Chapter 14 #2
Magnus comes first, drenching my core with his DNA.
He flips us, forcing me over the shower bench, using the cum as lube as he pounds into me harder.
My hands slip against the seat, my face pushing against the tile.
Drool slips from my tongue as I try to breathe through it all.
He ruins me. He puts me together just to tear me apart and make me feel like I’m seeing stars.
I come long and hard. My semen getting washed away in the shower’s stream.
We breathe hard before Magnus eases himself out of me, kissing my shoulder.
“Can we go again?” His voice is rough.
“Magnus,” I say in a warning tone. “I shouldn’t have let you do that the first time, idiot.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He smiles faintly, stepping back under the stream. The water runs over his face, down his neck. I hand him the soap and he starts scrubbing, movements mechanical, like he’s trying to wash something deeper than dirt away.
He rinses off, then shuts the water. The sudden silence feels heavier than before.
We towel off in awkward silence. I find one of his T-shirts—soft, worn, hanging off me like it’s three sizes too big—and he tosses me a pair of sweatpants. He pulls on boxers and a clean hoodie, hair sticking up in wet curls.
“Never thought I’d see you in my clothes,” he says with a crooked smile.
“Go to bed.”
He smirks. “You’re bossy when you’re worried.”
“Bed. Now.”
He obeys, surprisingly. The bedroom’s small, lit only by the orange glow of a streetlight bleeding through the blinds. The sheets are tangled. I sit on the edge of the bed while he crawls under the covers. He looks younger like this, stripped of all that bravado.
“You coming?” he asks sleepily.
“I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”
“Stay all night.”
I hesitate, then climb in beside him. He shifts closer instantly, his head finding my chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His breathing evens out, slow and steady.
For a while, I just lie there, listening. His hand rests against my ribs, fingers twitching occasionally like he’s dreaming. Every so often he murmurs my name, so quiet I almost miss it.
I run my hand through his hair, thumb brushing the back of his neck. The tough, loud, impossible man everyone else sees isn’t here. This is Magnus—vulnerable, unguarded, so open it makes something in me ache.
I’ve never been needed like this before. Not by anyone. My relationships have always been clean, polite things—dinners, small talk, mutual convenience. No one’s ever looked at me like I’m the only thing holding them together. It’s terrifying. It’s intoxicating.
He shifts again, arm sliding around my waist, holding me closer even in sleep. His breath warms the side of my neck. I let out a slow exhale, staring up at the ceiling.
I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t matter. That he doesn’t matter.
I’ve spent my entire life performing control: for my father, for the press, for the team. The perfect son, the steady player, the man who doesn’t slip. But with Magnus, I don’t have to perform. I don’t have to be perfect. I just have to be here.
And maybe that’s why I came tonight. Not because he needed saving, but because I did.
I look down at him. There’s a crease between his brows; his mouth softens when he sleeps. He’s chaos and calm all at once. A contradiction I’ll never stop wanting to understand.
“I can’t keep this quiet,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “I don’t want to.”
He stirs but doesn’t wake. His hand tightens on my shirt like he heard me anyway.
I press a kiss to his forehead. “You drive me insane,” I murmur. “But I think I’m done pretending I don’t love the fire.”
The rain outside has finally stopped. The apartment hums with the low sound of the heater kicking on. For once, I let the silence settle.
I close my eyes and breathe him in—cinnamon, warmth, and something that feels dangerously close to peace.
? ? ?
I wake to the quiet kind of morning, thin light bleeding through the blinds, radiator humming like an old cat.
Magnus is heavy against me, one arm over my ribs, his breath warm where my T-shirt collar has gone crooked.
He’s dead asleep, mouth parted, hair a riot of damp curls on my forearm.
Up close, he looks… softer. Less teeth, more human.
It stirs something in my chest that isn’t hunger or victory or any of the sharp things I understand. It’s simple. It’s terrifying.
I ease out from under his arm. He groans, buries his face in the pillow, and settles again.
I sit on the edge of the bed for a beat, just watching his back rise and fall.
There’s a bruise blooming at his shoulder blade—last night’s game leaving signatures.
I touch it with two fingers, light as a breath, and he doesn’t stir.
The kitchen is a dim postcard of bachelorhood: an almost-empty fridge humming at me, a counter with three clean glasses and one chipped mug, a bowl of loose change and one rogue screw that clearly belongs somewhere important.
