Chapter 23 Closure
Closure
Dylan
Dylan was half-sprawled across the hotel bed, one arm behind his head, the other holding his phone like it might slip from his grip if he exhaled too hard. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the screen since she sent that first message.
I keep thinking about what you said earlier.
About my mouth.
…I think you’d like what it’s been thinking about too.
He’d practically groaned out loud. His cock had stirred instantly, twitching under the thin sheet. He hadn’t even tried to hide his reaction— he was alone, and her words lit him up like a live wire.
But her last text?
I don’t think I’m ready for a fridge yet…
But I think about your bedroom. A lot.
Fuck.
He sat up, running a hand through his damp hair. “Jesus, Ali,” he muttered, the smile tugging at his mouth sharp and slow. His whole body felt like it was vibrating with want.
She didn’t even know what she was doing to him.
Or maybe she did.
She was teasing him in the sweetest, shyest damn way— and it made him want her even more. Not just to touch her or bury himself inside her again. But to know her now. All the ways she’d changed. All the ways she hadn’t.
He stared at her words again.
Your bedroom.
It knocked the air out of him a little.
Because that— that was a line. A soft one. Careful. But real. And honest. And she’d sent it anyway.
He swiped open his keyboard and started typing, slow and deliberate.
Dylan:
You just say when, babe. The bed’s big. The sheets are soft. And I promise— No one will hear you but me.
He hesitated.
Then added:
I’ve been thinking about your mouth too. Ever since you wrapped it around my name last night.
He stared at that line, then hit send before he could overthink it. Because she deserved to know— he hadn’t stopped thinking about her either.
And if she was really ready for more?
He was already halfway gone.
Sunday afternoon smelled like chlorine, charcoal smoke, and peach cobbler.
Dylan stood waist-deep in the pool, sunlight flickering off the water like shattered glass, arms stretched up as his niece screamed in delight.
“Ready?” he asked.
“THROW ME, UNCLE FYLAN!” She squealed with her sweet little lisp.
He launched her into the deep end with a laugh, and she hit the water with a cannonball splash that soaked his chest and the edge of his mama’s rose bushes.
“Again!” she shouted, resurfacing with her goggles crooked on her face.
“You tryna drown me?” he teased, slicking back his hair. “Go catch your breath first, water bug.”
Across the yard, his dad stood at the grill in flip-flops and an old Magnolia Bluff football tee, tongs in hand, flipping steaks with surgical focus.
The scent of sizzling meat drifted through the air as his mama came outside balancing a tray with baked potatoes, sour cream, and a pan of her famous yeast rolls.
“Y’all better not let those babies get sunburnt!” she called as she set the tray down.
“They’re lotioned up, Mama,” Daisy replied, holding her youngest on one hip while sipping sweet tea with the other hand. Her wife, Laila, was stretched out on a lounger, sunglasses on, scrolling through something on her iPad.
Meanwhile, Dylan tossed a football to his nephew, who stood at the diving board, knees wobbly but grinning.
“Alright, buddy. You jump, I’ll throw.”
His nephew jumped, arms flailing, and Dylan lobbed the ball with perfect timing. The kid caught it mid-air and fell into the water with a triumphant splash.
“YESSS!” he screamed when he surfaced.
“Gonna draft you to the Tritons,” Dylan said.
Hours passed in the way Sundays should — slow, warm, and full of family noise. After the kids had dried off and changed into pajamas, they all sat at the patio table. His dad served the steaks while his mama passed out plates like clockwork.
The table was full: laughter, teasing, seconds of cobbler.
And for a few rare, golden hours, it was easy to forget the rest of the world.
No interviews.
No NFL pressure.
No late-night texts from the girl who still made his pulse skip.
Just family.
After dinner, Laila wiped cobbler off sticky fingers and murmured something to Daisy about bedtime.
The kids hugged Dylan goodnight, squeezing his middle and asking if he was playing with them tomorrow too. When they disappeared inside, Daisy turned to him.
