn’t. She was just—watching. Noticing. Claiming space without saying it out loud.

The guys ribbed Tyler, one of them snorting into his beer. “Man, you’re so whipped.”

Ellie tilted her head up at him, catching his eyes, and she let herself grin. Not mean, not bitter — just quick and sly, like she knew how to play this game.

“Whipped? Please. He just knows better than to let me near the ketchup without supervision.”

Her voice was steady, sugar-sweet, but her hand slipped a little tighter around his arm, a subtle anchor she hoped nobody noticed. Nobody but him.

And judging by the way he glanced down at her — not annoyed, not defensive, just warm and present — he’d noticed. He always did.

Tyler was high on the win.

Not just the scoreboard kind — though, yeah, that felt good — but the kind that hummed deep under his ribs. The kind where Ellie was curled into his side in his hoodie, claiming space she didn’t need permission to take anymore.

And damn, did she look good like that.
Like home and confidence and something that didn’t have to prove itself to anyone in this room.

He leaned back in the booth, loose-limbed and smug, letting the roar of post-game adrenaline buzz around him like white noise. His hoodie swallowed her, sleeves down to her knuckles, collar stretched just wide enough to flash the line of her collarbone — and still, somehow, she looked like the one wearing armor.

His.

But then — the puck bunnies. The laugh-too-louds. The jukebox leaners. The ones who only knew his jersey number, not how he took his coffee or the exact way he liked his back scratched when he couldn’t sleep.

He felt Ellie shift. Light. Controlled. But he felt it.

Then came the fry.
The sass.
The “I’m just here for the carbs” line, tossed with that razor-sharp breezy thing she did when she was trying too hard not to care.

He didn’t call it out. Didn’t tease or poke or overplay it. Just slid his palm flat against her thigh, fingers curling gently at the curve of it — grounding her. Letting her know he was here. Still hers.

She kept the jokes coming. The mockery. The subtle digs at the girls at the edge of the room and her own lingering ghosts.

And he let her.
Because Ellie Tate didn’t need coddling.

She needed someone who saw through it.
Someone who didn’t make her ask.

The guys were laughing now. One of them — Westy — leaned over the pitcher, beer breath loud.

“Man, you’re so whipped.”

Tyler didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just smiled.
Because yeah. Maybe he was.

But when Ellie looked up at him — cocked brow, that sly little grin that always hit like a punch to the chest — he swore the whole damn bar faded out.

She said something about ketchup, something sugar-laced and sharp, but he didn’t care.

He was already leaning in.

Voice low. Just for her.

“Let ’em talk.”
His thumb brushed across the inside of her thigh. “I’m not whipped.”

He waited a beat — let her eyes catch his — then smirked.

“I’m wrecked.”

And yeah, he was cocky.
But not just from the game.

From this. From her.
From the way she tightened her grip like he was hers to hold onto.

He dipped his head closer, nose brushing hers, just enough to keep the space between them crackling.

“And you? You can have the fries, the ketchup, the whole damn bar. Just don’t ever stop wearing my hoodie like it means something.”

A beat.

Then — flirtatious, low, and completely sincere — he added,

“And that autograph scam? Your idea. You deserve the bigger cut.”

He kissed her temple once — quick, certain, his — then leaned back again, draping an arm lazily across her shoulders.

Still glowing. Still grinning.
Still so fucking glad she was here.

Ellie tried to play it cool.

Tried being the operative word.

Because the second he said wrecked — in that low, ruined tone that landed somewhere between a confession and a challenge — her whole body went a little light. Her first instinct was to laugh it off, to toss something teasing back his way and pretend she wasn’t internally combusting.

But he was still looking at her like that.
Like she’d just shifted gravity.

So she took a slow sip of her drink, mostly to buy herself a heartbeat or two, then said lightly, “You can’t just drop a word like that in a public place, Harrison. There are people here. Children. Impressionable youth.”

