Chapter 14 #3
“I’m not used to people staying,” he says quietly.
“I noticed.” I take the chair beside him, close enough that our knees bump. “I’m not used to staying.”
He huffs a laugh that’s mostly breath. “So we’re both amateurs.”
“We can practice,” I say.
He sets the fork down and drags a hand through his hair.
His fingers snag in a curl; his mouth pulls to one side as he frees it.
And something in me drops anchor. He is objectively a mess: hoodie inside out, boxers riding low, a bruise darkening at the hip where the fabric doesn’t quite hide it.
And it hits me with the clarity of a clean line change how absurdly, painfully cute he is like this.
Not the on-ice weapon, not the locker room legend.
Just a man blinking at morning in borrowed kindness.
“You’re staring,” he says, wary.
“I’m admiring,” I correct, and lean over to kiss him.
It’s not the kind of kiss that makes the walls tilt.
It’s soft, tasting of coffee and salt and relief.
He inhales against my mouth like he’s been holding his breath since the door opened last night.
His hand finds my jaw, thumb resting at the hinge like he memorized the spot.
When I pull back, his eyes are warmer, less scared animal, more person.
“Alaric,” he murmurs. Like a question. Like a thank you.
“Just let me take care of you,” I say. The words surprise us both with how easy they come.
He blinks hard. Looks down. His voice drops. “I don’t know how to—” He swallows. “I mean, I’m good at getting hit, and hitting back. I’m good at skating until everything else shuts up. But I don’t… I don’t know what to do when someone’s… kind.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” I say. “Eat. Shower again if you want. We’ll nap. You’ll stretch. I’ll bully you into electrolytes like a tyrant.”
He smiles into his mug. “Hot.”
“Truly depraved.”
He laughs, then goes quiet, thumb worrying the handle. “I was embarrassed when you walked in last night,” he admits without looking up. “This place, the mess, me—drunk, saying stupid shit like I’ll be your man in the dark. I keep thinking you’re going to realize I’m not worth the trouble.”
I set my elbow on the table, my chin on my palm, and consider him. “You do realize your version of ‘not worth the trouble’ is the only person who’s ever made me get in a shower mostly clothed and then knocked me out with a snore?”
“I don’t snore,” he says automatically.
“Lies,” I say, and he grins, busted.
He finishes breakfast and pushes the plate away, sitting back with a sigh that sounds loose for the first time since I met him.
I top off his coffee and slide the orange slices closer; he eats them one by one like a kid braving citrus for a dare.
Between bites he watches me move around his kitchen, and the look on his face is the one you reserve for miracles you don’t want to spook.
“You really bought groceries,” he says, softer, as if this is the piece he can’t quite compute.
“For me,” I say, echoing his own language back to him. “So that the next time I come over and open your fridge, it doesn’t try to mug me.”
“The next time,” he repeats, tasting it.
“Yes, Magnus. The next time.” I pause, let it land. “Unless you’d prefer a long-distance texting relationship?”
He shakes his head at once. “No. God, no.”
“Then practice this with me,” I say. “Let me show up. Let me make too much coffee and rearrange your terrible cutlery drawer and steal your hoodies.”
He looks down at the hoodie swallowing me and gives up a small, helpless smile. “You look better in it than I do.”
“I know.”
“Oh, he’s humble,” he mutters.
“Famously.”
His hand slides across the table until our fingers touch. It’s tentative, like crossing a river on the first step of a slippery stone. I turn my palm and lace our fingers, answer made.
“Tell me if you want me to shut up,” I say.
“Never,” he says instantly. Then a beat. “Actually, that’s a lie. Maybe for, like, an hour.”
“Nap,” I decree.
“Okay, Coach Hale,” he says, almost fondly.
I clear plates and run water. He tries to stand to help; the room tilts on him, and he sways. I’m at his side before he gets to test gravity a second time. My hand finds his waist. His weight finds me. We share a breath that smells like coffee and soap and something like relief.
“Easy,” I say. “You’re still dehydrated.”
“Thought I was built of iron filings,” he says, eyes closing as if the simple act of leaning is its own drug. “Turns out I’m more… papier-maché.”
“Still salvageable,” I say. “High-end papier-maché.” I kiss his shoulder.
He opens his eyes to narrow them at me. “I’ll remember that when I put you through the boards next month.”
“You won’t,” I say softly.
His smirk fades. His thumb presses, unconsciously, against my hip where he’s holding on. “No,” he says, almost to himself. “I won’t.”
We move back to the couch slowly. He collapses into the cushions, drags me with him until we’re a tangle—his head on my thigh, my hand in his hair. The radiator hums. Somewhere upstairs a neighbor thuds a drawer shut. Morning thickens into something golden and slow.
