I take the elevator up and the doors slide open to reveal my new place—thirty-six floors above Chicago, with floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering cityscape. I've only been living here for a week, and it still feels like a dream—something I’ve always wanted and I can’t believe it’s actually mine.
My phone buzzes with a text from Elena: "Be there in 10."
I text back quickly: "Door code is 8989. Let yourself in. I'll be in the shower."
Stepping into the bathroom, I catch sight of myself in the mirror—helmet hair, skin flushed. I hardly recognize this version of me sometimes—the one who walks away from fights, who chooses quiet nights in over bar-hopping, who's actually working on building something real.
The hot water pounds against my back, washing away the game. I'm halfway through shampooing when I hear Elena's voice calling out.
"Nate? It's me."
"In the shower," I call back. "Make yourself at home. Wine in the fridge if you want."
I rush through the rest of my routine, impatient to see her.
When I emerge squeaky clean and dressed again, Elena is standing by the windows in the living room, silhouetted against the city lights. She's wearing soft leggings and an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder. Her dark hair falls loose down her back.
"This view is insane," she says without turning. "You can see half of Chicago from up here."
I move to stand beside her. "Best part of the place."
She turns to face me then, and the soft smile that spreads across her face undoes me.
"Hi," she says softly.
"Hi," I reply, resisting the urge to drag her into the bedroom and have my way with her. We're taking things slow. Building trust. So I give her a hug instead and she melts into me. Fuck, this is going to be harder than I imagined.
“Congrats on the game,” she says with an enormous smile. “I don’t think you saw me, but I was there. I was fifteen or so rows up from the bench.”
“I was hoping you’d made it.”
I hope she noticed what happened with me and that asshole Brenner but I didn’t want to bring it up—that would feel kind of weird.
“Can I show you around?” I ask.
“Yes, please. I’ve never been in this building before but, so far, I’m super impressed.”
“I'll give you the grand tour,” I say, taking her hand. Her fingers intertwine with mine naturally, like they belong there.
I lead her through the open-concept kitchen first. "Custom cabinets. Granite countertops. All the fancy stuff."
"Did you pick all this out yourself?" Elena runs her hand along the sleek island.
"God no. Hired a designer. Told her I wanted something that didn't scream 'bachelor pad' but still felt like me."
"She nailed it." She then inspects the six burner range that cost me a small fortune. "Do you actually cook, or is this just for show?"
"I'm learning," I admit with a laugh. "Made pasta that wasn't completely terrible last night."
"Impressive," she teases, that playful spark in her eyes that I can’t resist.
I tug her hand gently and we move down the hallway, and I push open the first door. “Guest room,” I say.
The room is tastefully decorated in soft grays and ivory, with a plush king bed and a small reading nook by the window.
Finally, I lead her to the owner’s suite. The door swings open to reveal a spacious bedroom with panoramic views of the city. A massive king bed dominates one wall, draped in white linens with a few muted throw pillows.
Elena’s eyes are wide as she touches the bed linens. “Was all this the designer, too?”
