OFFSIDE HEARTS

Cassie point of view The moment my boots hit the cracked sidewalk outside my mother’s weathered blue house, the smell of ocean salt and wet pine wrapped around me like a ghost I hadn’t meant to wake. Clearwater Ridge hadn’t changed not the sagging porches or the distant call of seagulls, not the familiar buzz of gossip behind half-open curtains. And definitely not the way this town held every memory like a scar. I took a deep breath and gripped the strap of my duffel tighter. This was temporary. Help Mom, check on the shop she insisted I open in her name, and leave before anyone remembered I used to belong here. The house creaked as I stepped inside. It smelled like cinnamon, old floorboards, and the faint scent of menthol from her heating pad. "Cassie?" my mother called weakly from the back room. I dropped my bag by the door. “Yeah, Ma. It’s me.” Her voice cracked through the silence like a splinter. “You look thinner.” “You sound nosier.” I smirked and kissed her forehead, trying not to let the way she winced hit me too hard. Later, after I got her fed and settled, I borrowed her car and headed into town for a few essentials and one drink to drown the hum in my chest that wouldn’t stop. ^°^^^^^^°^°^°^°^°^ The Rusty Anchor was louder than I remembered. Bodies pressed together on the dance floor. Glasses clinked, laughter roared, and the ceiling fans above creaked like they might fly off any second. Clearwater's rugby team had just won a game, judging by the celebration flooding the place. I didn’t plan to stay long. I kept my head down, pulled my jacket tighter, and slid onto a barstool near the edge of the chaos. “Cassie Monroe,” someone muttered behind me. “Well, hell finally froze over.” I didn’t even turn. “Good to see you too, Pete.” Pete Halvorson, the same bartender who used to sneak me sodas in high school grinned as he slid a glass of whiskey across the counter. “On the house. Heard about your mom. Glad you’re here.” I gave a tight smile and lifted the glass to my lips. The burn felt good. Familiar. Sharp. Then the room shifted. Or maybe I did. A ripple of energy pulled at me like a string. I turned instinctively slow, unwilling and there he was. Logan Morgan. Rugby jersey still clinging to him, dark with sweat at the collar. Broad shoulders, thick arms crossed over his chest. A grin tugged at his lips as he laughed at something a teammate said, but his eyes, those sharp, storm-gray eyes locked right on me. My breath stuttered. He didn’t move right away. Just stood there, staring like he didn’t believe I was real. I drained the rest of the whiskey. He started walking toward me. Shit. “Cass,” he said, voice low, textured like gravel and honey. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you here again.” I tried to keep my face blank. “Didn’t think you’d still be in the same bar five years later.” A flicker of amusement touched his lips. “We won.” “Congrats.” The tension between us was instant sharp and electric, like we’d stepped back into something unfinished. His eyes lingered, trailing from my face down the curve of my neck, past the line of my leather jacket. “You look good,” he said, voice rougher now. I rolled my eyes, but my pulse betrayed me. “You smell like grass and beer.” “You always liked that.” He said it soft, but it landed like a punch. I turned back to the bar, signaled for another drink. But Logan leaned in beside me, one hand brushing against my back barely there, but enough to make me stiffen. “Cass,” he murmured, close to my ear, “Why are you really back?” I swallowed. “Does it matter?” He didn’t answer. Just took the stool beside me. We sat like that for a few minutes saying nothing, feeling too much. Outside, the wind picked up. A storm rolled in quickly, the way it always did here, sudden and unforgiving. By the time I got up to leave, the rain had started. Thunder rumbled low in the distance. Logan followed me out the door. “You shouldn’t walk alone,” he said. “I’m not your responsibility.” “No,” he said. “You’re not.” But he fell into step beside me anyway. We didn’t talk. Not really. Just walked under the same umbrella he pulled from his truck, brushing shoulders, our arms accidentally touching more than once. Every time, my skin buzzed like it remembered him. The road to my mom’s house was a few blocks out, but I turned onto a quieter side street. My shortcut. Our shortcut. We stopped under a porch when the rain thickened, his jacket soaked, his hair dripping over his brow. “You shouldn’t have left like that,” he said suddenly, voice raw. My spine stiffened. “You shouldn’t have given me a reason to.” His jaw clenched. “I didn’t know what you needed.” “I needed you to choose something other than the damn game.” He stepped closer. “I didn’t know how.” The space between us burned. The porch light above flickered. Rain hammered the roof. My breath came short as Logan’s fingers lifted to tuck a wet strand of hair behind my ear. “You