Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
MIA
By the time I pull into Dylan’s driveway and park behind his black BMW, the sun’s gone and the sky is bruised purple and grey, the clouds are rolling low over the rooftops like they’re bracing for a storm.
I watch him climb out of his car and head towards mine, he smiles as he approaches and opens my door for me.
He holds his hand out to help me get out and closes the door behind me.
There’s a beat between us as he waits for me to grab my bag and lock the car.
Then he squeezes my hand tightly, his thumb occasionally stroking across my knuckles like he needed the contact more than the conversation.
There’s a gravity to his silence I’ve started to recognise, like when he’s processing something deep, he drops into himself and only resurfaces when he’s ready.
It’s scary how much I get him now. Scarier still how much I want to.
His place is tucked into a side street not far from the rink; nothing flashy, no towering gates or show-off windows. Just a clean-lined, modern house with dark wood trim. It’s sleek in the way Dylan is; understated but purposeful. And undeniably sexy.
I follow him up the steps and through the door, and when he drops his keys in a ceramic bowl by the entrance, I take a slow look around.
The living space opens out in one fluid sweep, kitchen to lounge to floor-to-ceiling windows at the back.
Everything’s crisp, warm, and functional.
Light oak floors. Matte-black fixtures. A few houseplants, which are somehow thriving.
There’s a guitar propped in the corner by a bookshelf, that appears worn at the edges like it’s been played for years.
It’s him. Simple and grounded, but every detail whispers something more.
“You live like this?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. “You own matching mugs?”
Dylan chuckles, kicking off his trainers. “What, you thought I lived in a pit of sweaty socks and takeaway boxes?”
“Honestly? Yes.” I stifle a laugh.
“Well, the socks are hidden. Takeaway boxes are recycled.”
He looks over his shoulder, grinning. I can’t help but smile back. He’s still got that edge to him; the dark eyes and the smirk that can undo me in a second, but when he lets the softer parts show, it wrecks me.
I drift through the open space, touching things like I need proof it’s real. “I thought you’d have a giant framed picture of yourself on the wall. You know. Shirtless and holding a puck.”
He follows me into the kitchen. “It’s in the garage. With the shrine.”
“You joke,” I murmur, running a hand along the smooth countertop, “but this house is dangerously close to giving well-adjusted adult man.”
Dylan snorts. “Guess I’ll have to fix that then.”
But then his smile fades a little. The shadows creep back in.
He leans against the kitchen island and watches me, his jaw working like he’s trying to decide how much to say. That thing he does when he wants to open up but doesn’t quite know how.
“You okay?” I ask gently.
His gaze drops. “Just thinking about my dad.”
My stomach twists.
I nod slowly, waiting.
“Mum text earlier, said she’d seen the game. Dad doesn’t watch any of my games.” Dylan says after a beat. “He used to tell me not to get too cocky when I was younger. That I’d burn out if I thought I was untouchable. I think he thought he was trying to help, but I know different.”
My heart breaks a little.
“That’s what he said?” I whisper.
Dylan nods. “Standard fare.”
There’s a tightness in his voice he’s trying to play down, but I can hear the hurt in it. The old scar that still aches when it rains. I walk around the island and reach for his hand.
“You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t matter,” I say. “It clearly does.”
He looks at me, and something raw flashes behind his eyes.
“I just want him to be proud,” he says. “Once. For five seconds. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
“I know,” I murmur. “I know exactly what that’s like.”
And I do. It’s not the same. My dad didn’t tell me I’d never be good enough, he just never cared enough to ask.
I could tell him I was treating a pro player, patching up championship legs, helping careers stay on the ice, and he’d still ask if I was going to apply for a real job. Something steady. Something safe.
But I love him. God, I love him. Even when he breaks my heart by accident.
I don’t say all of that though. I just squeeze Dylan’s hand tighter.
“We’re messed up, huh?” he murmurs.
“A little,” I say. “But, like functionally messed up. Sexy trauma.”
That gets a laugh out of him. A real one this time, and he pulls me into him.
“Sexy trauma,” he repeats. “It’d make a great band name.”
“I’d buy that album.”
And just like that, the air between us shifts. Lighter. But charged.
His eyes flick over me, and his gaze is slow, heated. “You staying?”
I raise a brow. “Is that a question?”
He steps closer. “Could be a request.”
My breath catches. The world drops away, and everything narrows to the space between our mouths.
“Request granted,” I whisper.
We don’t make it to the bedroom. Clothes peel away in the kitchen. Our fingers tangle in the fabric in the rush to feel skin on skin. The kind of urgency that comes from being too full of all the feelings and not knowing how to convey any of it with words.
He lifts me against the kitchen wall, his mouth hot against mine, and I wrap around him like I’ve been waiting for this since the second we walked through the door. Maybe I have.
The room lighting is dim. Shadows flicker across his face, turning his sharp edges soft. He kisses me like he’s starving, like he’s trying to pour everything he doesn’t know how to say into my mouth.
I cling to him, my nails raking down his back, as he groans into my neck.
My skin tingles and a shudder wreaks havoc on my senses.
Dylan adjusts our angle and his cock teases at my entrance.
My fingers curl into the hair at the nape of his neck as he continues his assault on my senses.
“Dylan… please. I need you now.” I’m not one to wait for what I want.
And I want him inside me now; I want to feel him fill me.
My pussy clenches, desire pooling, it’s almost embarrassing how much I want him.
When he finally pushes inside me, it’s not rushed; it’s devastating. Slow and deep and deliberate. Like he’s trying to make me remember him with every stroke.
And I do.
I remember everything.
The way he murmurs my name. The way his hand cups my cheek like I’m fragile even as he drives into me, hard and wild. The way he slows down at the exact moment I think I’ll fall apart, just to draw it out a little longer. Like he wants me to come undone, but not until he’s ready.
By the time I come, I’m clinging to him like gravity’s given up. I’m shaking and wrecked.
He doesn’t let me go. Not when he finishes. Not when we sink to the floor. Not when he catches his breath and presses his forehead to mine.
We sit there, both breathless and quiet, our hearts still pounding in sync.
And it’s in that stillness, with our sweat-slicked skin pressed together, my fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest, that I realise something I’ve been too scared to admit.
I trust him.
Even with the heat, even with the madness of this thing between us, I feel safe here. Like whatever we’re building might be a little messy, but it’s real.
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and kisses my temple.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
“I am now,” I whisper back.
Once we’re both recovered and our breathing is back to normal, a shiver runs through me as the coldness of the tiled floor registers in my brain. My body curls a little tighter around his as I try to steal his warmth.
“You’re cold.” Dylan moves to stand up, pulling me up with him.
He grabs his hoodie from the floor and indicates for me to raise my arms. Once he’s sure I’m suitably covered, he pulls on his joggers.
“The bedroom is down the hall on the left, go make yourself comfy. I’ll bring us a drink.
” He leans in and kisses the tip of my nose before opening a cupboard and taking out two glasses.
When we’re curled up in his bed, half-dressed under the duvet and surrounded by the warm scent of his laundry detergent and shower gel, my phone buzzes.
It’s my mum.
“He’s sleeping now. Rough morning. But he asked about you. Said he’s proud.”
Tears prick the back of my eyes. I don’t move. Don’t answer. I just press the phone to my chest and close my eyes.
Dylan glances over, concern flickering. “Everything alright?”
I nod. Then twist to face him. “Yeah. It’s just sometimes, love is messy. But it’s still love.”
His eyes hold mine. “Yeah. It is.”