Page 29 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Player

We picked up where we left off.

She’s curled against my side, one leg tangled with mine, breathing slow and even.

Morning light spills through the gap in the curtains, painting soft gold across the room.

I don’t move.

I don’t think I could if I wanted to.

Because somehow...

This feels too perfect to disturb.

I spent weeks imagining what meeting her might be like.

Wondering whether the woman behind the messages would laugh the way I imagined.

Whether she’d smile the same way in person.

Whether she’d still like me once she met the real me.

I never imagined...

This.

Her hair is a mess.

She’s stolen half the blankets.

One of my T-shirts hangs almost to her knees.

She’s beautiful.

Not because someone spent two hours doing her hair yesterday.

Not because she’s wearing designer clothes.

Because she’s asleep with one hand wrapped around mine like letting go never occurred to her.

My chest aches.

Not painfully.

Just...

Full.

I’ve won playoff games.

I’ve held championship trophies.

None of it compares to waking up next to someone who knows every awkward, anxious, embarrassing part of me...

...and stayed.

Her eyelashes flutter.

Then those familiar brown eyes blink open.