Chapter 15 Amelia
amelia
. . .
Boxes are stacked like crooked tombstones in every corner of my apartment, each one labeled in black marker with pieces of my life.
Sketches, books, crystals, bathroom crap, shit I forgot I owned.
I swipe at my nose with the sleeve of my oversized shirt, pretending it’s just dust in the air that’s making my eyes sting.
My apartment, one I got all on my own after the divorce. One I worked so hard for.
The afternoon warmth gently streams through the delicate curtains, casting warm amber streaks across my beloved sage green velvet couch—my favorite piece of furniture. It carries a cozy scent of cardboard, packing tape, and the soft aroma of my bergamot candle flickering on the kitchen counter.
Rex paces around like he knows something’s changing, his claws clicking on the hardwood as he weaves between half-packed boxes.
I’m kneeling by the bookshelf when I hear Maverick step behind me.
“Need help?” Maverick says quietly, almost like he’s embarrassed to speak to me.
I don’t turn around. I don’t need him to see my face right now.
“No.”
He hesitates as he kneels beside me, the ghost of his fingers touching the nape of my neck. “You sure? I can take the heavy stuff, or—”
“Don’t touch me,” I say, sharper than I mean to.
The silence that follows is immediate. He steps back without saying another word.
A moment later, the door closes behind him.
Good, I need the fucking space right now.
I need to process this move without someone hovering over me, trying to fix things I don’t want fixed.
I keep packing, carefully organizing my books into a box labeled spicy reads. I pretend the ache in my chest isn’t there and that this isn’t a goodbye to the only home I’ve created alone, even as I silently fall apart.
It’s almost an hour before I hear the door again.
Footsteps echo softly against the hardwood, slow and hesitant, like he’s not sure if he should be here. I don’t bother looking up from the half-folded box in front of me until I hear the faint sound of him shuffling in the kitchen.
I turn my head and blink, confused for a moment as the smell of chilled espresso hits me. It’s rich, with sweet cream, caramel drizzle, and bitter cold brew, all blending into the humid, cardboard-scented air of my apartment.
I glance up.
Maverick’s crouched slightly, balancing a paper bag on his arm while arranging six iced coffees on the vinyl countertop.
His tall frame fills the narrow living room, with the sleeves of his worn tee rolled up his arms, and a faint sheen of sweat on his temple from walking in the LA heat.
His hair is a mess, and for once, he looks… nervous.
“What is all this?” I ask, blinking.
“I, uh…” he starts, eyes flicking up to mine. “I cleaned out a mountain of cold brew cans when I straightened this place up. Figured you liked coffee, but didn’t know which kind. So…”
I stare at him.
He gestures toward the row of plastic cups, each one already sweating through the paper napkins he tucked underneath.
“…I got you six.”
The silence stretches for a beat.
Is this love bombing, or am I so traumatized from my past relationship that I can’t tell the difference anymore?
“You brought me six coffees?”
He shrugs again, then scratches the back of his neck. “Thought maybe it’d make packing suck less.”
I stretch and stand, feeling my spine crack.
Without looking, I grab an iced coffee, condensation beads forming on the plastic, and take a long sip through the straw.
The flavors of vanilla and sweet cream cold foam swirl on my tongue, and I softly moan internally as the cold brew moves down my throat.
It’s my favorite, of course.
When I look up, Maverick is already gazing at me with adoration in his eyes.
He leans against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, watching me with that irritating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Fuck, his eyes, though, they’re fixed on me as if I’m the only thing in the room, and I feel the sensation of butterflies fluttering in my stomach, a feeling much too foreign to me.
“You’re staring again,” I say flatly, not giving him the satisfaction of eye contact.
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“Can you blame me?” His voice dips low, teasing. “You just wrapped your lips around that straw, and I couldn’t focus on anything else.”
I freeze mid-sip, the straw still in my mouth as I glare at him. “Seriously?”
He lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just an honest man appreciating the art in front of me.”
I shake my head, holding in a laugh as I walk past him. “You’re the worst.”
His laugh follows me. “Dollface, I’m the best terrible decision you haven’t made yet.”
I let out a long sigh.
God help me, he isn’t wrong.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I say, finally meeting his eyes as I sit back down in the living room, organizing boxes.
“You’re welcome.”
He lowers himself to the floor beside me, careful not to crowd me this time. He doesn’t say anything, nor does he attempt to touch me again, just quiet company.
Our shoulders brush, barely, but his warmth seeps into me anyway.
I don’t pull away, and I don’t lean in, either.
I just let him sit there as the late afternoon light filters through the curtains and stretches across my half-packed apartment.
He doesn’t push or fill the silence with his jokes or any of the things he usually does to crack me open.
For some reason, his quiet company makes me see him in a different light. He isn’t just a cocky football player who’s a notorious flirt and a womanizer; he’s someone without the jersey, and seeing him like this makes him real.
That’s what scares me the most.
We pack in silence with our shoulders touching and the faint pass of his fingers across mine.
I glance over at him, and he’s struggling with a roll of tape, and in that moment, I crack a small smile to myself.
It feels like I’ve torn a piece of myself away from LA and handed it over to someone else.
I haven’t said thank you, and I’m not sure I fucking can, not without my throat tightening with resentment, guilt, or something in between.
I drag one of my suitcases onto the porch, and Maverick’s phone rings. He glances down, frowns, and exhales before answering.
His voice begins casually, but as he listens more, his posture shifts—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, eyes flicking toward me, as if the conversation has suddenly become more serious than expected.
He hangs up a moment later, running a hand through his hair before facing me.
“That was Coach,” he says, stepping toward me and grabbing my suitcase. “First practice of the season is tomorrow. It’s open to the public, press, fans, cameras, the whole shabang, and Coach wants me on my best behavior.”
