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I remember the way he had looked on his knees for me. Eyes aggressive and teasing, daring me to take him, wreck him, use him. And fuck, I did.
He has me wrapped around his finger, and he knows it.
This was never supposed to happen. He was never supposed to happen. Not after that first night two years ago, when I swore it was a mistake. A wild, reckless blur I’d bury and forget. But I couldn’t. Haven’t.
I crave him like a moth to flame, drawn in despite the burn.
I do not know whether it’s the sexual tension or the sex that makes me want him. I don’t know whether it’s him—who he is, the way he moves through the world as if it belongs to him—or the way he disrupts mine so effortlessly.
My stubborn spitfire.
The one I can’t have.
The one I shouldn’t even want.
I roll my shoulders once, easing the tension before it settles too deeply, then lean back against the bench. The cool surface presses against my spine, grounding me just enough to pull my thoughts into something resembling order.
Whatever storm Maksim has decided to drag into my life this time can wait.
For now, there’s something simpler.
Jamie won his game.
That matters.
At least for the next few minutes.
Right on cue, he bursts out of the basketball building, energy practically radiating off him as he jogs toward me. His face is lit up, sweat still clinging to his skin, joy written into every line of his body. And just like that, the world shifts back into place.
He drops onto the bench beside me. Shoulders loose, legs stretched out, chest rising and falling as he exhales hard, still riding the tail end of adrenaline.
“Man,” he mutters, running a hand through his dreads, “I’m not gonna lie… I think we won that game by luck.”
“You think?” I lift a brow.
He scowls immediately. “Don’t start. Can you just for once be normal and say ‘good job, Jamie’ without adding commentary?”
“I didn’t add commentary,” I say mildly. “But you did win by luck. They were on your neck the entire time.”
A short laugh slips out of him, and he bumps his shoulder against mine. “You’re actually insufferable.”
“And yet,” I reply, glancing at him, “you keep inviting me.”
“Because you show up,” he mutters. “Even if you act like a hater the whole time.”
That earns him a quiet huff of amusement from me, something softer than I usually allow.
“You played well.”
It lands the way it always does.
His expression shifts instantly. His smile deepens, a dimple cutting into his cheek, his eyes brightening as he looks at me as if I’ve just handed him something far more valuable than words. Like my approval still means something.
It shouldn’t.
I’m not the person he thinks I am. Not the one worth looking up to. Not the one worth waiting for like this.
And yet… he always has.
