Chapter 18
Magnus
The first thing I notice when we get to Alaric’s apartment is how quiet it is. No noise, no TV, just the hum of the fridge and the occasional buzz from his phone on the counter.
He sets my duffel bag down by the door like it’s something fragile. I still smell like the hospital—antiseptic, metal, sweat. I’m too exhausted to care.
“Sit,” he says gently, pointing to the couch.
I do. The cushions sink under me, swallowing me whole. I don’t realize how badly I’m shaking until he kneels in front of me, his hands warm around my knees. His tux is wrinkled, his hair a mess from running his fingers through it for the last hour. He looks like hell. Beautiful, worried hell.
“You need to hydrate,” he says. “You’ve got nothing left in your system.”
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Water sounds good.”
He gets up, fills a glass, and comes back with that no-nonsense look doctors must have when they’re trying to save a patient from himself. His phone buzzes again—loud against the countertop—but he ignores it.
I take the glass. The water’s cold enough to sting my throat going down. I drink until my stomach sloshes.
Alaric hovers nearby, pacing, restless energy radiating off him like static. He stops only to glance at me, eyes scanning my face like he’s checking for hidden injuries.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just a couple scrapes. Nothing serious.”
“You could’ve—” He cuts himself off and turns away, dragging a hand through his hair.
“I didn’t,” I say softly.
He doesn’t respond. His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. “I’m calling off from hockey for a few days,” he says finally. “I told Coach I need personal time.”
I blink. “You can’t do that.”
“I just did.” He grabs a bottle of electrolyte drink from the fridge and hands it to me. “You’re staying here. You need sleep, real food, and to not drink yourself into another blackout.”
His tone is final. No room for argument. He’s in full caretaker mode, and some part of me that’s always had to take care of myself doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
I take the bottle and twist the cap open. “You don’t have to babysit me.”
“I’m not babysitting you,” he says, meeting my eyes. “I’m taking care of you.”
Something in the way he says it hits deep. I swallow hard and look away, pretending to focus on the condensation running down the side of the bottle.
“Thanks,” I mumble. The word feels small compared to everything he’s doing for me.
He gives a short nod, then gestures toward the bathroom. “Go shower. You’ll feel better.”
I glance down at my clothes. My jeans are torn from where I fell, my shirt dirty and still faintly smelling of cheap whiskey. “Yeah. Okay.”
When I stand, my body protests. My muscles ache, my head pounds, but the hot water helps. I lean against the tile, watching the dirt and city grime swirl down the drain, wondering how the hell I got here.
When I step out, I realize I’m not at my house and have no clean clothes. Typical. Before I can wrap the towel tighter around my waist and go looking, there’s a soft knock.
“Magnus?” Alaric’s voice. “I left something by the door. T-shirt and sweats.”
“Thanks,” I call out.
When I step into the bedroom, he’s on the couch, scrolling through his phone with a frown. The screen lights up with another call, and he presses it facedown on the cushion.
“Your phone’s gonna explode,” I say.
“Let it,” he mutters. “He can rot.”
I take a sip of the electrolyte drink, sitting down beside him.
He turns to look at me, eyes softening. “How’s your head?”
“Still attached,” I say. “No permanent damage.”
He doesn’t laugh. “Don’t make jokes about that.”
“I’m fine, baby.”
“Stop saying that when you’re not.”
There’s steel under the worry now. I open my mouth, then close it again. He’s right. I’m not fine. I’m hanging by a thread.
He exhales and leans back against the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“I scared myself,” I admit. “It’s not… I wasn’t trying to—”
“I know.” His voice softens. “But you’ve got to stop punishing yourself for things that aren’t your fault.”
I look down at my hands. The scabs on my knuckles catch the light. “It’s not that easy.”
“I didn’t say it was. But you’re not doing it alone this time.”
The silence stretches between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. The TV is off. A candle burns on a side table and there’s some light jazz music coming from a record player. The city outside the window hums with distant traffic. My body starts to feel heavy, but not in the bad way. Just tired.
Safe.
Then I remember something.
At the hospital, when Alaric was crying into my shoulder, barely breathing between the apologies and the panic—I think he said it. The words. I love you.
I was too far gone to process it then, too numb and broken to believe it was real. But now, sitting here, sober, with his hand resting loosely on the couch near mine, I need to know if I imagined it.
“Hey,” I say quietly.
He hums in response, not looking up. His silvery hair glinting in the soft light.
“Back at the hospital,” I start, trying to sound casual. “You said something. To me.”
He finally glances over. “I said a lot of things.”
