It's been a week since I held Maya while she cried about Lily, and I've turned into a fucking insomniac. Every night, I lie in bed listening for sounds from upstairs. Waiting for another nightmare, another chance to comfort her. But the house stays quiet, and I'm left staring at the ceiling like an idiot, hard as a rock and thinking about how perfectly she fit in my arms.

"Anderson! What the fuck are you doing?"

Coach's voice cuts through my distraction, and I realize I've been standing in the corner of the rink for who knows how long, stick dangling from my hands like dead weight.

"Sorry, Coach. Just thinking through that last play."

"Think faster. We've got our first game in two weeks."

I skate back into position, trying to focus on the drill. But my mind keeps drifting to Maya. The way she looked this morning at breakfast, hair wild from sleep, wearing an oversized t-shirt that made her look small and vulnerable. The way she smiled when Ethan demanded she help him with his cereal, like being needed by someone was slowly bringing her back to life.

"Jesus Christ, Jackson." Chase skates up beside me during a water break, pulling off his helmet. "What's with you today? You look like shit."

"Thanks for the pep talk."

"I'm serious. You've been off all week. Coach is about to bench you for the opener if you don't get your head out of your ass."

I know he's right. I've been distracted, sloppy, making mistakes I haven't made since junior league. All because I can't stop thinking about a woman who's completely off-limits.

"I'm fine."

"Bullshit." Chase leans against the boards, studying my face. "This is about Maya, isn't it?"

My gut clenches. "What about her?"

"Come on, man. I'm not blind. You've been watching her like a hawk, and she's been looking at you like she's trying to solve a puzzle. What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on. I'm just worried about her."

"Worried." He says it like it's a foreign word. "Right. And I'm worried about the Easter Bunny."

"She's been through hell, Chase. Someone needs to make sure she's okay."

"Someone? Or you specifically?"

I don't answer, which is answer enough. Chase sighs, the sound echoing off his helmet.

"How long have you been in love with her?"

The question hits like a body check to the boards. "I'm not—"

"Don't. Don't lie to me. I've seen the way you look at her."

Fuck. If Chase has noticed, who else has? "It's complicated."

"How is it complicated? You like her, she clearly likes you back—"

"She's Emma's best friend."

"So?"

"So it matters. Emma comes first. She always comes first."

Chase pulls his helmet back on, shaking his head. "You know what I think? I think you're using Emma as an excuse because you're scared."

"Scared of what?"

"Of actually going after what you want for once in your life."

The words sting because they hit too close to home. I've spent my entire life being responsible, reliable, the steady one. I don't take risks, especially not with people I care about. But Maya... Maya makes me want to throw caution to the wind.

"Even if that were true," I say, "it doesn't matter. She kissed me over a year ago, and I fucked it up. I hurt her. She's not going to give me another chance."

"Have you asked her?"

"Have I asked her what?"

"For another chance. Have you actually talked to her about what happened that night?"

"Not really, but—"

"Then you're an idiot." He skates away before I can respond, leaving me standing there with his words echoing in my head.

The rest of practice is a blur. I go through the motions, but my mind is elsewhere. On Maya, on that night at her birthday party, on the way she looked at me in the kitchen yesterday like she was seeing me for the first time.

By the time I get home, it's almost five-thirty. The house smells like garlic and herbs, and I can hear music playing softly from the kitchen. I follow the scent, expecting to find Emma cooking, but it's Maya standing at the stove, stirring something in a pan.

She's wearing one of my old college sweatshirts.

The sight stops me cold. It's just a piece of clothing—probably something she grabbed from the laundry room without thinking—but seeing her in something of mine does things to my chest. Makes me think about lazy Sunday mornings and shared closets and all the domestic shit I've never wanted with anyone else.

The sweatshirt is enormous on her, hanging past her hips, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and she's barefoot, swaying slightly to the music. She looks like she belongs here. Like this is her kitchen, her home.

Like she's mine.

"Smells incredible in here," I say, leaning against the doorframe.

She jumps, nearly dropping her spoon. "Shit. You scared me."

"Sorry. Didn't mean to sneak up on you." I step into the kitchen, trying to keep my eyes on her face instead of the way my sweatshirt hugs her curves. "Where is everyone? Chase left before I did."

"Emma's upstairs napping with Ethan. He wore her out at the playground today. Chase is picking up groceries." She turns back to the stove, adding what looks like wine to the pan. "I thought I'd make dinner. It's the least I can do after freeloading for weeks."

"You're not freeloading."

"I'm a grown woman living in your sister's guest room with no job and no prospects. That's pretty much the definition of freeloading."

"You're family. Family doesn't freeload."

She glances at me over her shoulder, something soft in her expression. "Thank you. For saying that."

"I mean it."

"I know you do. That's what makes it mean something."

I move closer, close enough to see what she's making. Some kind of pasta sauce, rich and red and bubbling softly. "What can I do to help?"

"You could make the salad. Emma keeps the good stuff in the bottom drawer of the fridge."

I pull out lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, falling into an easy rhythm beside her. This is dangerous—working together like this, the casual intimacy of cooking side by side. But I can't make myself leave.

"How was practice?" she asks, reaching across me for the pepper mill.