It came out the way she meant it to — breezy, teasing — but her pulse was betraying her. She could feel his hand still resting on her thigh, thumb tracing idle shapes like he knew exactly how much of her composure was smoke and mirrors.

She grinned up at him anyway. “Wrecked, huh?” she repeated, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “You sure it’s not just the post-game adrenaline talking? Because if you start getting poetic every time you win, I’m gonna need hazard pay.”

The table laughed at something one of the guys said, glasses clinking, but it all felt muffled — like the world had dimmed around just the two of them.

Ellie leaned in, close enough for her hair to brush his shoulder, her voice soft but quick, like she didn’t trust it to stay steady if she lingered. “And as for that autograph scam,” she said, mouth quirking, “I’ll take my cut. Obviously. I’m the brains of this operation. You just… sign stuff and look pretty.”

He smiled, slow and dangerous, and she felt her heart skip right on cue.

Her eyes flicked down to his hand, the way it curled against her leg like a promise, and back up to his face. “And maybe I’ll keep the hoodie too,” she added, quieter now, teasing but sincere under it. “If it does mean something, you probably shouldn’t have given it to me.”

He looked at her like she’d just dared him to prove it — and maybe she had.

So she smiled again, brighter this time, turning back toward the table, shoulders pressed to his. Pretending the world hadn’t just tilted in her favor.

Because yeah — she was wrecked too.
Just not ready to admit it out loud.

The moment wrecked left his mouth, he knew he’d done damage.

Ellie tried to play it cool — drink raised, voice light — but Tyler caught it. That flicker in her eyes. The stutter in her pulse. The way her smirk almost didn’t land because her lips were too busy remembering the way his thumb was still tracing her thigh like it meant something.

God, he loved getting under her skin.

Not in the mean way — not anymore.
In the lucky-to-be-here, holy-shit-she’s-mine way.

He grinned as she leaned in, whispered something about autograph scams and him being the pretty face of their operation, and he let her have that. He let her run circles around him with her clever mouth and sharp glances. Because she was right. He was just here to sign stuff and look pretty — and right now, he was the prettiest bastard in the room because she was wearing his hoodie like it was gospel.

Then she dropped the last line.
“Maybe I’ll keep the hoodie too… If it does mean something.”

And yeah, maybe he stopped breathing for a second.

Because he wasn’t wearing his jersey anymore.
He wasn’t flexing for the crowd or playing to the noise.
He was just a guy in a bar, staring at his girl like she’d just said home without using the word.

But before he could answer, one of the guys — Reed — slapped a hand on his shoulder, jostling his beer and breaking the spell.

“Bro. That shot in the third? Legendary. You heard the crowd, right? They were chanting your name.”

Tyler blinked, caught halfway between Ellie’s eyes and the table’s chaos.

He threw a lazy arm around her shoulder, smirk still lingering, and answered without looking away from her:

“Yeah, well. I had good luck in the stands.”

A round of ooooohs rippled through the table like they were still seventeen and living off energy drinks and validation.

“Goddamn,” Westy cackled, holding up his beer. “You’re so far gone, it’s romantic comedy-level now.”

Tyler laughed, full and unapologetic. “Shut up, you’re just mad no one wants your sweaty elbow pads, man.”

More laughter. Fries thrown. A rogue peanut nearly hit someone’s forehead.

He let it all swirl around him — the noise, the rowdy affection, the familiar chaos of victory nights — but his hand never left her leg.

He leaned into her ear, voice low, cocky and warm all at once:

“Hazard pay, huh?” A pause, his grin audible. “Baby, you kissed me first.”

She didn’t turn her head, but he felt the smile tug at her lips.
Felt it all the way down his spine.

Then — just to be a menace — he nuzzled her temple and added:

“Keep the hoodie. Keep the fries. Hell, take my wallet. Just don’t act surprised when I keep showing up looking this good.”

He winked at one of the guys across the table who booed dramatically. Tyler raised his glass in response.

Because yeah, he was the cocky bastard with the post-game glow and too much charm.

But tonight?
He was hers.
Completely.