I watch him intently, with my arms crossed.
“I need you there,” he continues, his voice softer now. “We can sneak you in and out if you want, I just... I need you by my side, dollface. This whole thing—” he gestures vaguely toward the house, the driveway, “—only works if it looks real.”
I arch an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch between us. He knows what he’s asking, and he knows what it costs me to show up and pretend with strangers watching.
“I know it’s a lot. Fuck, I know it’s unfair,” he says quickly, stepping in front of me, eyes searching mine. His hands hover, as if he wants to reach for me, but doesn’t. “But I’ll owe you. I mean it. I’ll owe you the moon.”
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing a little, the heel of his palm dragging across his jaw in frustration.
“You want me to run shirtless through downtown? I’ll do it,” he says, throwing his arms out.
He finally stops pacing, facing me fully, his voice softer now, urgent and pleading. “Please.”
I realize he’s no longer joking. There’s something deeper in his expression now—earnestness, nerves, maybe even fear.
I sigh, running my fingers through my hair.
“Okay, husband.”
Oh God.
It slips out so fast, so casually, I barely register it until the air shifts.
Maverick freezes, then slowly and dramatically grins.
“What was that?” His eyes are wide, but his voice is full of mischief.
“Don’t make it a thing,” I mutter, already regretting it.
“Oh, it’s a thing,” he says, a devilish grin spreading across his face as he takes a step back, giving himself just enough space.
With a dramatic flourish, he flexes both arms, his biceps bulging beneath the snug sleeves of his T-shirt. The cotton stretches across his shoulders, pulling tight over his muscles.
He turns in a slow, exaggerated circle, showing off his massive arms.
“Damn right I’m your husband,” he says, smirking over his shoulder at me, one brow raised, his voice a perfect blend of cocky and playful.
“You’re my fake husband,” I deadpan, but I can’t help the flicker of a smile tugging at my lips.
He gasps dramatically, clutching his chest like I just stabbed him. “That hurt, dollface, wounded me right in my husband soul.”
I roll my eyes, fighting the smile dancing on my lips.
“She called me husband,” he sings quietly. “Gonna engrain that in my memory forever.”
“Please don’t.”
“Too late.”
Despite everything —my uprooted life, the knot in my stomach, and the fear I refuse to admit—I let myself laugh.
Just once.
And of course, Maverick hears it.
Nightmares come and go about my past; it’s nothing new to me.
I don’t remember how the nightmare begins. It never gives a warning. One second, I’m somewhere vaguely safe, and the next, I’m suffocating.
“You always ruin things.”
“No one else would love you like me.”
“You’re such a crybaby.”
He knocks me to the floor when I try to grab his phone, my suspicions of him cheating on me lingering in my mind.
He looms over me on the bathroom floor, snatching his phone out of my hands, telling me that I’m crazy and to mind my fucking business.
My heartbeat pounds in my throat, frantic and irregular, and my lungs struggle to fill with air.
I twist and turn, flailing my arms around, trying to break free from his grasp, but it feels like I’m tied down and nothing works. My legs tangle in the sheets, and a strangled, broken sound rips from my throat. It feels like I’m screaming, but all that escapes is a gasp for air.
“Amelia.”
His voice cuts through the fog, yanking me out of the nightmare.
I jolt upright, a cold sweat clinging to my skin, heart pounding so loudly I can feel it in my ears.
My breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps, and I can’t tell where the dream ends and reality begins.
Maverick’s room is dark, shrouded in shadows, with only the faint glow of the moon slipping through the wide windows.
He’s at the edge of the bed, chest heaving from running up the stairs. His hair is tousled, his eyes wide and frantic. “Hey—hey, dollface. You’re okay.” His voice is low, thick with sleep but lined with concern. “I’ve got you. It was just a dream.”
I try to speak, but nothing comes out.
Maverick doesn’t hesitate. He climbs onto the bed, moving on instinct, and pulls me into his arms. His hand presses firmly and steadily against the center of my back, while the other curls around my waist as he pulls me onto his lap.
He grounds me in a weird sense, his broad thighs beneath mine, his chest rising and falling against my cheek. My body trembles in his hold as I fist his bare chest.
“You’re okay. I promise. I’m right here.”
The nightmare breaks apart in fragments, fading with every circle of his thumb over my spine.
I finally lift my head; the room is quiet again. His eyes are tired, heavy-lidded, but the worry carved into his features makes my chest ache. He brushes a damp strand of hair off my forehead without thinking, his thumb trailing down to my jaw.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Maverick frowns immediately. “Don’t be sorry.” His tone is gentle but firm, like he’s shutting down the thought before it can take root.
That’s when I realize just how close we are. My thighs bracket his hips, my tank top damp with sweat and riding up, his hands still holding me steady. His chest rises against mine in short, uneven bursts.
“Shit,” he mutters, clearing his throat as he eases his grip. “We should… lie back down.”
Heat rises in my cheeks as I scramble off him, pulling the blanket up to my chest. He shifts beside me, pulling the covers back over his body and turning onto his side. I mimic him, but the space between us feels too wide.
Lonely.
“Can you…” My voice wavers, thin and unsure. I hate how vulnerable it sounds. “Can you stay?”
The mattress dips without hesitation.
His strong arms slide around me, pulling me back against him. His forearm tucks beneath my head, cradling it gently, while his other hand rests low over my stomach, his palm spreading heat into my bare skin between my shirt and the waistband of my shorts.
His touch isn’t demanding.
It’s steady. Protective.
His breathing evens into rhythmic patterns, each rise and fall brushing against my back until I match it without realizing.
His lips hover near my ear, his voice a sleepy whisper. “Night, dollface.”
The words sink deep.
I close my eyes, letting myself be held.