Page 60 of Face Off
The drive back to my flat feels intimate. There’s no rush, no frantic tug of urgency like before. Just the steady rhythm of heartbeats, the occasional brush of his hand against mine, the quiet comfort of being together.
As we pull up outside my door, he hesitates, rocking back in his seat. “So, uh… after our little locker room adventure, do I get invited in again? Or am I on the naughty list?”
“You’ve been on the naughty list since the day I met you,” I say dryly.
He grins, leaning close. “And yet you are still letting me in.”
I sigh, pretending to be exasperated, though my heart is hammering. “Fine. But no funny business this time.”
“Define funny business,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.
I shove him through the door before my neighbours hear him.
Inside, the flat is dimly lit, the glow from the streetlamp filtering through the curtains. Ollie flops onto the sofa immediately, sprawling like he owns the place. I hang up my coat, watching him with a mix of amusement and fond exasperation.
“You’re very comfortable here,” I note.
He stretches, hands behind his head, a grin spreading across his face. “What can I say? Feels like home.”
Something tugs in my chest at that. Dangerous, tender territory. I busy myself with the kettle, filling it just for something to do. “Tea?”
“Always.” He pats the cushion beside him. “And bring yourself too. Don’t leave me lonely.”
I roll my eyes but make two mugs, setting them on the coffee table before perching next to him. He immediately slings an arm around my shoulders, tugging me close.
“You’re clingy,” I murmur, sipping my tea.
“And you secretly love it,” he says smugly.
Maybe I do. I lean into him anyway, the warmth of his body seeping into mine. The silence is comfortable, punctuated only by the quiet hum of the fridge and the faint traffic outside.
“Sorry about earlier,” I say eventually, my voice low. “Getting caught.”
“Don’t be,” he replies instantly. “Worth it.”
I glance up at him. His expression is open, unguarded, his eyes soft in the dim light. There’s no teasing edge now, no bravado. Just honesty. It makes my throat tighten.
“You’re trouble, Ollie Taylor,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he says, brushing his lips against my hair. “But I’m your trouble.”
The words hit deeper than they should. My heart stumbles, and I’m not sure if it’s from fear or joy. Maybe both.
We talk for ages. Nothing serious, mostly him telling bizarre training stories, me laughing until my stomach hurts. Every so often, he leans down to kiss me, slow and unhurried, a contrast to the frantic heat of earlier. It feels different. Sweeter. Like something is shifting between us, becoming more than just sparks and banter and the occasional hot sex.
At one point, he tilts his head back, groaning dramatically. “God, Jonno’s never going to let me live that down. Catching us once was enough, but twice was definitely a rookie mistake.”
“Someone has to keep you humble.” I say, smirking.
“Darlin’, I’m the humblest man alive.”
“Mm-hm. Tell me more about how humble you are.”
He grins, eyes twinkling. “Well, I only check myself out in the mirror three times a day now. That’s growth.”
I burst out laughing, nearly spilling my tea. “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” he says softly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, “are perfect.”