The fridge contents are depressing and on-brand: two different kinds of protein shakes, half a sleeve of string cheese, mustard, and four cans of beer.
A pack of tortillas that expired last month tries to look innocent on the bottom shelf.
“Of course,” I mutter, closing the door on the echoing cold.
I pour out the beers and the almost-empty bottle of whiskey down the drain. He doesn’t need them anymore.
My phone says it’s barely seven. I pull on last night’s sweats and one of Magnus’s hoodies and slip out into the wet morning.
The building’s stairwell smells like old paint and someone’s cinnamon toast. On the street, the rain has thinned to a mist that dots my hair and lashes.
A corner market two blocks over is open—fluorescent, quiet, the clerk half-asleep behind a rack of scratch-offs.
I grab coffee grounds, eggs, butter, bacon, a loaf of decent sourdough, oranges, Greek yogurt, a small bundle of green onions, a block of sharp cheddar.
On an impulse I add honey and a bunch of parsley that looks too perky for this hour.
The bags are heavier than I expect on the walk back; it feels like purpose.
When I return, Magnus is snoring softly and unevenly.
The first crackle of bacon in the pan turns the apartment from aftermath to home; fat snaps like static, and the smell hits with a wave so warm I could lean on it.
I whisk eggs with a little yogurt and grated cheddar, sprinkle in chopped green onion and parsley, and set bread to toast in the oven with butter melting on top.
I separate oranges into tidy half-moons that immediately look too elegant for this counter and laugh at myself.
The coffee brews. The radiator clunks. Outside, tires hiss on wet asphalt. I move like I’ve done this here a hundred times, even though my body is still learning the geography of Magnus’s cupboards, where the pans live, which spatula wobbles.
When he appears, it’s quiet. No theatrical entrance.
Just the soft drag of bare feet on floorboards, a small sound like a complaint when the light reaches his eyes.
He’s in boxers and that inside-out hoodie from last night, the seam a pale line against his collarbone.
His hair is a lost cause. He blinks at me, then at the stove, then back to me again like he’s buffering.
“You stayed,” he says, voice gravel and sand.
“I did.” I flip the eggs slowly, carefully, like the pan owes me money. “Sit. Coffee’s almost done.”
He stands there a second longer, taking me in as if I might vanish if he looks away, then he rubs a hand over his face and obeys, lowering himself onto a chair like his bones are all set funny.
He winces at some private ache. My jaw tightens.
“Head?” I ask.
“Mm.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Feels like a drumline in there.”
“Water first.” I set a glass in front of him.
He drinks like it’s holy. The column of his throat works, and he exhales with his eyes closed, lashes damp from sleep.
When he opens them again, he finally registers the spread—the bacon resting on paper towels, the eggs in the pan, the orange slices fanned on a plate, toast catching the light in glossy sheets of butter.
“Did you rob a brunch place?” he asks, trying for a grin. It comes out crooked but brave.
“I bought groceries,” I say, plating food. “Your fridge had protein shakes and beer. That’s a cry for help.”
“That’s called efficiency,” he protests weakly.
“That’s called malnutrition.” I set a plate in front of him and pour coffee. “Eat.”
He looks—actually looks—like no one has set food down in front of him in a long time. He picks up the fork, scoops a bite of eggs, and pauses. “You cooked.”
“Yes,” I deadpan. “Billionaire families sometimes let their children touch stoves.”
He smirks and the expression lights him from inside. He finally eats. The sound he makes is embarrassing for both of us. “Holy—” He catches himself, glances up at me as if to make sure he’s allowed. “This is… really good.”
“It’s eggs and heat,” I say, unable to stop the small, pleased curl at my mouth. “I didn’t reinvent the wheel.”
“Don’t ruin my moment.” He eats again, faster. Watches me over the rim of his mug when he drinks. There’s color in his face now. His breathing evens. His shoulders drop a fraction.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he says, halfway through the plate.
“I know. I wanted to.”
“To be clear,” he adds, gesturing with his fork, “I am thrilled you did. I just… you know.” He flicks his eyes to the near-empty sink, the bottle from last night turned on its side. The living room. The not-nice parts. “I’m not exactly familiar with… this.”
“Breakfast?” I ask.
“Being taken care of,” he says, like the admission might break a tooth on the way out.
The fork clinks soft against porcelain. He looks at the table, then at me. The bravado he lives in slips an inch, and beneath it is something timid and bare.