“I don’t deserve this,” he says, voice thin. “You. Breakfast. The way you look at me like I’m not a walking cautionary tale.”
“Deserve’s a bad metric,” I say. “Try want. I want to be here.”
His eyes flick to mine, immediate, hungering. “Even if I—” He stops. Starts again. “Even if it’s messy?”
“Especially if it’s messy.”
He breathes out like a man dimly, delightedly dying. “I don’t know how to be good at this.”
“We’ll be bad at it together,” I say. “It’ll be our thing.”
“Great brand,” he says, but he’s smiling too hard for the sarcasm to land. He shifts, tucking in closer, an animal selecting a den. “Hale?”
“Mm?”
“You buying groceries… that got me,” he admits, like confessing a crime. “I know that’s small. But nobody… does that. They come for the game, or the win, or the fight. Then they go.”
“I’m not nobody,” I say.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “You’re not.”
His eyes finally start to dip closed, the violence in his face easing notch by notch. I drag my knuckles along his scalp and feel him release a layer I didn’t even realize he was still wearing. The drumline behind his eyes quiets. The lines at his mouth soften.
“Sleep,” I say.
He frowns like he wants to argue on principle, then yawns and betrays himself. “Stay.”
“I was planning to,” I say.
He blinks once, heavy-lidded, the blue of his eyes almost translucent in the pale light. “The thing you said last night,” he murmurs. “About not hiding.”
My chest tightens. “I meant it.”
He nods, small as a nod can be. “Let me… catch up,” he says. “I’m coming, I swear. I just… I want to do it right. Not a headline. Not a stunt. Us.”
“Us,” I echo. I bend and press my mouth to his temple. “Take your time.”
He closes his eyes. A minute passes. Another.
The building’s old bones click and settle.
I breathe with him, matching the rise and fall, letting it anchor me to something that isn’t duty or expectation.
When his hand loosens on my knee and the weight of him shifts into sleep, I let myself look straight at the feeling I tried to fidget around all night.
I want this. Out loud. In daylight.
He makes a small sound, the kind that would be embarrassing if he were awake. I smile at it like it’s a gift. “You’re ridiculous,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. He’s here, warm and heavy, trusting me with the softest version of himself. I stroke his hair and the morning keeps unfolding—slow, generous, ordinary in the way I never let myself want.
“Just let me take care of you,” I say into the quiet, more vow than request. “Let me stay.”
Hours later, Magnus is draped across the couch when I finish dressing, one arm flung over his eyes, blanket twisted around his waist. The morning light sharpens every edge of him—the bruise along his jaw, the cut on his knuckle, the curve of a mouth that looks too smug for someone still half-asleep.
I’ve just slipped my watch on when my phone buzzes. Dad.
Lunch. 12:00. My office. Don’t be late.
It’s not a request.
I stare at the screen longer than I should. Magnus notices.
“Don’t go,” he says, voice still rough with sleep.
“I have to. It’s my dad.”
“No, you don’t.” He sits up, the blanket slipping to his hips. He looks wrecked and beautiful, the kind of sight that makes logic short-circuit. “You could just… not.”
“Magnus—”
He leans forward, catching my wrist, tugging until I’m standing between his knees. “Stay.” His hands slide up my sides, lazy but deliberate. “He can wait.”
“He can’t.” My voice shakes.
Magnus tilts his head, eyes dark and unreadable. “Did something happen?”
I look away from him. “No. He just needs me at the office.”
Magnus stands up, towering over me. His fingers turn my face to meet his eyes. He looks skeptical.
“I’m fine, Mags.”
He nods and his mouth finds mine. It’s the kind of kiss that unravels things—the kind that starts slow, then ignites, teeth and heat and the faint taste of coffee on his tongue. My hand lands on his shoulder, meaning to push, but it turns into a clutch instead.
He murmurs against my mouth, “You smell good. Expensive.”
“You smell like trouble.”
“That’s mutual,” he whispers, lips trailing down my jaw.
I try to laugh, but it comes out as a shiver.
He smirks, presses me back against the counter, his hands skating under the hem of my shirt, tracing the curve of my spine.
He kisses me again—deeper, hungrier. For a heartbeat, I let him.
I’m a moaning mess. His fingers pinching my nipples, making them strain against my t-shirt.
My hips grinding against his to find any friction.
His free hand slipping into my jeans to cup my ass.
Then I pull away, breath uneven. “That almost worked.”
Magnus smirks, tongue brushing my lower lip. “Almost?”
“I have to go,” I say, softer now. “But I’ll come back tonight.”