Chapter 22
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
The second alarm drags me up from the dead.
I surface slowly, like breaking through warm water, the world syrup-thick around me. My limbs feel boneless, my skin hums where he touched me hours ago—hell, minutes ago, who knows anymore—and my throat is dry from groaning his name into a pillow.
For a second, I don’t open my eyes. I just breathe and feel.
Warm body beside me.
A leg thrown over mine.
The faint polished-salt smell of his skin mixed with sweat and sex.
The slow, even breathing of someone who got absolutely railed and then loved within an inch of passing out.
And then I do open my eyes, because how the hell am I not going to look at my husband the morning after we wrecked each other?
Ollie’s on his stomach, face buried in the pillow, hair a messy halo across his forehead.
One arm is slung over my waist, the other tucked beneath him like he was trying to hold himself down.
There’s a faint red mark on his shoulder from my teeth, and I feel something ugly and primal and stupidly tender claw up my chest at the sight.
He’s beautiful like this—unguarded, open, mine.
My husband.
Fuck, that word hits like a freight train every time.
I watch him for long enough that I know I’m being pathetic, but I can’t stop.
My heart does something embarrassing, a full stuttering roll, because nothing about this feels wrong.
Not even the hangover creeping in. Not even the sore burn in my thighs.
Not even the bruises I know I’m going to find later.
There isn’t even a flicker of regret.
If anything, there’s the opposite. A greedy, selfish kind of joy curling into my bones.
He stirs when I touch his hair, groaning low, burying his face deeper into the pillow.
“No,” he mutters, voice sandpaper thick. “Five more minutes.”
His hand drags up my ribs, lazy, possessive.
“You have a flight,” I whisper, kissing the side of his head. “And practice. And a future to dominate.”
“Don’t care,” he grumbles. “Cancel it.”
“You can’t cancel March Madness, Ollie,” I say, smiling into his hair.
He makes an unhappy sound that might actually be a growl.
I kiss beneath his ear. “Hey. Baby. Wake up.”
He goes still. Then—slowly—he rolls onto me, half asleep and all heat, pressing me into the mattress with his whole gorgeous body. His forehead drops to my chin, and he breathes against my throat.
“Don’t call me baby unless you want me to climb you again,” he mumbles.
My dick twitches in a way that proves I am, in fact, deeply in danger.
“Normally? Yes. Absolutely. Destroy me,” I say. “But we have—” I tap his hip. “—like forty minutes before you need to be dressed and out the door.”
He lifts his head enough to squint at me. His eyes are half lidded, pupils big, expression soft and wrecked and so fucking in love I have to look away for a second.
“I hate time,” he declares.
I laugh, helpless. “Same.”
He kisses me before I finish smiling.
It starts lazy, then turns hungry, his tongue sliding against mine, his fingers curling into my hair.
He’s grinding down before either of us notices he’s doing it.
His cock is thick and warm between us, still sensitive.
Mine responds instantly. My hips jerk and Ollie gasps, mouth dragging away from mine as if he’s been burned.
“Rafe,” he whispers, high and breathless. “Fuck.”
“I know,” I rasp, hauling him closer by his waist. “God, I fucking know.”
He rocks once—just once—and we both choke on the sound it pulls out of us.
And then I get it together enough to grab his face with both hands.
“If you stay here,” I pant, “if you keep doing that, you will miss your flight, and I will never forgive myself.”
He collapses against me again with a defeated groan. “Why are you the responsible one right now?”
“I’m not,” I say honestly. “I’m just trying to save us both from future heartbreak.”
He sighs into my neck, clutching me tighter for a moment before he finally pushes up and sits back on his heels. The sheet falls to his hips, and I actually forget to breathe.
“Jesus,” I whisper.
He smirks sleepily. “What?”
“Nothing,” I lie. Absolutely not nothing. “Everything.”
He blushes—hard—and mutters, “Shut up,” while climbing out of bed.
We move around each other quietly, like we’re orbiting the same sun. Too soft, too aware, too fucking married to make jokes about it yet. Every time his hand brushes mine—by accident, but maybe not—my chest tightens.
He pulls on his boxers. I tug on mine. Then our eyes meet across the room, and something warm and stupidly sentimental pulses between us.
We’re still drunk on each other.
Still high off last night. Still slightly disbelieving.
We ended up talking for hours until sunrise—about music, about basketball, about fear, about dreams. We’d traced each other’s futures with fingertips and whispered confessions we’d never dare say sober.
Then we’d kissed slow, sucked each other off under the sheets, whispered “I love you” like a secret and a promise.
