Chapter 16
Kieren
I followed her taillights through the city, the soft red glow pulsing like a heartbeat just ahead of me. The interview was over, the studio behind us, but my thoughts hadn’t quieted. Not with Daphne still in them—like a song I couldn’t turn off.
Ryder had been a prick. Pressing. Prying. Hiding barbs behind fake curiosity. I wanted to knock the smug out of his voice every time he questioned her like she didn’t belong in this world.
But Daphne held her own. Like she always did.
She just shouldn’t have had to.
She pulled into her usual spot in front of the apartment building, smooth and practiced, like it was any other night. But it wasn’t. Not after that interview. Not after the things that hadn’t been said between us.
I parked behind her, engine ticking quietly as it cooled. For a second, I just sat there. Watching her grab her bag, tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, and head up the sidewalk like she hadn’t just flipped the script on national TV.
She didn’t wait for me.
But I got out anyway.
Caught up to her right as she reached her door.
She glanced over her shoulder, one brow lifting like a challenge. “You coming in, or just planning to hover outside like a creep?”
That smirk of hers—I’d started craving it more than I should’ve.
“Bit harsh, Sommers,” I said, shoving my hands in my pockets.
She turned the key in the lock but didn’t open the door right away. Just stood there, keys still in hand, like she was waiting for something. Or maybe… someone.
The air between us was thick—charged. Like we were still back in the studio, mic’d up, playing roles we hadn’t rehearsed.
But out here? There was no script.
Just her.
And me.
I stepped closer, brushing my fingers against the small of her back as I moved past her into the apartment. “Didn’t peg you as the type to leave a man loitering in the hallway.”
She shut the door behind us.
Silence settled—but it wasn’t empty. It pulsed. Breathing with all the things we hadn’t said. The kiss we hadn’t talked about. The fact that I’d nearly throttled a reporter because of her.
I looked at her—really looked.
And for the first time in weeks, I wasn’t wondering if she was going to let me in.
Only how far.
Her apartment was nothing like I expected—and somehow exactly right.
Cozy, but not delicate. Lived-in. Like her.
The place wasn’t trying to impress anyone.
It just… was. A soft throw draped over the back of the couch.
A cracked mug drying on the dish rack. A stack of well-worn books on the coffee table, some with dog-eared pages.
Post-its cluttered the fridge in chaotic clusters—reminders to herself, most scribbled in sharp all-caps.
Some I couldn’t help but read: GET MORE COFFEE, WED: DEADLINE, CALL MOM.
Photos lined a corkboard near the door. Most were old, taken with film—her and a redheaded girl at a theme park, both missing teeth and sticky with cotton candy smiles.
I didn’t know who the other girl was, but the bond was obvious.
Some shots were more recent—Daphne holding a mic on the field, laughing with her head thrown back.
None of them were posed.
None of them were with me.
I didn’t know why that last part stung.
She set her keys in a small ceramic dish by the door, kicked off her heels without a word, and padded barefoot into the kitchen. “I can make pasta,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “It’s either that or cereal.”
“Pasta sounds like a dream.”
I leaned against the doorway, watching her move—efficient, relaxed, like she wasn’t used to sharing this space with anyone. There was a rhythm to it. Her world, her rules. And still, she didn’t ask me to leave.
It hit me then.
I felt comfortable here.
Too comfortable.
Like I’d done this before. Like I belonged in this little apartment, in this sliver of her life she didn’t show the rest of the world. That scared the hell out of me.
I wasn’t built for domestic. For cozy. For photos on fridges and mugs with hairline fractures.
But I wanted to know the story behind every picture. I wanted to be someone she left post-its for.
And that…?
That was the problem.
Because once I let myself want that, I wouldn’t be able to want anything else.
She moved through the kitchen like she’d done it a hundred times—with muscle memory, not grace. Hair twisted up with a pen, socks sliding across the tile. She tossed a pot on the burner, grabbed a box of pasta with one hand, and opened the fridge with the other. No hesitation, no filter.
And I couldn’t stop watching her.