And judging by the look on her face?

She knew it.

Ellie swirled the last inch of her drink like it had answers at the bottom. She didn’t trust her voice yet — not with the weight of that word still humming under her skin. Wrecked. He’d said it like it was obvious, like it wasn’t the most disarming thing she’d ever heard from him in public.

So she made herself breathe. Leaned into his side like it was casual, like she wasn’t trying to steady the tremor in her pulse.

“Careful,” she murmured at last, the edge of a smile tugging at her lips, eyes still on the glass instead of his face. “You talk like that and I’m gonna start believing you.”

Her fingers drifted up to the cuff of his sleeve, tugging once, twice, a little nervous tell she hoped looked playful. His hoodie smelled like his cologne and the cold from the rink. It was ridiculous how safe it felt.

She tipped her head just enough to catch his eye. “And for the record…” she lowered her voice until it barely reached him over the noise of the table, “I’m absolutely keeping a cut of the autograph money. Pretty faces don’t pay for gas.”

The table’s laughter rolled around them again, but she stayed close, legs crossed under the booth, one ankle brushing his in a way that was more grounding than flirtatious. “Don’t mind them,” she added softly, eyes flicking toward his teammates, “I’m just impressed you’re not hiding me behind a curtain anymore.”

Then she smirked, leaning in so only he could hear: “You keep showing up looking like that, Harrison, you’re gonna make it real hard for me to keep pretending I’m the cool one here.”

Her thumb found the seam of his hoodie, rubbing the fabric like it was a secret. Under the noise, under the teasing, her voice dropped into something smaller, almost shy:

“I like it here tonight,” she admitted. “With you. Just so you know.”

Ellie felt the whole bar humming — the laughter, the beer, the smell of fried food and sweat — but when she caught sight of the girls at the edge of the room, it cut through everything. Same type she used to avoid. Same lean-in laughs, same glossy hair flips. Tyler must’ve been their favorite back then.

For a second, the old ache flickered — that pull in her chest she remembered too well. The one that whispered, this is where you lose him.

But she didn’t let it stick. Not this time.

She shifted against him, took one more steadying breath, then slid her fingers down to his hand. Her nails grazed his knuckles before she laced them through, warm and sure. She didn’t even look at the girls again; she just tugged him out of the booth with a flash of a grin.

“Dance with me, babe,” she said, eyes glinting under the neon glow of the jukebox.

It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge dressed as a dare, her smile wide enough to look fearless even though her heart was hammering. She backed toward the open space, still pulling him along by the hand. “C’mon,” she added, softer now, almost laughing. “Right here. Make ‘em jealous.”

Her pulse steadied as she watched him follow, hoodie sleeve still bunched in her fist. All at once she felt lighter, bolder. Like she was planting a flag instead of waiting for permission.

The music crackled to life — something low and warm — and she slid his other hand up to her hip with a grin that was all teeth and nerve. “Your move, Harrison.”

Tyler watched her swirl the last of her drink like it held some kind of secret. She was trying to look casual — sipping slow, smiling soft — but he knew her too well.

He caught every little tell.
The tug at his sleeve.
The way she leaned into him like it didn’t matter, like she wasn’t anchoring herself to keep from drifting too far into that old ache.

And maybe it wasn’t fair, but he liked that she was rattled. Not in a cruel way — God, never. But in that I-got-to-her way. In that she’s letting herself get close kind of way.

Because that meant she was starting to believe it, too.

He was wrecked, yeah.
But she was his.

And when she said, Careful… I’m gonna start believing you, he tilted toward her with a slow grin that didn’t quite hide the fondness underneath.

“Good,” he said, voice pitched just for her, low enough to cut through the chaos around them. “Took you long enough.”

But then she was doing it again — peeling away the layers with that voice of hers, warm and teasing and just shy of something soft when she said I like it here tonight. With you.

And shit.

That got him.

Right in the center of his chest, where nothing ever used to land.

