Stephanie Archer

I pull the navy and white jersey out of the box, turning it to read the back. STREICHER is stitched in bold white lettering, and my body hums with something pleased, proud, and possessive. "You don't have to wear my name on your back," he says quietly, watching me carefully. "We can take that part off."

"Don't you dare." I hold his gaze as my insides melt into a puddle. "I want to wear your name."

"Okay." The corners of his mouth hitch, and his eyes warm. "I want you to, too."