Chapter 40
CHAPTER FORTY
MURPHY
There’s a moment, right before Sophie kisses me under the fairy lights, where time does that weird, stretchy thing. Like the universe hits pause just long enough for me to realise that yeah, I’m properly in it. Head over heels. No turning back.
And I don’t even mind.
She’s grinning like she knows it too, arms looped around my neck, her perfume all warm citrus and trouble. The world around us is still humming with laughter, clinking glasses, someone shouting about a lost coat. But all I hear is her breath, close to mine.
“Okay then,” she says, eyes bright. “Let’s keep doing this.”
And I’m a goner.
We leave the venue hand in hand, and I don’t let go even when we hit the pavement outside. She tries to pull her hand away to adjust her heel strap, but I hold firm.
“Nope,” I say, grinning. “You’re mine now. No backsies.”
Sophie laughs, rolling her eyes. “God, you’re such an idiot.”
“True,” I reply, watching the way her dress swishes around her legs as we walk. “But you like it.”
“Debatable.”
“Liar.”
She doesn’t argue.
When we reach the car park, I open the passenger door for her. It’s not something I usually do, but tonight feels different. She slides in, giving me a look that’s half amused, half something else, something softer.
“You’re weirdly charming when you want to be,” she says.
“Don’t tell anyone. Ruins the brand.”
Back at her place, we don’t even pretend to keep it casual.
We’re kissing before the door shuts. Her heels are kicked off somewhere between the hallway and the sofa. I tell her she looks like trouble and she tells me I have the emotional depth of a spoon, but neither of us sounds convincing.
The night ends with her head on my chest and her fingers tracing the line of my collarbone.
“Murphy,” she murmurs, voice half-asleep. “You’re not going to mess this up, are you?”
I kiss the top of her head.
“Not a chance.”
Morning light filters in through her blinds, and for once, I wake up without the usual rush of panic about practice or the gnawing question of whether I’m screwing everything up.
Sophie’s still asleep, hair a wild halo against the pillow, one hand tucked under her cheek. She looks peaceful. And yeah, I know I’m in trouble. The real kind. The kind where your stomach does cartwheels just looking at someone.
I slip out of bed, careful not to wake her, and wander into the kitchen. It takes me three wrong cupboards to find the mugs. I make coffee, steal a biscuit from a tin labelled “DO NOT TOUCH”, and scroll through my phone while I wait for the kettle.
Dylan’s messaged the group chat.
Winters: Sophie finally shagged some sense into you or what?
I smirk.
Murphy: Confirmed. Sense and several new vocabulary words.
Ollie: Legends only.
Jacko: She looked hot last night. Tell her I said hi.
Murphy: You tell her that and I’ll swap your protein powder with flour.
Jacko: Kinky.
“Your friends are unhinged,” Sophie says from the doorway, arms folded, wearing one of my shirts.
I grin. “Told you.”
She accepts the coffee with a sleepy thank you and curls up on the barstool like she belongs there.
“You really meant it last night?” she asks, eyes over the rim of her mug. “About us?”
“Meant every word.”
Her smile is small but genuine. “Good. Because I don’t do half-arsed.”
“Sophie Hart, this is me going full-arsed.”
She chokes on her coffee.
The fundraiser glow doesn’t fade for a few days. Everyone’s still talking about the auction, the dancing, the fact that Dylan and Mia almost made it to the end before they sneaked away quietly.
But it’s me and Sophie people keep asking about.
Murphy’s got a girlfriend now?
You and Hart, really?
Did she lose a bet?
I don’t even bother answering half of them. I let the smile speak for itself.
We fall into a rhythm. Training, lunch breaks, evenings that bleed into mornings. I get used to having her hand in mine, her laughter echoing through my flat, her Chapstick in my jacket pocket.
It’s not perfect. She’s snarky when she’s stressed and I’m annoying when I’m tired. But it works. God, it works.
We argue about pasta shapes and disagree on which TV shows count as classics, but we always end up tangled on the sofa, some halfway point between her sharp edges and my chaos.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, I realise I’m not afraid anymore.
Not of commitment or of screwing it up.
Because she sees me.
The real me.
And that’s more terrifying than anything.
But it’s also the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.
One night, a week after the fundraiser, I’m walking her back to her place when she stops outside the door.
“Hey,” she says, fidgeting with her keys. “Don’t make this weird but I told my mum about you.”
My brows shoot up. “Really?”
“She said, and I quote, ‘Does he know how lucky he is?’”
“Smart woman.”
“Also asked if you were taller than my ex.”
“I hope you said yes.”
“I said you were broader. She said that counts.”
I laugh, leaning down to kiss her. “Tell her I’ll win her over. I’m great with mums.”
“She’s very protective.”
“So am I.”
Sophie tilts her head. “Of me?”
I nod. “Always.”
She goes up on her tiptoes and kisses me like it means something. And I feel like I mean something too.