She tucked herself tighter into his side and he wrapped his arm fully around her like instinct. Like habit. Like claiming. His teammates could laugh, the puck bunnies could watch — he wasn’t hiding a damn thing. Not tonight.

But before he could reply, she was moving — hand sliding into his, that same grin sparking under the neon glow like she was daring him to say no.

“Dance with me, babe.”

She didn’t ask.
She never asked.

And he loved that about her.
The fire. The nerve. The way she owned every moment she stepped into.

Tyler let her tug him out of the booth, letting the warm hum of the bar fade around them like background static. He followed — grinning, hoodie sleeves bunched in her fist, fingers laced with hers.

When they hit the open space near the jukebox, he let her spin into him, his hands finding her hips like they belonged there.

The song was lazy and golden, something older, crackling with charm. Didn’t matter.

He was already grinning down at her like she was the only thing in the damn room.

“Your move, Harrison,” she said, eyes glittering.

Tyler raised a brow, one hand sliding from her hip to the small of her back as he pulled her in, just enough to steal the breath she hadn’t let out yet.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, low and smug, “you dragged me out here just to lose.”

He spun her once, just to show he could. Then caught her with both hands and tucked her close again, swaying like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

“You’re not the only one who knows how to make people jealous,” he added, letting his mouth brush her temple as they moved.

And God, did they move.

Not perfectly. Not polished.
But close. Real. The kind of dancing that looked more like holding.

He wasn’t thinking about the win anymore. Or the table. Or the girls at the jukebox.

Just the way she fit against him.
Just the fact that she asked him to dance and meant it.
Just the way she wore his hoodie like it was armor, and the way he never wanted it back.

His mouth found her ear again, breath warm as he whispered:

“You like it here tonight?”

He pulled back just enough to see her face — really see it. Then, soft and sure:

“I like you every night.”

And if she was wrecked before?
Well.

He planned to match her, heartbeat for heartbeat.

Ellie’s laugh came out softer than she meant it to — the kind that started in her throat but slipped out anyway, all nervous spark and sugar. She tilted her head up at him, eyes catching his in the dim amber light.

“Took me long enough?” she teased, trying for a smirk that didn’t quite hide the warmth underneath. “You’re acting like you’ve been patient this whole time.”

The way he looked at her in response — slow, steady, so full of fondness it made her chest ache — threw her completely off balance. He wasn’t supposed to look at her like that. Not here. Not with his teammates a few feet away and a half-dozen girls at the bar pretending not to watch them.

God, she could feel their stares.
The puck bunnies. Perfect hair, perfect lashes, perfect timing — all leaning on the jukebox like they were auditioning for his attention. They probably used to get it too. Back when she wasn’t around to take up space in his world.

But she was here now.
And she wasn’t going anywhere.

When he spun her, she let herself laugh — loud this time, bright enough to turn a few heads. Her hand slid up the back of his neck as she landed against him again, breathless, close enough to feel the smile he tried to bite back.

“Lose?” she echoed, pretending to think, fingertips brushing just under his hairline. “Hmm… maybe I let you win sometimes. Keeps your ego from deflating. It’s called charity, Harrison.”

He pulled her in closer — one hand at her lower back, the other still holding hers like he wasn’t planning on letting go — and she swore the whole room dimmed.

Then he said it.
That low, smug whisper against her temple: You’re not the only one who knows how to make people jealous.

She smiled against his jaw, wicked and knowing. “Oh, is that what this is?” she murmured, her lips brushing the corner of his mouth before she drew back just enough to look up at him. “Because if you’re trying to prove a point, babe…” Her voice dipped into a playful hush. “You’re terrible at subtle.”

The jukebox buzzed. The lights flickered gold and rose across his face. And when he asked — You like it here tonight? — she didn’t even hesitate.

“Yeah,” she said, voice steady now. “I do.”

And then came the line that nearly wrecked her. I like you every night.

Her breath caught. Just for a second.
She looked at him, really looked — and it hit her like a pulse, deep and slow. The affection, the certainty, the way he said it like it wasn’t up for debate.

