Sophie's POV
I'm not entirely sure how I ended up here. Eric's couch is softer than it looks, and I've somehow migrated from "polite distance" to "knees practically touching" over the course of the last hour.
The romantic comedy playing on his television has become background noise—something about a woman who inherits a vineyard and falls for the grumpy local winemaker.
Predictable, ridiculous, exactly the kind of thing I would never choose for myself. Eric chose it. Said it was "ironically entertaining." I'm starting to suspect he just wanted an excuse to sit close to me in the dark.
The evening began innocently enough. He'd invited me over for dinner, promising to cook, and I'd accepted with the understanding that food would lead to other things.
What I hadn't expected was the domestic intimacy of actually preparing a meal together—standing side by side in his small kitchen, laughing over his terrible knife skills while he teased me about my tendency to over-season everything.
"That's way too much garlic," he'd protested, watching me add another clove to the pan.
"There's no such thing as too much garlic."
"There absolutely is, and I think you just found it."
But somehow, through our combined chaos, we'd created something surprisingly delicious. A pasta dish that had no right to taste as good as it did, eaten at his tiny dining table with wine that cost more than he probably should have spent.
It felt normal, easy. The kind of uncomplicated evening I've never allowed myself to imagine having.
Now the movie drones on and his hand rests on my knee, warm through the fabric of my jeans. I've stopped pretending to watch the screen. His fingers trace small circles against my thigh, each one sending sparks up my spine.
"This movie is terrible," I murmur, turning my head to find his face much closer than I expected.
"The worst," he agrees, but neither of us looks back at the screen.
His eyes hold mine in the flickering light from the television, something shifting in their depths. I watch his gaze drop slowly, deliberately to my mouth, lingering there long enough that my breath catches.
When his eyes lift back to mine, there's a question in them. A request for permission.
I answer by letting my own gaze fall to his lips. They're slightly parted, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my skin.
The moment stretches, tension coiling tighter with each heartbeat, until the space between us feels less like distance and more like a dare. The kiss starts gentle but builds quickly, weeks of tension finally finding release.
His hands slide into my hair while mine grip his shoulders, pulling him closer. We shift on the couch, repositioning until I'm practically in his lap, the forgotten movie playing to an audience of none.
"I've been thinking about this all week," Eric admits against my lips, his voice rough.
"Just thinking?"
"Among other things."
We explore each other with the unhurried passion of two people who finally have privacy and time. No family drama interrupting, no mysterious cars lurking outside—just us, alone, with an entire evening stretching ahead like a promise.
His hands slip under my shirt, warm against my skin, and I arch into his touch. This is what I wanted—simple, physical, uncomplicated.
A distraction from the chaos of my life, a few hours where I can pretend I'm just a normal woman enjoying a normal evening with a man who seems genuinely interested in her.
Then my phone rings. The sound cuts through the moment like a knife. Eric's hands still against my ribs, both of us freezing at the interruption.
"Ignore it," he suggests, his breath warm against my neck.
I consider it—really, genuinely consider it. But then I glance at the screen and see Blaze's name, and something in my chest tightens. He rarely calls unless something's wrong.
"I'm sorry," I say, already pulling back. "I need to check this."
I answer before I can talk myself out of it. "Hello?"
"Hey, are you busy tonight?" Blaze's voice sounds strained, tired in a way that goes beyond physical exhaustion. "I could really use another coffee and conversation session if you're free."
I glance at Eric, whose expression has shifted from passion to poorly concealed disappointment. He already knows what's coming. We both do.
"I'm not busy," I lie smoothly, already mentally cataloging where I left my shoes. "Same café as usual?"
"Yeah. I can be there in twenty minutes."
"See you then."
I end the call and sit up, putting distance between myself and Eric. The intimacy of moments ago has evaporated, replaced by awkward silence and the sounds of the movie neither of us is watching.
"Let me guess," Eric says, his voice carefully neutral. "You have to go."
"I'm sorry. My friend is going through something, and he needs…"
"It's fine, Sophie." But his tone suggests otherwise. "You have friends who need you. I get it."
The words aren't accusatory, which somehow makes them worse. He's not attacking me with ultimatums or dramatic declarations.
He's just... disappointed. Quietly, resignedly disappointed, like a man who's learning that the woman he's interested in will always prioritize other people over him.
Which is exactly what I keep doing. The night my father showed up, I sent Eric home. Every time he's tried to plan something romantic, I've cancelled or cut it short.
And now, in the middle of what was becoming a genuinely intimate evening, I'm abandoning him again for someone else's crisis.
"This keeps happening," I admit, sitting on the edge of the couch to face him. "And it's not fair to you."
"No, it's not." He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "But I knew what I was getting into. You warned me your life was complicated."
"That's not an excuse for treating you like a convenience."
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe, at my directness. "Then what do you want this to be, Sophie? Because I've been trying to figure that out for weeks now, and I still don't have a clear answer."
The question hangs between us, demanding honesty I'm not sure I'm ready to give.
What do I want? I want to keep him at arm's length where it's safe. I want to protect him from the chaos of my life—from my father's schemes and the dangerous people who might be watching me.
I want to pretend that whatever this is can stay casual and uncomplicated forever.
But I also want... more. More evenings like this one. More laughter in the kitchen and terrible movies on the couch. More of him, in ways I haven't let myself want anything in a very long time.
An impulsive idea strikes me—a way to make amends while buying time to process.
"What if you met them?" I blurt out. "Blaze and Asher—we could do a double date. Dinner somewhere nice, proper introductions, the whole thing."
Eric's eyebrows rise with obvious surprise. "Really?"
"They're my closest friends. If we're going to keep doing... whatever this is... then you should know the people who matter in my life."
He considers the offer carefully, and I can see him weighing what it means. Meeting my friends isn't casual. It's a step forward, an acknowledgment that he's more than just a convenient hookup.
"You sure about that?" he asks. "I mean, these are the famous hockey husbands. That's not exactly low-stakes."
"I'm sure," I say, though part of me wonders if I really am. "They're good people. You'll like them."
After a moment, Eric nods with a small smile. "Okay. I'd like that."
Relief and apprehension war in my chest as I gather my things. The double date will give me time to prepare for what Eric clearly wants—something real, something lasting, something I'm not sure I know how to give.
But maybe it's time to find out if I'm capable of letting someone get closer.
Even when everything else in my world feels balanced on a knife's edge.