Chapter 24 #2
His hand in mine without a glance over his shoulder. His body angled toward mine in the back of a car where we’re not pretending. The right to argue about avocados and cilantro and whose turn it is to cook without worrying who’s watching.
I don’t just have pieces of him anymore.
I don’t have the version carved out between games and headlines and fear.
I have all of him. The captain. The stubborn bastard.
The man who blushes when I murmur something filthy in the produce aisle.
The man who stood between me and a blade without hesitation.
The man who says us like it’s permanent.
He shifts closer now, shoulder brushing mine as if he can’t help it.
I glance at him. He’s looking out the window, expression calm, unaware of the storm he’s quieted inside me.
For twelve years, I loved him in fragments. In stolen time. In the margins.
Now I get to love him in full.
And as the car turns onto his street—our street—I realize something with a clarity that almost knocks the air from my lungs.
This is what I’ve been craving.
Not the spotlight. Not the grand gesture.
Just him.
In the open.
Choosing me back.
The elevator ride up is quiet in the easiest way. Ollie leans back against the wall, grocery bags looped over both forearms like they weigh nothing. I’ve got the heavier one because I insisted, even though he gave me a look that said I was being ridiculous.
“You’re going to strain something,” he mutters.
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are. That bread alone weighs more than your guitar.”
“It’s artisanal,” I argue. “Respect it.”
He snorts, and the sound follows us out into the hallway when the doors slide open.
Inside the loft, warmth hits first. Not temperature—atmosphere. The place feels lived-in now. My boots by the door. His hoodie slung over the back of a chair. A second toothbrush in the bathroom. It doesn’t feel like I’m visiting anymore.
We unpack slowly, bumping hips in front of the counter.
“You bought the good rice,” he says, inspecting the bag.
“Of course I did.”
He glances up. “You remember how to make it?”
I press a hand to my chest. “That’s offensive.”
He smiles, soft and crooked. “I’m just checking.”
“My mamá would kick my ass if I forgot.”
That earns me a different look. Warmer. He knows what that means. He’s met her. He’s stood in her kitchen. He’s been folded into that world in a way that still makes my pulse race when I think about it.
“What are we making exactly?” he asks.
“Chicken tinga and arroz rojo,” I say. “With pollo en crema. And I’m doing proper salsa. Not that jarred nonsense you pretend is acceptable.”
“I do not pretend that.”
“You bought it last week.”
“It was on sale.”
I shake my head in exaggerated disappointment and reach for the cutting board.
The rhythm comes back easily. Oil warming in the pan. The smell of garlic and onion blooming in heat. Rice toasting until it shifts from pale to golden. I let Ollie stir while I blend tomatoes, onion, garlic, and a serrano with enough lime to make it bright but not punishing.
He watches my hands when I move, like he’s cataloging it.
“You look very confident,” he says.
“I am confident.”
“You’re bossy.”
“My mamá will be pleased.”
He laughs, and I glance at him just in time to see the blush creep up his neck again when I wink.
He washes the cilantro, shakes it out too aggressively, and splatters water across the counter.
“Smooth,” I comment.
“Don’t start.”
I step closer to correct the angle of the knife in his grip. My chest brushes his shoulder. It’s deliberate, and he knows it.
“Cut finer,” I murmur near his ear. “You’re butchering it.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
He huffs, but he adjusts. When he gets it right, I nod approvingly. “See? Teach you a few tricks and you’re unstoppable.”
His gaze flicks to mine at that, heat flashing briefly before he reins it in. “Careful.”
“With what?”
“Your phrasing.”
I grin and step back before he can retaliate.
The kitchen fills with sound—oil crackling, a spoon against the side of a pot, the low hum of the vent. It’s easy. We move around each other without colliding. He hands me spices before I ask. I taste and adjust salt. He squeezes lime over the salsa and winces when it splashes his knuckles.
“Chef,” I tease.
“Shut up.”
I lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth anyway.
While the chicken simmers, we settle into that waiting lull that comes with real cooking. He leans against the counter, arms folded loosely, watching me check the rice.
“You’re happy,” he says quietly.