“You really shouldn’t say things like that,” she whispered, eyes flicking between his and his mouth. “You’re gonna ruin my reputation as the difficult one.”

Then, because she needed the air to shift — needed her footing back — she poked his chest lightly, smirking. “And for the record,” she said, voice bright again, “if this was a competition… I definitely won.”

She leaned in, just enough that the girls by the jukebox couldn’t miss it. One hand slipped into the front pocket of his hoodie, fingers hooking casually like she’d done it a thousand times before.

Her lips brushed his jaw — soft, easy, practiced — and she smiled against his skin. “You don’t have to make anyone jealous,” she murmured, her voice barely above the hum of the music. “But if you’re gonna try…”

She tilted her head up, just enough to meet his eyes again. “Let me help you out.”

And then she kissed him — slow, shameless, sweet — right there under the neon lights, where every jealous pair of eyes could see exactly who he belonged to.

When she finally pulled back, she grinned up at him, the edge of her voice playful, triumphant, completely undone.

“Yeah,” she said softly, thumb brushing his hoodie drawstring. “I like it here tonight too.”

She kissed him in front of the whole bar.

And not just a kiss.
Not a quick press or a secret little thing he’d have to replay in his head later.

No—this was a claim.
A flag planted.
A challenge accepted.

And God, did he love her for it.

Because Ellie Tate didn’t do subtle. She didn’t ask permission. She didn’t wait around for someone to hand her a moment—she took it, rewrote it, lit it on fire and made it hers.

And now she was kissing him like she meant it.
Like she knew every girl watching used to matter and didn’t anymore.
Like the hoodie she’d tugged tighter around herself had turned into a warning label: his.

Tyler blinked once.

Then smiled.

Not the cocky, post-game kind—the one he wore when he knew he looked good and had the stats to back it up. No, this one was slower. Quieter. A little stunned.

Because fuck, she wrecked him too.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just let his forehead rest lightly against hers, eyes closed, breath brushing her cheek like the words were still catching up to the heat.

Then, softly, still grinning:

“You know that thing you just did?” he murmured, thumb brushing along the edge of her jaw. “Where you ruined my entire nervous system and made every guy in this bar jealous without even breaking a sweat?”

A pause.

“Yeah. That was subtle.”

He kissed her again—shorter this time, but no less real. Just a punctuation mark on whatever the hell this moment had become.

Around them, the bar kept moving. His teammates were loud, someone yelled about nachos, and the jukebox buzzed like it was about to give out.

But none of it mattered.

Because he was standing under the lights with Ellie in his hoodie and her hand in his front pocket, and she’d just kissed him like she didn’t give a shit who was watching.

That was the win.
That was the real high.

Tyler let out a breath and finally looked at her again, really looked—like he wasn’t rushing this, wasn’t afraid of what it meant.

“You don’t need to help me make anyone jealous,” he said, voice low, steady. “You just being here?”
He shook his head.
“Already did the job.”

Then, because he could feel her smirk coming before it hit her mouth, he added with a grin:

“And by the way… if you think you won tonight?”

He spun her gently again, hand catching her waist like a reflex, and leaned in close.

“Ellie,” he whispered, lips grazing her ear, “I’m still wearing your lip gloss.”

He caught her laugh as it hit the air and tugged her close again, hoodie strings tangled in her fingers and her heartbeat pressed right up against his.

They didn’t need a scoreboard.
Or a crowd.
Or a damn Ferris wheel.

This?
This was it.
A bar full of noise.
A hoodie that still smelled like ice and adrenaline.
And a girl who kissed him like she knew exactly who he belonged to.

He pressed one last kiss to her temple, held her there a beat longer than necessary, and smiled against her skin.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I like it here too.”

Ellie couldn’t stop smiling — not the polite kind, not the small, shy curve she used when she was pretending not to care — but the real kind. The kind that tugged at her cheeks and made her eyes soften even when she tried to play it cool.

