27. Peyton
PEYTON
Five days pass.
One hundred and twenty hours.
Not that I’m counting.
I’m absolutely counting.
Things with Daltyn have settled into a routine again, technically. Coffee in the mornings. Breakfast in the cabin. He drives me wherever I need to go because my ankle is still healing, and apparently, letting me drive myself anywhere would cause his soul to leave his body.
He still checks that my boot isn’t too tight. Still asks if I’ve eaten. Still brings me coffee without asking. Still notices every wince, every shift, every time I try to hide that my ankle aches.
But he doesn’t touch me unless he has to.
Not like before.
There’s no casual hand at the small of my back. No fingers brushing mine and lingering. No hovering close enough that I forget how breathing works. No almost-kisses. No actual kisses .
Just careful distance wrapped in caretaking. Which somehow hurts worse.
He still acts like I matter. Just not enough to want me.
Or maybe that’s not fair.
Maybe he wants me too much, and that’s the problem.
I don’t know anymore.
All I know is that I’m tired of feeling like I’m living inside a question he refuses to answer.
By the time Saturday evening rolls around, I’m already emotionally bruised before we even leave for Connor and Allie’s house.
Daltyn stands near the front door, keys in hand, looking unfairly good in dark jeans and a black Avalanche hoodie.
I’m wearing jeans, the CAM boot for the last time, and one of his oversized hoodies because I’m apparently incapable of making healthy emotional choices.
His eyes flick over me, then stop on the hoodie, darkening for half a second.
Then it disappears behind that guarded expression I’ve come to hate.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Yep.”
His jaw flexes like he hears the sharp edge in my voice.
Good. Maybe he should.
The drive is quiet. Not uncomfortable in the way it was at first, when everything between us was uncertain and new.
This is worse.
This is quiet layered with history.
Quiet because of a kiss we haven’t talked about. Quiet because of everything he won’t say.
Connor and Allie’s new house glows with warm light when we pull into the driveway. Cars line the curb .
Daltyn parks but doesn’t move to get out.
I glance over.
His hands are still on the wheel.
“You okay?” I ask, even though I’m tired of asking that question.
He exhales through his nose. “Yeah.”
Fine. Yeah. Good. The holy trinity of emotionally unavailable men.
“Great,” I mutter, opening my door before he can come around to help.
“Peyton.”
I ignore him and step carefully onto the driveway. My ankle twinges, but I refuse to react.
Behind me, his door slams.
“Stop doing that,” he says, voice low as he rounds the SUV.
“Doing what?”
“Acting like you have to prove you don’t need help.”
I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Funny.”
His eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Peyton.”
I turn toward the house. “Come on. We’re late.”
For once, he doesn’t argue. Which somehow makes me even angrier.
Laughter spills faintly through the front windows before we even reach the door. Part of me wants to turn around and leave. The other part hopes this night will give me a reprieve from the weirdness between Daltyn and me.
The second Connor opens the door, chaos hits us with its full force.
Music. Laughter. Voices. The smell of pizza, wings, beer, and something sweet drifts from the kitchen .
Connor grins when he sees us. “There they are.”
“Don’t start,” Daltyn mutters.
“I haven’t even said anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
Connor presses a hand to his chest. “Wow. Accused of thought crimes in my own home.”
Allie appears behind him, beaming. “Ignore him. Come in.”
She hugs me first, warm and tight, and for some ridiculous reason, that almost breaks me.
Because I’ve missed this. The noise. The people. The way they make room for me like I was always expected.
Ford is eating off Harper’s plate in the living room. Cole and Chloe are arguing over whether pineapple belongs on pizza. Jake’s wearing an apron that says, I Like My Meat Rare and My Hockey Players Rough.
Gram is perched on the couch with a glass of chardonnay, wearing a sparkly pink blouse, leopard print pants, and earrings shaped like tiny flamingos. The woman is a fever dream.
The room goes suspiciously quiet when Daltyn and I step farther inside.
Not fully quiet. This group is physically incapable of silence. But quieter. Like everyone senses the weird energy between us and decides to be nosy about it.
Gram’s eyes sweep over me, then Daltyn. Then she zeros in on the hoodie I’m wearing, and her mouth drops open. “Oh my stars and garters.”
Ford groans. “No.”
She gasps so hard I think she might choke on her wine. “You’re official!”
Daltyn’s brows shoot up. “What? No?— ”
Something inside me snaps.
Maybe it’s the week of distance. Maybe it’s the way he kissed me like he was dying, and then spent seven days acting like touching me might destroy him. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s been making me feel like I’m his in every way that matters while refusing to say it out loud.
Whatever it is, I’m suddenly smiling. Sweetly. Dangerously.
“Yes, we are,” I say, clapping my hands once before accepting the drink Harper silently offers me. “Didn’t he tell you?”
The entire room freezes.
Daltyn turns to me like I just kicked him directly in the soul. “What?”
I sip my drink. “Sorry. I suck at keeping secrets.”
Connor makes a strangled sound.
Allie bites her lip.
Harper’s eyes go wide.
Ford looks like he’s trying to decide whether to intervene or grab popcorn.
Gram clasps her hands against her chest like she just witnessed a royal engagement. “FINALLY! You two were radiating so much sexual tension, I had to use my hormone patches.”
Ford closes his eyes. “You’re not on hormone patches.”
“I am now.” Gram lifts her chin. “You think this natural glow just happens?”
Connor sidles closer, eyes bright with pure chaos. “So when did this happen?”
“Connor,” Allie warns.
“What? I’m being supportive.”
“You’re being messy.”
“I contain multitudes.”
