CHAPTER FOURTEEN #3
“I’m not asking you for anything you don’t want to give,” I say. “I’m telling you that if I kiss you, it will not be because I forgot what it could cost.”
Sienna’s breath catches.
“Then why?” she asks.
The answer is already there.
Under Briarwood lights.
In the diner booth.
In the car while rain wrote on the windshield.
In the stadium when she cut the camera because a truth belonged to me before it belonged to her.
“Because I know.”
She looks at me for one long second.
Then another.
There is time for her to step back.
Time for me to.
Neither of us does.
The distance closes slowly.
Not like a mistake.
Like both of us are giving the other every chance to say no.
Her hand lifts first, then stops near the front of my hoodie, not touching. Asking.
I nod.
Her fingers curl lightly into the fabric.
That is what breaks me.
Not the almost.
Not the wanting.
The care in the asking.
I lift one hand to her jaw, barely there, thumb resting near the curve of her cheek. Her skin is warm under my hand. Her eyes flutter once, then hold mine.
Still a choice.
Still room.
Then I kiss her.
Soft.
Careful.
A quiet answer to every question neither of us has been able to ask directly.
She goes still for half a heartbeat, and then she leans in.
Not far.
Enough.
Her fingers tighten in my hoodie, and the whole week narrows to the warmth of her mouth, the softness of her breath, the small sound she makes and immediately seems to regret.
I do not push.
I do not take.
I let the kiss stay exactly what it is.
Trust.
Risk.
A line crossed with both of us looking straight at it.
When she pulls back, I let her.
My hand falls from her face.
She keeps her fingers in my hoodie a beat longer before she lets go.
Her eyes are wide and bright and terrified.
“This makes everything harder,” she says.
“Yes.”
“You’re supposed to say no.”
“I’m trying not to lie to you.”
That almost gets a laugh.
It almost breaks her.
She steps back and reaches for the edge of the table, steadying herself without making it obvious.
Too late.
I see.
She sees me see.
Neither of us mentions it.
“We need rules,” she says.
“Okay.”
“No public moments.”
“Okay.”
“No private rooms with closed doors.”
I glance at the open business-centre door.
She does too.
That should not be funny.
It almost is.
“Okay,” I say.
“No pretending this is simple.”
“Agreed.”
“No letting whatever this is hurt the team.”
“Agreed.”
“And no making me your secret in a way that protects you and costs me.”
That one hits harder.
I step back.
Not from her.
For her.
“You won’t be my secret,” I say. “But I will not make you content either.”
Her mouth softens.
“I mean that,” I say. “I’ll follow your lead on what’s safe. Not because I want distance. Because you deserve it.”
She looks down.
When she looks back up, the brightness in her eyes is still there, but her voice holds. “You’re very hard to argue with when you’re being reasonable.”
“I’ll try not to make a habit of it.”
“Please don’t. It’s unsettling.”
The printer wakes.
Both of us flinch.
A page slides out.
Then another.
Then another.
Sienna turns toward it like she needs the escape. She gathers the pages, taps them into a neat stack, and then freezes.
“What?” I ask.
She stares at the top page. “Travel packet.”
The universe is a comedian.
She lifts the pages.
NEW YORK/NEW JERSEY FINAL WEEK ACCESS
Below it: arrival schedule, official training, media village credentials, fan zone windows, broadcast centre map, Final stadium access, post-match pathways.
The next three days in paper form.
Every camera.
Every risk.
Every consequence.
Sienna holds the packet against her chest like armour.
I should not find that endearing.
I do.
She looks at me over the top of it. “Three days in the Final bubble.”
I nod.
The business centre feels smaller now. Not because of the kiss.
Because of what waits after it.
“We either survive it,” she says, voice soft, “or it tells the story for us.”
I look at her.
The woman who cut the camera.
The reporter who wants the truth.
The person I just kissed with my eyes open.
“Then we tell it first,” I say.
She does not smile.
Not quite.
But something in her face steadies.
Outside the business centre, the hallway remains too bright, too ordinary, too full of tomorrow. Inside, Sienna gathers her laptop, her notes, and the packet that might as well be a warning label.
I pick up the printouts she missed from the tray and hand them to her.
Our fingers brush.
Brief.
Careful.
Not accidental.
She takes the pages.
“Goodnight, Darius.”
“Goodnight, Sienna.”
I leave first because if I don’t, I may not.
In the hallway, I pass the vending machine, the ugly carpet, the generic skyline print. Colton is gone. Good. I don’t have the emotional bandwidth for his face right now.
At the elevator, I touch two fingers to my mouth before I realize what I’m doing.
Then I lower my hand, press the button, and wait for the doors to open.
Tomorrow, we leave for the Final.
Tonight, I kissed the reporter.
And for the first time all week, the danger is not that she might tell the story wrong.
It’s that she might be part of the only version I want to get right.
***