still mad at me?” he asked softly. I should have said yes. Instead, I whispered, “No.” And that was it. His lips crashed into mine, hungry, reckless, and devastatingly familiar. I clutched his soaked shirt, twisting the fabric in my fists as his mouth moved over mine, as if trying to drink in the five years we’d lost. His hands cradled my face like he couldn’t believe I was real, his thumbs brushing slow strokes across my cheeks. My knees buckled, but he caught me, pressing me flush against the wall just inside the door. The rain drummed hard against the windows, a storm thrashing just beyond, but in here, the world shrank down to heat, skin, and breath. “You didn’t forget,” he whispered against my mouth, voice rough and uneven. “Didn’t want to remember,” I murmured back, biting gently at his lower lip. “Didn’t work.” He groaned, deep and low, his hands sliding beneath my jacket to find the bare curve of my waist. My skin burned where his palms roamed. His touch was slow but purposeful like he wanted to relearn every inch. “You still feel the same,” he said, brushing his lips along my jaw, then down the column of my throat. “Still sound the same.” “Do I?” My voice hitched as his teeth grazed the tender spot below my ear. “You make these soft little sounds,” he murmured, kissing lower, across the open neck of my shirt. “Like you don’t want me to hear them.” I laughed breathlessly. “Maybe I don’t.” He pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes dark with heat. “Too bad.” The room was dim, lit only by the blinking neon sign from the shop across the street casting pale red against the ceiling. We shed layers as we moved through the small apartment; jackets, shirts, boots thudding to the floor. My fingers brushed over his chest, damp from the rain and hot beneath my touch, his muscles flexing as he inhaled sharply. “You’ve changed,” I said, letting my fingers trace the faint scar along his ribs. He caught my hand, brought it to his mouth, kissed the inside of my wrist. “You haven’t.” I arched a brow. “That supposed to be a compliment?” “That’s supposed to mean,” he said, walking me backward toward the bed, “I still want you like I used to. Only worse.” We fell onto the mattress together, the sheets cool against my back. His weight settled over me, but his touch never felt heavy. One hand slid down my thigh, then back up slowly, fingers curling under the edge of my panties. “Say you want this,” he whispered, breath hot against my collarbone. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” His mouth found mine again slower now, deeper. Our bodies aligned like they remembered each other, hips shifting, breaths tangling. He pressed kisses down my chest, along the slope of each breast, his hand still gliding over my side. The tension crackled, want tangled with history, anger, ache, and all the words we’d never said. “God, Cass,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “You have no idea how many times I dreamed about this.” I slid my hands through his damp hair. “Then don’t waste it.” We moved together like we’d never stopped, like five years hadn't carved a canyon between us. Every touch came with a memory. Every breath was laced with want. The bed creaked gently under us, muffled by the sound of the rain and the soft, stuttered gasps between kisses. His hand found mine beside my head, fingers locking. He looked down at me like he wanted to memorize the moment. “You always ran too fast,” he said softly. “Maybe you never chased hard enough.” His mouth curved into a small, wicked smile. “I’m here now.” And then he kissed me again, deeper this time claiming and slow. There was nothing rushed about it. Every movement was deliberate. We undressed each other with reverence and hunger, mouths trailing after hands, skin brushing against skin. He worshipped every inch of me with lips and tongue and fingers, murmuring things against my skin I wasn’t sure he’d ever said out loud before. “You taste like rain,” he said against my hip. “You feel like coming home.” He stilled for a breath at that eyes meeting mine, heavy with something I couldn’t name. Then we were tangled again limbs locked, heat building between us. The rhythm of our bodies grew faster, breathless, reckless. My back arched. His name slipped from my mouth like a prayer. And he answered with mine, over and over, like he needed to remember how it sounded on his tongue. And when we finally let go when we fell over that edge together. it was quiet and loud all at once. The storm outside cracked across the sky as if in time with our heartbeat. After, we lay tangled in the sheets, chests rising and falling together. My body hummed with aftershocks, nerves still sparking where he’d touched me. He reached over and brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. “Still think this was a mistake?” I closed my eyes for a beat. “Absolutely.” He laughed softly, then pulled me closer. We didn’t speak again. Didn’t have to.