Garlic hit the pan first—already minced in a jar, but the smell was rich. Then olive oil, butter, salt. She stirred like she didn’t need to measure anything, like her hands knew what enough felt like. The kind of cooking that came from instinct, not recipes.
I sat at the small kitchen table, fingers laced, elbows on wood worn down at the edges. A single chair across from me. No guests. No roommates. Just her.
“Hope you’re not expecting anything fancy,” she said, glancing back at me. “This is budget comfort food.”
“It’s perfect.”
She rolled her eyes, but a hint of a smile ghosted her lips as she stirred. The pasta water started to boil. She turned down the heat like it was second nature.
The silence was companionable. But it also felt like something was sitting between us, unsaid.
So I filled it.
“I grew up in Flint.”
She turned slightly, still stirring.
“Parents were always working—night shifts, day shifts, doubles. They kept the lights on. That was enough. I had pasta all the time."
I didn’t know why I was telling her this. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the way she hadn’t asked me anything and still felt like she was listening.
“My grandma raised me more than anyone else. She’d pick me up after school, take me to the park.
Gave me my first pair of cleats for my birthday—bought ‘em used from a garage sale and cleaned ‘em like they were gold.” I paused, exhaling through my nose. “She used to say I’d either set the world on fire or destroy it trying.”
That got a smile out of her—soft, real.
“I owe the game to her,” I said. “She passed before I went pro, but she knew. She always knew.”
I stared down at the table, jaw flexing. It still got me, sometimes. How she never got to see the jersey, the headlines, the crowd chanting my name.
But she’d believed in it before anyone else did.
When I looked up, Daphne was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, the wooden spoon forgotten in her hand.
She didn’t speak. Just… looked at me.
And somehow, that meant more.
Not pity. Not admiration.
Just presence.
That was harder to find than most people realized.
The sauce bubbled on the stove. Her apartment smelled like butter and basil and something warmer underneath it all. Something like home.
And I wasn’t sure what scared me more—the fact that I told her all of that, or how badly I wanted to tell her more.
She drained the pasta with practiced ease, steam curling up around her face as she leaned over the sink. A moment later, she was spooning sauce—creamy and rich, flecked with herbs—onto two mismatched plates. No pretense. No garnish. Just real food.
She slid one plate in front of me, then settled across the table, legs folded beneath her.
We ate in silence for a few minutes, forks clinking, the occasional low murmur of appreciation from me.
It was good—better than good. It tasted like comfort.
Like someone who’d figured out how to feed herself on hard days and hadn’t stopped since.
When I scraped up the last bit of sauce, I leaned back in my chair and looked at her. She was focused on her food, but I caught the tension in her shoulders. Like she was waiting for the night to shift.
So I shifted it.
“What about you?” I asked. “Family?”
She froze mid-bite. Her fork hovered for a beat before she set it down gently. There was a pause. Not uncomfortable—just careful.
“Raised by my mom,” she said finally, tone neutral. “Just us.”
I waited, gave her the space.
“She loved me. A lot. But she was always tired. Worked two jobs, sometimes three. We didn’t do the whole storybook thing—no bedtime tales, no talks about Prince Charming.
” She picked at the edge of her plate, not quite looking at me.
“Love, in our house, looked like sacrifice.
Grocery bags on aching arms. Crying behind the bathroom door.
Fixing broken shit alone because there was no one else and we couldn't afford to hire a professional.
" She took a deep breath, then met my eyes. “So, no—I don’t really believe in the whole forever thing.”
Her voice wasn’t bitter. Just… honest. Like she’d said it to herself enough times that it didn’t sting anymore.
I studied her then. The sharp edges she wore like armor. The softness buried so deep most people probably never saw it. The way she told the truth and didn’t ask for sympathy.
“Someone broke your heart,” I said quietly.
Daphne let out a snort. “Nah. I broke it myself. People just helped.”
It wasn’t a joke, not really. But it wore the mask of one.
I didn’t push. I could’ve asked what she meant. Who helped. What happened.
But I didn’t.
Because I knew that tone. I’d worn it myself.
So I let her steer.
