The first time I slept in his bed, nothing else happened.
That sentence would have been impossible three months earlier. It would have been impossible three weeks earlier. Even three days earlier it would have required a formal risk assessment and a written exit strategy. But on a Saturday night after a home win that left both of us vibrating with residual adrenaline and something quieter and more dangerous, I looked at Damian Kane across the ordinary light of his living room and said, “I’m too tired to walk back in this cold. If I stay, the rules stay. Nothing further. I just… don’t want to leave yet.”
He studied me for a long moment, the same focused inventory he used on opposing setups, and then nodded once.
“Rules stay,” he said. “Nothing further. You take the side nearest the door.
