Chapter 75
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
SOPHIE
The morning after the Cup game is quiet. Not just quiet in the literal sense, though Murphy is still passed out next to me, snoring like someone who fought a war last night and won, but quiet in my chest, too. Peaceful. Soft. Still.
I haven’t felt like this in months.
I push the sheets back and slip out of bed, careful not to wake him.
My legs are sore in that very specific way that has nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with the night we just had.
I find one of his oversized Raptors shirts and pad barefoot to the kitchen, blinking blearily against the early light pouring through the windows.
Two suitcases and a tote bag still sit by the front door. I never unpacked last night. Too busy throwing him against walls and kissing him like I was starving. Which I was.
Emotionally. Physically. The whole damn buffet.
I grab a mug and make coffee, the smell alone enough to make me sigh. It’s not just caffeine. It’s the promise of a normal morning. Of a new start.
I lean against the counter, watching the sun crawl across the floor, and I think about how far we’ve come.
Six weeks ago, I couldn’t look at him without feeling like my insides were made of glass and someone had taken a hammer to them. Now? I look at him and feel whole again.
He never gave up. Not really. Not when I pushed him away. Not when I made it hard. Not when I stood at his door with my baggage, literal and emotional, and gave him the most uncertain version of myself.
He didn’t try to fix me. He just kept showing up. With pastries. With jokes. With patience. And I see that now. I feel it now.
The fridge hums. A car honks outside. Somewhere down the hall, Murphy groans in his sleep and rolls over.
I sip my coffee and smile.
We’re not perfect. God knows, we’ll probably fight about laundry and his weird hockey superstitions and whether or not his team group chat is a cult. But that’s the point, isn’t it? Loving someone despite the mess. Maybe even because of it.
I glance at the suitcases again. Maybe today I unpack. Maybe not. We’ve got time.
He gave me the space to come back when I was ready. And I am.
So ready.
I walk down the hall and crawl back into bed, sliding under the covers. He stirs but doesn’t wake. I curl into his side, press a kiss to his shoulder, and let myself rest.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m falling.
I feel like I’ve landed.
Murphy shifts beside me, his arm coming around my waist like muscle memory.
“You always this sappy in the morning?” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.
“Only after Cup wins and life-altering sex,” I whisper, kissing the underside of his jaw.
He chuckles, low and warm. “Guess I’ll have to keep winning Cups, then.”
I nuzzle closer. “Guess I’ll have to keep letting you.”
He goes quiet for a beat. Then, “You know, I used to think love had to be loud. Big gestures, dramatic declarations, shouting into the void kind of shit.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, threading our fingers together, “the void doesn’t make coffee.”
He laughs again, but it fades into something gentler. “I like this better. Waking up next to you. Fighting the coffee machine. You stealing my hoodie and half my bed.”
I lift my head to meet his eyes. “I like it too.”
Murphy brushes his thumb across my cheek. “We’re okay, right?”
“We’re more than okay,” I say, and I mean it. “We’re us.”
He pulls me in and presses a kiss to my temple. “Then I’ve already won.”