Page 47 of Falling Offsides

I don’t think. I just do it.

On my tiptoes, I fish Auguste’s chain out from under his hoodie and unclasp it before I thread the second tag on.

Auguste doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word.

“Samson’s human,” I murmur, running my thumb along the engraved text. “Now everyone knows who you belong to.”

The moment my fingers brush the column of Auguste’s throat, his hands come down—sharp, sudden—gripping my hips like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

I freeze.

He does too.

We’re locked in this suspended, breathless stare.

His eyes are dark green in the store’s overhead lighting—stormy, feral. Fixed entirely on my mouth. My tongue darts out without permission, and I hate how shaky my breath is. I hate how aware I am of every single inch between us—and how much I want to close it.

Then—

YAP!

Samson lets out a squeaky bark that echoes far too loud for his tiny lungs.

I leap back, startled, bumping into a stack of chew toys behind me. Auguste swears under his breath, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “Dude, you’re supposed to help me, not cockblock me.”

My cheeks are blazing hot as he goes back to the cart and we continue to the checkout.

I don’t call him out on his remark.

Mostly because I’m too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

By the timewe’ve loaded Auguste’s Lexus with all the doggy paraphernalia, the sun is setting and we find ourselves at a quaint little Italian bistro across the street. The evening is warm and we sit outside, tucked away at a quiet patio table. The evening air hums with soft laughter and the clink of silverware, and a warm breeze tugs at the ends of my curls. String lights flicker above us, giving everything a buttery glow. It’s cozy and wonderful, not where I saw myself this evening.

I fiddle with my silverware.

Auguste just watches me.

“Please tell me you like Italian,” he says with a hint of trepidation.

I breathe in deep, settling the nerves that havetaken over my stomach. My muscles are tense, and after my swim last night and this morning, they’re not happy with me. “No—I do. Pasta Puttanesca is one of my favorite dishes.”

“So what’s wrong, Princess?”

My heart skips a beat at the endearment.

“It’s just… been a long week and I woke up at the crack of dawn to catch the sunrise up on the rooftop.”

He nods, slow and knowing. “And then you went for a swim.”

“Aren’t you weirdly good at noticing things?” I say, trying to lighten the moment.

His mouth tilts. “Not weird. I just observe… it’s a middle child thing.”

Something in my chest pulls tight.

A waiter comes to drop off our food, and when it’s just us again, the quiet settles into something thicker. Dense with the weight of what’s unspoken.

“Consider this a thank you,” Auguste says suddenly, “for all the stuff you helped pick out for Sammy.”

---