Her arm brushes mine, and electricity shoots straight to my cock. "Fine. Chase thinks I need to get my head out of my ass."

"Do you?"

"Probably."

She laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "What's got you distracted?"

You.

"Just the usual season nerves."

"Bullshit."

I look up from chopping tomatoes. "What?"

"That's bullshit, and you know it. You don't get nervous. You're Jackson Anderson. You eat pressure for breakfast."

The fact that she knows me well enough to call me on my lie does something to my chest. "Maybe I'm getting old."

"You're thirty-two, not ninety-two." She bumps my hip with hers, a casual touch that makes my skin burn. "Come on. What's really going on?"

I could tell her the truth. That I've been distracted because I can't stop thinking about her, can't stop replaying the way she felt in my arms, can't stop imagining what would have happened if I'd kissed her back that night. But that would change everything, and I'm not sure either of us is ready for that.

"Just thinking about stuff," I say instead.

"Stuff."

"Yeah. Stuff."

"You're about as forthcoming as a brick wall, you know that?"

"Says the woman who's been avoiding talking about her feelings for weeks."

"Touché." She tastes the sauce, makes a face, and adds more salt. "But we're not talking about me right now."

"Why not? I like talking about you."

The words slip out before I can stop them, and Maya's hand stills.

"Jackson," she says softly.

"Yeah?"

"What are we doing?"

The question is loaded with meaning. She's not asking about dinner or cooking or the mundane tasks of sharing a kitchen. She's asking about this thing between us, this tension that's been building since the night I held her.

"I don't know," I admit.

"Me either."

"Is that okay?"

She looks up at me, her brown eyes searching my face. "I think so. For now."

"Good. Because I'm not ready to figure it out yet."

"Scared?"

"Terrified."

She smiles, the first real smile I've seen from her in weeks. "Good. Me too."

We go back to cooking, but the air between us has shifted. There's an awareness now, an acknowledgment of whatever this is building between us. It's dangerous and complicated and probably a terrible idea, but I can't bring myself to care.

"Hand me that wooden spoon?" Maya asks, pointing to a drawer.

I reach for it at the same time she does, our fingers colliding on the handle. For a second, neither of us moves. Her skin is soft and warm, and I can feel her pulse fluttering under my thumb.

"Jackson." Her voice is barely a whisper.

"I know."

"This is—"

"Complicated. I know."

"We shouldn't—"

"I know."

But neither of us pulls away. We stand there, fingers intertwined on a stupid wooden spoon, staring at each other like teenagers with their first crush.

"You two are adorable."

Emma's voice from the doorway makes us both jump apart like we've been caught doing something far more incriminating than cooking. My sister stands there with a knowing smile, her hair mussed from sleep.

"We were just—" I start.

"Making dinner," Maya finishes, her cheeks flushed.

"I can see that." Emma's grin widens. "You make a good team."

"Where's Ethan?" I ask, desperate to change the subject.

"Still napping. That kid could sleep through a tornado." She moves to the stove, peering over Maya's shoulder. "This smells amazing. What is it?"

"Just a basic marinara. Nothing fancy."

"Fancy enough for me. I'm starving." Emma looks between us, that matchmaker gleam in her eye that I recognize from our childhood. "You know, you two should cook together more often. You have a good rhythm."

I can feel the panic rising in my chest. Emma's connecting dots I'm not ready for her to connect, and Maya looks like she wants to disappear into the floor.

"I should go shower," I say abruptly. "Before dinner."

"But you're not done with the salad—"

"Maya can finish it. She's more than capable."

I practically flee the kitchen, ignoring the confused look on Emma's face and the hurt one on Maya's. But I can't deal with this right now. Can't deal with Emma's knowing looks and Maya's soft touches and the way everything feels too domestic, too right.

I grab clean clothes from my room and head upstairs to the bathroom, the same one where I walked in on Maya naked just over a week ago. The memory hits me as I strip off my practice clothes and step under the hot spray, trying to wash away the feeling of her skin against mine. But it's no use. She's under my skin now, in my blood, and no amount of cold water or self-denial is going to change that.

When I finally emerge, dressed in clean jeans and a t-shirt, I can hear voices from the kitchen. Dinner's ready, and I should go down. But the thought of sitting across from Maya, pretending I don't want her, pretending this afternoon didn't happen, makes my stomach clench.

Instead, I head back to my room and grab my laptop, settling into an armchair and pulling up game footage. It's cowardly, but I need distance. Need to figure out what the hell I'm doing before I do something stupid and ruin everything.

The problem is, I'm starting to think that wanting Maya isn't the stupid thing.

Not having her might be.

But that realization scares me more than anything else, because it means everything is about to change. And I'm not sure any of us are ready for that.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Chase: Stop being an idiot.

I stare at the message for a long moment, then set the phone aside without responding. Because the truth is, I don't know how to stop being an idiot when it comes to Maya Rivera.

I've been an idiot about her for years.

From upstairs, I can hear Emma and Chase laughing, Ethan's babbling, and underneath it all, Maya's voice. Warm and alive and everything I want but can't have.

Or can I?

Chase's words bounce around in my head: Have you actually talked to her about what happened that night?

Maybe it's time I did.