“No,” I say, leaning in slightly. “You said something important.”
A faint pink rises in his cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I grin a little. “You do.”
“I don’t.”
I lean closer. “Say it again.”
He laughs nervously. “You hit your head. You must have been hearing things.”
“Say it,” I whisper, brushing my thumb against his jaw. “I need to hear it.”
He looks at me, torn between embarrassment and affection. Then he tries to stand up, but I catch his wrist and pull him back down, pushing him into the couch cushions.
“Magnus—”
My mouth interrupts him. The kiss is slow and maybe a little needy. “Say it.”
He exhales, eyes flicking to my mouth. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
The tension between us hums—electric, familiar, but softer now. His heartbeat is visible in the hollow of his throat. I shift closer, my lips aching to be on his neck.
“You almost died,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “And you want to pick a fight about semantics?”
“I want the truth.”
He presses his lips together, stubborn. So I kiss him again.
His breath catches against mine, and for a second, he melts into it. When I pull back, his eyes are half-lidded, pupils wide.
“Say it,” I murmur again.
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “You’re such an ass.”
“Yeah,” I say, kissing the corner of his mouth.
That earns me a quiet laugh. His hand slides up my arm, stopping at my shoulder. “You drive me crazy.”
“Good,” I whisper, my mouth tracing up his neck.
Another pause. Then, so soft I almost miss it—
“I love you,” he says.
Everything in me goes still. The words hang there between us, heavier than air. He said them once before, maybe, but this time I hear every note, every tremor.
I don’t breathe for a second. Then I smile. “Again.”
He rolls his eyes, but his voice is steady. “I love you.”
“Once more.”
“Magnus—”
“Humor me.”
He sighs, a smile tugging at his mouth. “I love you, you stubborn bastard.”
This time, I kiss him like I mean it. Like the words are a promise and not a prayer. His hands slide into my hair, pulling me closer, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not falling apart. I’m falling into something—into him.
Alaric squeaks, pulling away from me. “Are you hard just from me saying I love you?”
“I dunno.” I move his hand to the bulge between us. “Keep saying it and see if it gets bigger.”
He laughs against my mouth, his fingers slipping under my sweats and through my hair. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
I try to undo the buttons of his shirt but get too frustrated. I tear it open, buttons skidding across the floor.
“Mags—fuck.”
My mouth is already sucking one of his nipples between my teeth. That always seems to convince him.
He moans, his fingers wrapping around the base of my shaft. “You just got hit by a car.”
I lick up his pec. “I almost got hit by a car. We should celebrate that I didn’t.”
I pull off my shirt so I can feel his skin against mine.
Alaric’s hands shake as they work to untie my sweatpants. “We shouldn’t be celebrating anything.”
“Except that you love me.” I counter.
Alaric is rushing to shimmy out of his pants. “Do you want me to get dressed?”
“No, but I do want to fuck you against those giant windows of yours.” I smile wickedly.
“Mags...”
But the sight of his cock makes my mind go blank. “I’ll do that later; I need you moaning.”
I duck my head, pushing his cock as far as it can go down my throat. Alaric’s fingers tangle themselves in my hair. I put his legs over my shoulders so I can get closer.
“I missed you,” Alaric groans.
I kiss the inside of his thigh, biting harshly to leave a bruise before pressing two wet fingers into him.
He yelps, his thighs clutching my head slightly.
I look at him from between his legs, eyes heavy, want growing larger in my pants. “Say it again.”
“Really?”
I suck one of his balls into my mouth, toying with it with my tongue. I pressed a third finger into him as an answer.
“I love you, Mags.”
I think I black out for a moment, because one second I’m worshiping this beautiful man and the next I have him bent over the arm of the couch fucking him like he’s a dirty whore.
Fuck, he’s so fucking vocal. I love it. He’s perfect. He’s everything. He’s mine.
My cock spears into him. His hole clutching me like he needs me to survive.
“Harder, please,” Alaric whimpers.
“Say it.” My voice doesn’t sound like myself.
“I love you. I love you! I love you!” He keeps saying it until he’s drained every drop from me and made a mess of himself.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathless. His forehead rests against mine. The world feels small, simple.
“I love you, too,” I whisper.
“You better,” he says, voice rough.
He leans back, eyes searching my face. “Now drink the rest of that, or I’ll pour it down your throat myself.”
I laugh, taking the bottle from the table. “There’s that fierce love again.”
He grins, cheeks flushed. “Get used to it.”
I do.
Because for the first time, I believe him. And for the first time, I believe I deserve it.