Chapter 13 #3
Seeing it does something violent and quiet to my chest all at once. I want to tell him. I want to tell him I never stopped loving him. Not for a second. Not even when I told myself I had to.
But this isn’t that conversation.
Not yet.
We strip the rest of the way in silence that’s anything but awkward.
It’s charged. Thick. Not shy—just aware. He steps closer, and I feel it when his eyes shift. He’s looking at me the same way I just looked at him. I’m not the same either.
Eight years in the League changes you. I’ve filled out. Thickened through the chest and thighs. My shoulders are wider. My waist tighter. Everything about me feels heavier. Stronger.
Rafe’s hands settle on my hips like he needs to confirm it’s real. “Jesus,” he murmurs.
“What?” I try for casual. Miss by a mile.
“You’re….” His hands slide up my sides, slow. Appreciative. “You were always strong. But now—”
“Now I get paid a stupid amount of money for it,” I mutter.
He huffs a laugh, but his eyes are darker. Focused. “You’ve filled out,” he says quietly. “In a good way.”
Heat crawls up my neck. He drags his gaze lower—and then he goes still.
Dead still.
I knew this was coming.
His hand drops from my waist to my hip, thumb brushing just above the sharp jut of bone. “Ollie.”
It’s not a question.
Steam curls around us, water still running behind him, but everything feels suspended. On my left hip, just above the waistband line, is a small piece of ink. Clean. Black. Simple.
To anyone else, it looks like a stylized sound wave. Thin lines rising and falling in a narrow band. My teammates have seen it. No one’s ever asked.
Because unless you know—
It’s the waveform of “Velocity.” The opening riff that used to blast through my headphones. One of the songs he wrote when we met.
He traces it lightly, reverently.
“That’s…” His voice goes rough. “That’s ‘Velocity.’”
I nod. “I got it the first offseason after.” My voice threatens to break. “When we—” I shrug once. “When we split.”
He looks up at me like I’ve just punched him. “You didn’t….”
“I did.”
The truth sits there between us, heavy and quiet.
“I didn’t think you’d ever see it,” I admit. “Didn’t think it mattered.”
His thumb drags over the ink again, slower this time. Like he’s memorizing it. “It matters,” he says.
The words hit harder than I expect.
Water splashes against the tile. Steam thickens. He steps closer, closing the small space between us, chest to chest now.
“You kept me,” he says quietly.
I swallow. “You kept me first.”
His breath catches at that.
For a moment, it feels like we’re balanced on the edge of something much bigger than sex. Something that could split us open. So I lean in, press my mouth to his shoulder, grounding myself in skin and heat instead of confession.
“This isn’t that conversation,” I murmur.
“Not yet,” he agrees.
His hands settle on my hips again—this time deliberate. Certain. And when we finally step fully under the hot spray together, water cascading over both of us, it feels less like rediscovery and more like something we never actually let go of.
His expression softens in a way that makes my chest feel too tight, and his hand slides between my thighs. The first slick press of his finger inside me drags a broken sound from my throat.
My eyes snap open. “When did you—”
“It’s amazing what I can achieve when motivated. Stealth lube on fingers is just one of my skills.” His voice is low. He pushes further into me, and I shudder. “You with me?”
“Yeah.” I swallow and force myself still.
I haven’t done this with anyone else. Haven’t let anyone touch me like this in eight years. Haven’t wanted to. My body should feel unsure. Rusty.
It doesn’t.
It just knows him.
He adds a second finger slowly. Then a third.
I exhale hard through my teeth, fighting the urge to push back. I want him to lead. I want him to see what he does to me. His lip is caught between his teeth, cheeks flushed, eyes locked on where we’re joined like he’s memorizing it.
“You’re incredible,” he says quietly.
My heart knocks against my ribs.
“I can’t believe I finally get to do this with you.”
Finally. Not again. Not after all this time.
Finally.
Like it was inevitable. Like he never thought I was out of reach.
“Gonna come,” I say roughly, because I can’t sit in that softness too long. “Get inside me.”
His fingers disappear, and then my palms are against the tiles, my ass is out, ready for him, and he’s there. Pressing in. Slow.
The first push steals the air from my lungs.
It’s not just physical. It’s the recognition. The way my body opens like it’s been waiting. Like it knew this would happen eventually, even when my brain insisted it wouldn’t.
He grips my hips and shifts me back. I let him.
“Fucking spectacular,” he breathes.
I huff a shaky laugh. “Spectacular, huh?”
“I’m inside you, Ollie. Hard not to find this fucking spectacular.”
That does it. He bottoms out and stills. I feel the tremor in him. The restraint. He wants this as badly as I do.
I smile over my shoulder, not hiding anything now. The relief. The affection. The way he fits like nothing else ever could.
I tilt my head, and he kisses me messily. All tongue and teeth.
I groan and move my hips, careful at first. I haven’t done this with anyone else. Haven’t been touched like this. Haven’t come like this.
Rafe moves gently.
Then not so gently.
A groan tears out of me when he changes the angle. “Fuck—yes—harder—” I don’t even know what I’m saying.
He snaps his hips forward. The force of it makes me brace against the tile.
I don’t stop him. Every thrust hits perfectly. Every time. And the look in his eyes when I glance back… fuck. It’s not just hunger. It’s certainty. Like he never doubted we’d find our way back here.