When he murmured it — “You know that thing you just did?” — her brows lifted, teasing. “Hmm?” she said, voice light, like she didn’t already know exactly what he was talking about.

Then he went on, thumb grazing her jaw, grin wrecking her composure completely. “Where you ruined my entire nervous system and made every guy in this bar jealous…”

Ellie’s laugh slipped out before she could stop it — low, warm, edged with pride. “Oh, I did, huh?” she murmured, brushing her nose against his. “Guess I’ll have to start putting that on my résumé: professional system destroyer.”

When he added, “Yeah. That was subtle,” she tilted her head, lips quirking up. “You’re welcome,” she whispered, grin softening as her fingers found their way into the front pocket of his hoodie again. “Don’t say I never did anything nice for you.”

He kissed her again — brief, sure, and it made something flutter low in her stomach. She hummed against his mouth, barely parting from him before whispering, “Careful, Harrison… people are gonna start thinking you actually like me.”

Then he said it — the one that made her chest tighten and her pulse trip over itself. “You don’t need to help me make anyone jealous… You just being here? Already did the job.”

Her expression flickered — the grin still there, but softer now, realer. “Yeah, well,” she said, voice quieter, “guess we’re both pretty good at showing off.”

He didn’t let the moment sit still for long, though. His grin came back — trouble, pure and simple — and he spun her again, his hand finding her waist like it was muscle memory.

And then — “Ellie, I’m still wearing your lip gloss.”

Her laugh came out startled, breathless, and way too fond. “Oh, for God’s sake,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re hopeless.”

She reached up before he could blink, her thumb brushing over his bottom lip, slow and deliberate. “There,” she murmured, pretending to inspect her work like it was nothing, even though her pulse was hammering. “Can’t have you walking around branded like that.”

Her thumb lingered a beat too long before she dropped her hand, that little grin of hers curling at the corner again. “Though,” she added, voice dipping, “you did wear it well.”

When he caught her laugh and tugged her close again, she went willingly — tucking herself under his chin, one hand splayed against his chest, the other still tangled in his hoodie strings.

The noise around them faded, replaced by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the quiet warmth of his breath against her hair.

“Yeah,” she said finally, voice barely more than a whisper against his collar. “I like it here too.”

And if she smiled into his chest, smug and soft all at once — well.
He earned that.

Ellie leaned back just enough to look up at him — that lazy grin still ghosting on her lips, eyes glittering beneath the dim bar lights.

He was looking at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.
And maybe that was what did it.

Because one second she was laughing softly against his chest, and the next, she was reaching up, fingers sliding behind his neck, pulling him down into another kiss.

This one wasn’t a show.
It wasn’t for the room, or the jukebox, or the girls still pretending not to watch from the corner booth.

It was slow — deliberate — the kind of kiss that unfurled rather than hit all at once.

Her hand slipped into his hair, his breath caught in his throat, and the sound of the bar fell away like someone had turned the volume down on the whole damn world.

When his hands found her hips again, she felt his fingers tighten — not rough, just certain — before he lifted her, smooth and effortless, like her weight meant nothing.

Her legs straightened out as he caught her around the waist, her body pressed flush against his chest, every inch of her balanced in the space he made for her.

The kiss deepened for a moment, slow and consuming, until her laugh broke through between breaths — soft, disbelieving.

“Show-off,” she murmured against his mouth, her voice half a tease, half a sigh.

He only grinned — that smug, breathless kind of grin that made her heart tumble in her chest — and she couldn’t help but chase it with another kiss.

Her fingers brushed the edge of his jaw as she whispered, “Put me down before you get cocky enough to drop me.”

But she didn’t move away when he didn’t listen right away.
She just stayed there, hands tangled at the back of his neck, forehead resting against his, her laughter catching quietly between them.

“Okay,” she breathed, softer now, the words barely there. “Maybe I don’t hate it when you do that.”

And she kissed him again — slower this time, steadier — until even the jukebox seemed to hold its breath.