It was the first real date. No pretense. No press. No expectations. Just them.
Brace stood outside Sabrina’s door in a crisp navy button-down, holding a bouquet of wildflowers. Not roses—he remembered what she said once, that she preferred flowers that felt alive, not perfectly manufactured.
When she opened the door, wearing a sundress the color of dusk and a nervous smile, he forgot how to breathe.
“You look…” he paused, taking her in. “Unfairly beautiful.”
She laughed, cheeks pink. “You’re not so bad yourself, Coach Donovan.”
He handed her the bouquet, and she stepped close, softly kissing his cheek. “Thank you.”
He wanted to kiss her right then. But he didn’t. Not yet.
“Ready?” he asked.
“More than ready.”
Dinner was at a quiet little Italian place by the river—dim lighting, co