Now, in the morning light, it doesn’t feel like drunk talk.
It feels inevitable.
He pulls on his jeans and stops, frowning. “My ring.”
I follow his gaze to the nightstand.
Two guitar-string wedding bands I’d reshaped half an hour before sunrise so they wouldn’t cut into us or slip off. I pick his up and cross the room to him.
“You can wear it on your finger,” I say softly, “if you want. But—you know. Cameras. Public. Whatever makes you feel safe.”
He swallows hard, looking at the small, imperfect circle on my palm.
“Give me your necklace,” he whispers.
My breath catches. “Are you sure?”
He nods.
The leather cord has hung around my neck for years—sweat-worn, soft, familiar. It’s stupidly sentimental, and he knows it. I pull it off and hand it to him.
Ollie threads the ring onto it, pushes it to the center, and loops it around his neck. The sight of my ring resting against his chest hits me so hard I have to blink.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
He meets my eyes. “Yeah. Same.”
We’re quiet again. Not awkward—just full. Overflowing.
He steps close, cups my jaw, and kisses me once, slow and deep, like he’s trying to memorize my mouth. I hold him there, kissing back until I feel him melt, until I know neither of us wants to break away.
But we do.
We have to.
He pulls back an inch. “I’ll text when I land in Phoenix.”
“And I’ll text after the meeting,” I say.
“Your big deal.”
“Your big tournament.”
We smile like idiots.
At the door, he hesitates again, searching my face. Then he says the words I will never tire of hearing. “I love you.”
Soft. True. No haze.
It knocks the air out of me.
“I love you too,” I whisper, pulling him in for one last kiss that tastes like goodbye and see you soon and don’t fucking forget me.
Then he’s gone.
The room feels wrong without him. Quiet in a way that scratches at my nerves. Sheets still smell like sweat and sex and him, and part of me wants to crawl back in and live there until the scent fades.
Instead, I let out a breath, drag a hand through my hair, and force myself into motion.
If I stay here, I’ll unravel.
So I grab clean clothes, head to the shower, and text the guys.
Me: Breakfast? Now? I need grease and coffee before my life changes.
My phone lights up immediately with a string of chaotic replies.
Good.
Distraction.
Because I might be about to sign a record deal. Because I might be about to build the life I’ve wanted forever. Because I married a man who feels like destiny.
And because somehow—God help me—we’re going to make all of it work.
Simpson Cole has been talking for at least ten minutes, but it only hits me now—really hits me—when he places both hands flat on the paperwork in front of him and says, “Three weeks.”
My brain stutters.
“Three weeks?” Eli blurts, sounding like someone slapped him awake. “As in twenty-one days? As in… soon?”
Simpson gives him this patient smile that probably costs money. “If you want the momentum from last night to mean something, yes. Horizon wants you in LA by then. Writing room, preproduction, then tracking.”
I swallow because I’m pretty sure my pulse just climbed into my throat. LA. Not just a weekend trip. Not a showcase. Not Anthony coming to check on us in a dingy bar. LA-LA. Labels. Studios. The whole monster.
The best part? It’s where Ollie is. Not that I can think about that right now. Not when my future is being stapled together across a conference table.
Simpson flips another page in the packet, then pushes it toward us. “This is a preliminary offer. Not final. We’ll need to tailor things once you have an agent negotiating on your behalf.”
Miles nods slowly. Analytical. “So this isn’t the contract.”
“No,” Simpson says. “But it’s the skeleton. I’m showing you what Horizon is prepared to commit to, and what they’ll expect in return.”
Drew leans forward, eyes bright. “What… like money?”
“Like advances, recording budgets, recoupment structure,” Simpson says. “Tour support. Merch percentages. All negotiable. All things you’ll need proper representation for.”
Eli elbows me. “Representation. That’s code for someone to stop us from signing our lives away.”
“It’s code,” Simpson says dryly, “for someone who knows how to keep you from getting eaten.”
My knee bounces under the table. I can’t stop it. I’m buzzing and terrified and trying not to think about the fact that my brand-new husband—Jesus, those words—will be within touching distance.
Simpson taps the page. “Now. Logistic concern number one: You can’t work remotely, and you can’t commute. You need to be in LA. Full-time. At least six months. After that, we can talk about flexible timelines.”
Eli blinks. “We’re… already in LA.”
“Yes,” Simpson says, “and that simplifies one hurdle. But you’ll need to be available full-time. Daytime hours. Evenings. Weekends. Whatever the producers need.” He taps the folder. “Which means academia may not fit into that picture.”
Miles sits up. “We’d have to drop classes.”