Daltyn’s voice is low. “Peyton. ”
There it is. That warning tone. The one that used to make my stomach flutter. Now it makes my spine stiffen.
I finally look at him. “Yes?”
His jaw is tight. His eyes dark. Not angry exactly. More like overwhelmed.
Welcome to the club.
“We should talk,” he says.
I smile. “We are talking.”
“In private.”
“Oh.” I widen my eyes innocently. “Now you want to talk?”
Silence drops like a stone.
Connor whispers, “Oh shit.”
Jake appears from the kitchen holding tongs. “What’d I miss?”
“Everything,” Chloe whispers back.
Daltyn’s gaze sharpens. “Outside. Now.”
I laugh once. “Bossy.”
His nostrils flare.
And because I apparently have a death wish, I take another sip of my drink and say, “Careful, goalie. People might think you care.”
The room goes quiet.
And then I turn on my heel, racing for the back door.
What the hell am I doing?
The cold evening air hits my face the second I step onto the back porch. The door shuts behind us, muffling the chaos inside.
Tears are dangerously close to spilling down my cheeks.
I want to be alone.
Yet, there’s a part of me that wants Daltyn to follow me. Even now, when I’m furious, I still want him .
Then the door flies open, and his heavy footsteps pound across the deck.
I turn around, ready to have it out with him.
“We’re not dating,” he says, his voice rough. “We never talked about?—”
“I live with you,” I shoot back. “You hover over me like an anxious bodyguard. You threaten baristas who smile at me. You buy me winter clothes like I’m moving into your cabin permanently. You kissed me like you forgot how to breathe and then spent the entire week acting like I’m radioactive.”
His face tightens.
I step closer, jabbing a finger into his chest. “If it walks like a boyfriend and glares like a boyfriend?—”
“That doesn’t mean I’m your?—”
“What?” I snap. “What, Daltyn? My what? My roommate? My caretaker? My personal chauffeur? My emergency contact with emotional constipation?”
His eyes flash. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Tell the truth?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” My voice cracks, and I hate it. “Because you won’t tell me. You just keep pulling me close and then shoving me away like I did something wrong.”
Pain flickers across his face.
I look away before it softens me.
But it’s too late. I’m already soft for him. That’s the problem.
He drags a hand through his hair. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then why does it feel like I did?”
His throat works.
For a second, he doesn’t answer .
And that silence hurts so much worse than anger.
I laugh, but it sounds broken. “Exactly.”
I turn toward the door.
His hand catches my wrist. “Peyton.”
I freeze.
His voice is different now. Stripped raw.
I don’t look back. “Let go.”
“I can’t.”
My heart stops.
Daltyn’s hand is wrapped around my wrist like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
“What?” I whisper.
He steps closer. His chest brushes my back.
“I can’t,” he repeats, voice low and wrecked. “That’s the whole fucking problem.”
My breath catches.
Then his hands are on my waist.
He turns me around, and the second I see his face, I lose every word I had left.
Because he looks ruined. Furious. Terrified. Desperate. Like he’s been fighting himself all week and finally lost.
“I’m trying to do the right thing,” he says roughly.
I swallow hard. “By hurting me?”
His face flinches.
That lands.
I wish it didn’t.
“No.” His grip tightens slightly on my waist. “By keeping you safe.”
“I don’t feel safe when you pull away without telling me why.”
His eyes squeeze shut for half a second.
When they open, something in them has cracked wide open. “I’m not good at this. ”
“Clearly.”
His mouth twitches, but it’s broken around the edges. “I’m trying not to want things I shouldn’t want.”
My pulse stumbles. “What things?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. Then back to my eyes. “You.”
The word is quiet. Devastating.
My heart slams against my ribs. “Daltyn…”
He moves before I can say anything else.
One second, we’re standing there with all this hurt between us.
The next, his hands slide around my waist, and he hauls me against him.
His mouth crashes into mine. Not gentle. Not careful. Not controlled. This kiss is a week of silence detonating. A week of distance. A week of wanting and fear and everything he refused to say.
I gasp against his lips, and he takes it, kissing me deeper, harder, like he’s trying to apologize and claim and surrender all at once.
My fingers fist in his hoodie.
His hand slides into my hair. And for the first time all week, I can breathe.
I hear Allie gasp. “Holy shit.”
Daltyn freezes against my mouth.
I pull back just enough to stare up at him, breathless.
His forehead drops against mine. “Fuck,” he whispers.
I let out a shaky laugh. “That’s one word for it.”
His eyes stay closed for another second, like he’s trying to piece himself back together.
Then he looks at me.
And there it is again. The same look from the photo. The one that makes me feel like I’m the only thing he sees .
Connor’s voice breaks through the moment. “FAKE DATING, MY ASS.”
Daltyn’s jaw tightens.
I pull back slightly. “Did you tell him it was fake?”
“He cornered me in the weight room, and I panicked.”
“He obviously didn’t believe you.” I bite back a smile. “You should probably go murder him.”
“I’m considering it.”
But he doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
His thumb brushes over my cheek, softer than the kiss was. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
The apology hits harder than I expect.
“You should be.”
His lips twitch.
“But you’re not off the hook.”
“I know.”
“And we’re talking.”
His face tightens slightly.
“Actually talking,” I add.
He exhales. “Yeah.”
My chest aches. That single word sounds like it cost him something, but he said it anyway.
Inside, Gram yells, “I WANT GRAND-GOALIE BABIES!”
Daltyn closes his eyes.
I start laughing. Really laughing.
And this time, when he looks at me, he doesn’t step back.
He smiles.
It’s small. A little pained. A little terrified.
But real.
And God help me, I think that might be enough to break my heart.