I don’t deflect. “Yeah.”
He nods like he expected that answer.
There’s something grounding about this. About the weight of a wooden spoon in my hand. About knowing exactly how long to let something cook because I watched my mother do it a hundred times. About Ollie standing in my space like he belongs there.
This is the thing I didn’t let myself imagine for years.
Not the spectacle. Not the headlines.
This.
The timer dings softly. I turn off the heat and fluff the rice with a fork. Steam rises, tinted faintly red. The kitchen smells like garlic and warmth and home.
Ollie reaches for a spoon and steals a bite before I can stop him.
“Hey.”
He hums around the food. “That’s good.”
“Of course it’s good.”
He steps closer and presses his mouth to my temple, brief and unselfconscious. “You’re ridiculous,” he says.
“You married me.”
He smiles at that, his grin wide, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.
I plate everything while he sets the table. I don’t go for fancy. Just bowls and forks and the small cake we bought tucked near the edge of the counter like a quiet promise for later.
The moment feels steady and earned.
And then my phone buzzes on the counter.
I ignore it at first. It buzzes again. And again.
Ollie glances over. “You going to get that?”
“Probably the studio,” I say lightly.
I wipe my hands and pick it up.
Three notifications from Vinny. Words that make something cold slip under my ribs.
Vinny: Package received at front desk.
I read it twice before the meaning settles.
Ollie’s watching my face now. He knows me well enough to see the shift.
“What?” he asks.
I look toward the door instinctively, as if the answer might be standing on the other side of it.
“Vinny says there’s a delivery at the front desk,” I say slowly. “Addressed to me.”
His posture changes immediately. “From who?”
“No return name.”
The air in the kitchen doesn’t change dramatically. It doesn’t shatter. It just tightens.
He steps closer without thinking. “Is he on his way up?”
“No,” I say. “He’s holding it.”
I look at the third text again that tells me he wants permission to open it.
We stand there a second too long, dinner steaming behind us.
“Could be nothing,” Ollie says carefully.
“Could be.”
But neither of us believes that.
His jaw sets. “Okay,” he says.
My phone buzzes again.
Vinny: I’m coming up.
I look at Ollie.
The rice is perfect. The chicken smells incredible. The table is set. And something unwanted has just tried to step into the middle of it.
I sigh and wait for Vinny.
The knock comes three minutes later. A controlled and precise two taps, the way everything about Vinny is.
Ollie is already moving before I reach the door. He doesn’t say anything, just positions himself slightly to the side of me, close enough to touch, far enough not to crowd. It’s instinct now. We don’t discuss it.
I open the door.
Vinny stands there holding a medium-sized brown box. He’s wearing black latex gloves.
I stare at them.
“You expecting surgery?” I ask.
The attempt at humor lands flat. Even I can hear it.
Vinny doesn’t smile. “Standard protocol.”
Ollie’s gaze drops to the box. “Front desk didn’t open it?”
“No.” Vinny steps inside and uses his foot to push the door shut behind him. “No return address. Handwritten label. It was left with the concierge about twenty minutes ago.”
“Left,” I repeat. “As in not shipped?”
“Correct.”
A flicker of heat runs under my skin.
Vinny sets the box carefully on the kitchen island, away from the food, away from anything personal. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t dramatize it either. The gloves aren’t theatrical—they’re procedural.
“You want to step back?” he asks.
I don’t move.
Ollie does. Not far. Just enough that he can see everything without crowding the space.
“Open it,” I say.
Vinny slices through the tape with a small folding knife from his pocket. The sound of adhesive giving way feels louder than it should in the quiet kitchen.
The smell hits first.
Paper. Ink. Nothing chemical. Nothing sharp.
He folds the flaps back slowly.
Inside, there’s tissue paper. Pink. Excessively neat. Vinny lifts it carefully. Beneath it is a stack of printed pages. A small velvet pouch. And a framed photograph.
My pulse doesn’t spike. It drops.
“Jesus,” Ollie mutters under his breath.
Vinny removes the photograph first.
It’s a still from a YouTube clip. I recognize the studio, the video setup. It’s from the My Stupid Heart video. I’m mid-song, head tilted back, eyes closed.
