His name sent a shiver down my spine, straight to the bruise he’d left at my side. No broken ribs, thankfully, but every step took effort.

I’d heal though. Physically.

“Thank you,” I whispered and wiped more tears away. “Thank you for always being there.”

“It’s what friends are for, dumbass, and now that the serious shit is out of the way, what do you think of my brother’s place?”

“I’m eating avocado toast he made me.”

“Damn straight you are. You hit the jackpot. He’s almost as good of a cook as I am. You hang out there and you’ll be fat and happy in no time.”

“I’m already fat,” I retorted. I wasn’t. I had curves and hips and a stomach that rolled over my waistbands. I worked out. I was strong, and I knew I looked good despite always being the heaviest in my friend group. I’d worked hard to be confident in my body since there was no way I’d ever be a size two or four.

“Fuck off. I could use some of your curves.”

“Stop living on kale and herbs. It’s all those vegetables you eat,” I teased her right back.

We were laughing. Which I figured was her intent, and as we volleyed back and forth over whose ass was better, I tugged my plate closer and munched on my avocado toast, took a deep breath, and tried to do what Heather said.

I could do anything I wanted.

Everything would be fine.

I would be fine. Especially if Kane agreed to Heather’s idea.

By the time I finished my avocado toast and a second cup of coffee, Kane came back inside, made his protein smoothie, and after we cleaned up the dishes, me insisting since he cooked, he gave me a tour of his townhome.

The house was gorgeous, modern with black metal railings, exposed ceilings, pipes painted black, and fixtures that were all oversized, bare light bulbs. His furniture was dark gray, soft and his sectional couch in the living room was made for lounging and binge-watching your favorite television shows or movies. His house was pristine, and whether that was because he hired someone to clean it or because he lived alone and was adult enough to pick up after himself was anyone’s guess. The glass door leading to the pool opened like a garage door and stole my breath once he opened it. I could imagine his team there, in his space, guys partying and drinking and women in tiny bikinis lounging in the hot tub.

Then I kicked that out of my brain because I didn’t need to be thinking about Kane in that way.

I didn’t ask Kane to show me his bedroom—I’d seen enough of him this morning when he woke me out of my nightmare. A vision I’d spent the first fifteen minutes trying to block from my brain’s recall. There was some generic artwork on the walls, a few of his jerseys hung in his guest bedroom slash office, and the last room, which was next to his and connected to it via his outdoor, second-floor balcony, he’d set up as a weight room.