Soft disappears. This becomes desperate.
He hits my prostate again and my vision flickers. “More,” I breathe. “Rafe.”
He bites my shoulder without warning. I bark out a startled laugh that turns into a broken sound when he fucks me deep.
Fuck.
He drives into me harder. His breathing turns rough. Mine turns wrecked.
I don’t know how I haven’t come already.
Heat coils low and unrelenting…. inevitable. I twist my head and our mouths crash together. It’s messy. Teeth. Breath. No rhythm. Perfect.
He pulls back and looks at me like he’s trying to memorize my face. That look breaks something open. My orgasm hits without warning. Hard. Blinding. I spill against the tiles without touching myself once.
He pulls me upright, my back against his chest, his arm locking around me.
Another thrust. Then heat.
I shudder as he comes, pressing his face against my back. I tighten around him instinctively, not wanting him to move. Not wanting this to end.
He groans low when I clamp down. I turn my head, lazy and wrecked, just enough to catch the edge of his profile over my shoulder.
For a few seconds, neither of us says anything.
The water still runs. Steam curls around us. Our breathing is the only sound in the room.
It would be easy to stay here. To pretend this is all there is. Just heat and skin and eight years collapsing into something that feels almost simple.
Rafe presses a slow kiss to my shoulder. “You good?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah.” My voice is rough, but steadier than I expect. “You?”
He hums against my skin. “Better than good.”
I almost smile. But then his hand slides down my hip, fingers brushing the ink there again, and something heavier settles between us. But there’s something else there too. Something thinking.
He eases out of me, and I turn so we’re facing each other.
“You know this isn’t slow, right?” he says.
I let out a breath that might be a laugh. “No. I hadn’t noticed.”
His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t look away. “We said we were going to take it slow. Dinner. Talking. Figuring out who we are now.”
“We did,” I agree.
Instead, we’re here. Naked. Steam curling around us. Eight years of restraint detonated in under an hour.
He drags a hand through his damp hair. “This doesn’t feel like slow.”
“It doesn’t feel reckless either,” I say quietly.
That lands between us. Because that’s the difference.
Slow was supposed to mean careful. Measured. Not ripping open old wounds before we knew if they’d scarred right. But this? This doesn’t feel like we tripped. It feels like gravity.
“You okay with that?” he asks, his tone steady, careful.
And I realize something—he’s not leading this. He’s not pulling us forward the way he used to. He’s waiting.
For me.
I was the one who showed up. The one who kissed him first. The one who knocked on his door and decided I wasn’t done.
I don’t get to hesitate now.
“I don’t want to sprint,” I say, but there’s less fear in it this time. More intention. “Last time, we lit the match and hoped for the best.”
His jaw flexes slightly. Not defensive, just listening. “That wasn’t all me,” he says quietly.
“No,” I agree. “But this time… I’m the one pushing.”
The admission sits heavy and honest between us.
I meet his eyes. “I came after you, Rafe. I’m not pretending this is accidental.”
Vulnerability shifts in his expression at that.
“I need this to be more than chemistry,” I continue. “And I’m not chasing you just to crash again.”
He steps closer, but he doesn’t take over. Doesn’t steer. He lets me finish.
“So, slow doesn’t mean we don’t touch,” I say. “It means we don’t use this to skip the hard parts. We actually date. We talk. We don’t jump to forever just because it feels intense.”
His mouth curves faintly at that. “You mean no surprise Vegas weddings?”
A quiet huff of laughter leaves me. “Definitely no surprise Vegas weddings.”
That was him, once. Big gestures. All in. No brakes. This time, it’s me holding the wheel.
“So, what does slow look like to you?” he asks.
Not what do you want.
What does slow look like to you.
“Breakfast,” I say. “You at practice. Me showing up to your set without pretending we’re just old friends. Not hiding. But not announcing anything either.”
His thumb brushes my hip again. “And this?”
“This,” I say, steady, “is me choosing you again. On purpose. Not because it’s dramatic. Not because it’s loud. Because I want to.”
He goes very still at that. For a long moment, he just looks at me like he’s trying to decide if I’m real. “You’re sure?” he asks quietly.
Eight years ago, he was the one asking me to jump.
Now it’s my turn.
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” I say.
“Okay,” he says finally. “We date.”
The word still feels almost ridiculous after everything. But also earned. When he first mentioned it, I felt like he was throwing me a lifeline. This time, it feels different. True and strong.
“We date,” I echo.
He leans in and kisses me—slower this time. When he pulls back, his hand stays on my waist.
“Tomorrow,” I say before he can. “We get coffee. I walk you there. In daylight.”
A small smile tugs at his mouth. “Bold.”
“Maybe even holding hands.” I swallow hard at the thought. But I’m in this. It’s also what I’ve always wanted. “I’m done hiding,” I tell him.
The ease of it surprises me. The steadiness.
We’re not running.
“Slow,” he says again, like he’s testing it.
“Slow,” I confirm.
But when he rests his forehead against my neck, when the steam thins and the world outside this bathroom waits to dissect whatever we are, I know something neither of us is saying out loud.
This time, I’m the one stepping forward, and I don’t plan on stepping back.