Across the glass, written in silver marker:
You meant this for me.
My hackles rise.
Vinny sets it down and picks up the stack of printed pages.
Lyrics. They’re highlighted and annotated in the margins. Certain lines are circled over and over.
You’re the only one who really hears it
Forever fits inside one night
You chose him
Next to them, in looping handwriting:
This was ours. You said it while looking at me. You promised.
I exhale slowly through my nose.
“She seems completely convinced,” Ollie says quietly.
Vinny nods once as he opens the velvet pouch.
Inside is a guitar pick. It’s one of mine. From a show. It has my logo stamped in gold. I don’t even remember throwing it.
On the back, scratched in with something sharp:
Still yours.
The kitchen feels smaller now. Like something has shifted the axis by a few degrees.
I drag a hand over my face. “She needs help,” I say, and I mean it.
Not mockery. Not cruelty. Just fact.
“This is escalating behavior,” Vinny replies evenly. “She’s violating distance restrictions. Leaving items constitutes contact.”
Ollie’s hands are flat on the counter now. “She was here,” he says.
“Yes,” Vinny confirms. “Concierge confirmed visual identification. They contacted me as soon as she left the building.”
I close my eyes briefly. She was in the same building. In the same lobby where we walk in and out like normal people. Where Ollie signs packages. Where we argued about whether we needed cake.
The normalcy of it is what unsettles me.
Ollie steps closer to the island and studies the photo without touching it. The muscles in his jaw pulses, but his voice stays level. “She doesn’t get to claim your art,” he says. “Or your past.”
Vinny pulls out his phone. “I’ll photograph everything. This goes straight to legal.”
“Police?” Ollie asks.
“Yes.”
I look at him. “Are they going to treat it like harassment or like…?”
“Violation,” Vinny answers. “Which helps us.”
I lean back against the counter, forcing myself to breathe evenly. My anger is there, simmering, but it isn’t chaotic or spiraling. It’s protective.
“She thinks she’s part of something,” I say quietly. “She thinks the songs were conversations.”
Ollie looks at me then, really looks. “They were,” he says softly.
My heart flips.
“With me,” he adds. “Not her.”
There’s no jealousy in it. No insecurity. Just clarity.
Vinny seals the items back into the box once he’s photographed everything. “I’ll take this down,” he says. “Chain of custody.”
“Thank you,” I reply automatically.
He pauses at the door. “You want additional detail posted overnight?”
Ollie answers before I do. “Yes.”
I glance at him.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he repeats. “Lobby and perimeter.”
Vinny nods. “Done.”
The door closes behind him, and silence settles back into the loft.
The food is still warm. The salsa smells like lime and cilantro and the kind of life we were just inhabiting.
Ollie turns to me slowly. “All good?” he asks.
I consider the question. “I’m not scared,” I say honestly.
“Good.”
“I’m pissed.”
He nods once. “Fair enough.”
“And I’m not leaving.”
His eyes flicker. “Leaving?”
“Rachael suggested I head back to LA.”
His expression hardens slightly. “No.”
“No,” I agree.
We stand in the kitchen, the echo of intrusion still humming under the surface. Then Ollie steps into my space and cups the back of my neck. “She doesn’t get to stand in our kitchen,” he says quietly. “She doesn’t get to sit at our table. She doesn’t get to claim anything we built.”
The possessiveness in his tone is new. Not aggressive. Not territorial in a fragile way.
Grounded. Certain.
Mine.
I swallow.
“She’s not evil,” I say.
“No,” he agrees. “But she’s not our responsibility either.”
That lands.
Compassion without surrender.
I look at the table. At the plates we set. At the small cake waiting on the counter.
Twelve years of wanting this, and I’ll be damned if I let someone’s delusion wedge itself between us.
“Okay,” I say finally.
Ollie’s thumb brushes my jaw once. “We eat,” he says.
“And then?”
“And then,” he replies evenly, “we tighten the boundaries.”
He pulls out my chair for me like nothing has changed, like this is still our safe space.
And in every way that matters, it is.