She stood up, gathering plates. “You want tea or something? I’ve got boring flavors. Mint, chamomile, sad-writer lemon balm…”
I smiled, standing to help. “Surprise me.”
She rolled her eyes but grabbed two mugs, anyway.
The conversation moved on—surface-level, easy—but that moment sat between us, unspoken. Heavy, but not unwelcome.
I wasn’t here to fix her.
But damn if I didn’t want to stay long enough for her to believe forever might not be a fairytale after all.
She passed me the mug of tea with a faint smirk—chamomile, not that I cared. I wasn’t here for the tea.
She sat back down, tucking one leg under herself, casual and composed. Like she hadn’t just gutted me with that quiet honesty about what love meant to her. Like she hadn’t opened a window and let me glimpse something I wasn’t sure she shared with anyone.
I let the silence breathe between us before I spoke again.
“We’ve got that charity thing coming up,” I said, rolling the mug between my palms. “The team. Visiting a couple schools around the city—doing drills, some meet-and-greets.”
She looked up, head tilting just slightly. “February?” One brow arched. “That’s gonna be freezing.”
I huffed a laugh. “Yeah, well. Welcome to Stevensville. The kids won’t care. Cam says it’s good press. Keeps us connected to the community. Gets the younger ones hyped.”
She nodded, thoughtful. Her eyes stayed on her mug, like she knew where this was headed but wasn’t sure how to feel about it.
“He also said,” I added, watching her reaction, “it’d be good if you came, too.”
That got her. She blinked, surprise flickering across her face before she masked it again.
“If you’re sure,” she said carefully.
My gaze didn’t waver. “I wouldn’t have brought it up if I wasn’t.”
She nodded slowly, still not quite meeting my eyes. I could tell she was weighing it—what it would look like, what it might mean. Being there. With me. In public. At something that mattered.
“It’s not press for you,” I said. “Not like that. You wouldn’t be doing interviews or anything. Just showing up. Hanging out with the kids. I think they’d like you.”
Her lips quirked. “Because I’m terrifying and sarcastic?”
“Because you’re smart and grounded and don’t take shit from anyone,” I said simply. “They’d listen to you. Especially the girls.”
That made her go quiet again. A different kind of quiet.
She looked up finally. Met my eyes.
“I’ll go,” she said.
And there was something in her voice—soft, sure, but hesitant too. Like she wanted to trust that this wasn’t a trap. Like she wasn’t used to being asked to show up, only to find she was just a placeholder.
I nodded, fighting the urge to reach across the table and touch her. Just to ground the moment. Just to say I see you.
Instead, I sipped my tea.
“I’ll pick you up,” I said.
Her expression shifted then—amusement laced with something deeper. Something warm. “You always this bossy?”
“Only when it counts.”
She smirked. “Good to know.”
We let the conversation move on, but the promise stayed there between us.
Not about the event.
About the fact that I wanted her there. With me.
She walked me to the door, and for a second, neither of us moved.
It was quiet—the kind of quiet that buzzed under your skin. Like something unspoken had taken up all the air between us, daring one of us to name it.
I looked at her. Really looked at her. The soft flush still on her cheeks from the warmth of the kitchen, her arms crossed like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to lean on the doorframe or push me out entirely.
“Thanks for dinner,” I said, voice low. I meant it.
She gave a little huff, but there was a smile hiding in it. “Thanks for eating it like it wasn’t just plain noodles with jar sauce.”
I smiled back. “Tasted better than anything I’ve had all week.”
Her eyes flicked to mine. There was something in them—something unreadable, but it felt like a thread being pulled tighter between us.
We just… stood there. The hallway dim, her apartment warm behind her, and the door still open. I didn’t move closer. Didn’t touch her. There was a time for that, but this wasn’t it.
“Night, Kieren.” Her voice was softer now. Almost reluctant.
“Night, Daphne.”
I stepped out, the chill of the hallway hitting me fast after the comfort of her apartment. I didn’t look back until I was halfway to the car.
She was still holding back—I could feel it in the way she deflected, the way she kept one hand on the doorknob like it grounded her.
But for the first time since I met her… she didn’t lock me out.
And that? That felt like a win.