The morning light seeped through the blinds, streaking the apartment with thin golden lines that did little to warm the tension still lingering between Sheila and Atticus. The night had been intense, intimate, and grounding, but reality came crashing back with the sun. Today was a day they couldn’t hide from—press conference, media scrutiny, and the looming presence of Carter, waiting to twist everything into a story.
Sheila sat at the small kitchen table, coffee cup in hand, her fingers tapping nervously against the ceramic. Her thoughts were a whirlwind—Carter’s manipulations, the injured player from yesterday, and the persistent, complicated pull she felt toward Atticus.
Atticus emerged from the bedroom, hair still slightly damp, wearing a fitted T-shirt and sweats. His expression was
