Chapter 10 Haunted
Haunted
Dylan
Sunday mornings usually meant recovery— ice baths, tape, team meetings.
Today, it meant Ali.
She was still asleep when he woke up, curled against him, one leg thrown over his waist and her hair a tangle of gold across his pillow. Her bare skin glowed in the sliver of light coming through the blinds. His hoodie was half off one shoulder, his sheets twisted around her hips.
She looked like she belonged here.
And maybe she did.
He didn’t move. Just stared at her for a while. Memorizing the curve of her nose, the faint freckles, the way she breathed steady and slow.
Eventually, she stirred. Eyes blinking open. Smile soft and sleepy.
“Hey,” she murmured, voice scratchy with sleep.
“Hey,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You hungry?”
He made her a breakfast sandwich with extra cheese because she liked it that way, and she called it gourmet like he was a five-star chef.
They curled up under the same blanket on his couch, limbs tangled, watching Gilmore Girls because “if I have to pick between Rory and football, you’re gonna lose, McKenzie. ”
He didn’t mind.
He watched the show with one eye, and her with the other. She’d steal glances at him during the funny parts. Nudge his leg during the emotional ones. Their laughter filled the room like it was stitched into the air.
Later that afternoon, when the sun sank low and golden light spilled through the blinds, Dylan rolled over and kissed her.
Not rushed. Not desperate. Just slow, deliberate affection pressed to her lips like a promise. His palm cradled her cheek, thumb brushing the soft skin under her eye as if he needed to memorize her. Her breath caught— because even now, even after everything— they were still soft with each other.
This time, when he moved over her, she wasn't so nervous. He hovered just above, eyes locked with hers, and waited. For permission. For breath. For that silent, aching pull between them to rise up and swallow them whole.
Ali nodded, just once. And that was all he needed.
He sank into her with a groan, deep and low, the sound echoing against her ribs.
She arched under him instinctively, gasping, her fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck.
His hips rolled slow and steady, drawing the tension tighter and tighter between them, but he never broke eye contact. Not once.
He kissed her like he meant it. Like every movement, every stroke, was a love letter only she could read.
His hands roamed her sides, her waist, her thighs— worshipful, careful.
She touched him back with more confidence now, less hesitation.
Her fingers dragged across his back, nails scratching lightly, pulling him closer.
She whispered his name like a prayer. He said hers like a vow.
And when the heat crested and her legs trembled around his waist, Dylan reached down and laced their fingers together. Held her hand against the pillow as he quickened his pace, kissed the corner of her mouth, her jaw, the soft hollow of her throat.
“Let go,” he whispered.
And she did— with a gasp and a cry, shattering beneath him as he held her tight and followed her over the edge with a groan that sounded like the breaking of something holy.
They lay tangled together afterward, sweaty and quiet and breathless.
His head rested against her chest, rising and falling with the rhythm of her breath. She combed her fingers through his hair, her other hand still locked with his. He kissed her collarbone, her sternum, the curve of her breast, and whispered against her skin.
“You’re mine,” he said softly. “You always were.”
Ali didn’t reply.
She just closed her eyes and held him tighter— because for the first time in her life, being wanted didn’t feel like a burden.
She tucked herself under the covers and looked up at him like nothing in the world could touch them here.
He wished that were true.
But later, when she was in the bathroom brushing her hair, he sat on the bed, towel wrapped around his waist, and thought back to something he hadn’t let himself focus on before.
When he kissed her wrist last night— slowly, sweetly— he’d seen it.
Scars.
Thin. Faint. Delicate.
But real.
At the time, he hadn’t registered it. Not really. But something about it now— it wouldn’t let go.
And when she came back to bed in one of his worn MBU shirts, he couldn’t stop looking at her wrists.
She noticed.
“What?” she asked softly, crawling into bed beside him.
He forced a smile. “Nothing. You’re just pretty.”
She smiled and leaned into him, unaware of the storm beginning to stir in his gut.
He had to take Daisy to their parents’ house for Sunday dinner— tradition, even when it sucked. Ali kissed him goodbye at the door, barefoot and smiling, telling him to drive safe.
The whole drive, he was quiet. Daisy was on her phone most of the time anyway, spewing gossip and half-listening to herself. At one point, she mentioned how Ali was “so weirdly clingy lately” and Dylan had to grip the wheel tighter to keep from saying something he couldn’t take back.
At dinner, he pushed food around on his plate while his dad talked about bowl predictions and his mom tried to get Daisy to focus on anything but her sorority drama.
He kept thinking about Ali.
About the way she flinched sometimes, even when he touched her gently. The way she kept her arms covered, even when it was hot. The way she avoided the house parties lately. How she never went back to her own dorm unless she had to.
The scars.
He needed to ask her.
Needed to make sure she was okay.
Because something told him— deep in his chest, in that place where gut instincts live— that this wasn’t just about his sister being a brat.
And if Ali was hurting, if something had happened…
He’d burn down the fucking world before he let her go through it alone.