“You sticking around a little longer?”
He shrugged. “I can.”
She smirked. “Cards? Or you scared?”
“Not scared,” he said, already walking toward the house. “Just merciful.”
Dylan stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing plates while the sound of cartoon lullabies echoed faintly from upstairs.
The air inside still carried the sweetness of his mama’s peach cobbler, the tang of steak seasoning clinging to his fingertips. A summer breeze floated through the open window above the sink, lifting the sheer curtain and cooling the sweat still drying on the back of his neck.
He dried his hands on a dish towel and leaned against the counter, letting the quiet settle in.
It was strange how peaceful it felt here.
He hadn’t been home since the night he’d left Ali at Bellamy Memorial Hospital, and yet the house welcomed him like no time had passed.
His sister and her family were also in town, visiting for a few days, so driving over after the fundraiser had just felt…
natural. Right. The rhythm of family life picked up without missing a beat— the familiar chaos, the playful teasing, the long-running joke about how he still liked his dinner rolls drowned in butter, just like when he was six.
It should’ve felt like slipping back into something simple.
But his mind kept drifting.
To Ali.
To her flushed cheeks. That nervous lip bite. The texts she sent, the ones she almost sent, the ones she deleted and retyped. And the ones that made his entire body lock up in anticipation.
“About my mouth.”
He let out a slow breath, jaw tightening slightly as the words replayed like a whisper against his skin.
He wanted her.
Not just physically— though god did he feel that, too. But more than that, he wanted to know what it looked like when she let go. When she trusted him with more than her body. When she didn’t back off.
He could still see her pacing her bedroom floor, phone in hand. He didn’t have to be there to picture it. He knew her. That quiet panic she had when her feelings got big. The way she second-guessed herself even when she already knew what she wanted.
But she’d hit send anyway.
That mattered.
He ran a hand through his hair and looked around the kitchen. Same linoleum floor. Same humming fridge. Same old-school salt and pepper shakers shaped like lighthouses his mama bought at Tybee one summer.
And yet everything felt different.
Because this time, he wasn’t the same either.
Ten years ago, he let too much go unsaid. Let fear and family and unfinished sentences get in the way of something real.
But this time?
He wouldn’t.
A creak on the stairs pulled him from his thoughts.
Daisy’s voice followed. “Kids are down. Let’s play, old man.”
He pushed off the counter with a smirk. “Deal the cards, little sis.”
But even as he followed her into the den, his mind was still somewhere else.
Half in the past. Half on her lips. And all the way gone.
“You’re going down,” Daisy said with a smirk. Her dark hair was up in a loose bun, and she wore an old Sharks hoodie over sleep shorts. “I’ve been practicing with tiny humans all year. I’m ruthless now.”
He grinned, dropping into the chair across from her. “Bring it on, punk.”
Daisy let out a surprised laugh, tossing a yellow card on the pile. “And also, don’t think I didn’t notice you dodging the baby monitor earlier. Afraid of bedtime meltdowns?”
He held up his hands. “I know better than to get in the way of your kids' wind-down playlist and a melatonin gummy.”
They played in easy silence for a few rounds. Comfortable. Familiar. Like nothing had ever gone wrong between them. Like college hadn’t happened. Like Ali—
He shifted in his seat.
“Y’know,” Daisy said after a moment, not looking up from her cards, “you’re quieter than usual.”
He met her gaze across the table. “Just tired.”
She nodded slowly, her expression unreadable. “Lot on your mind?”
A pause. “Yep.”
She stacked a Draw Four on his pile. “Wanna talk about it?”
“Nope.”
Another beat passed, and then she smiled— genuinely, not like it used to be when she was deflecting or guarding herself. “Okay.”
And that was the deal, wasn’t it? That was how they kept the peace. Don’t ask. Don’t tell. Move forward.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was something.
After a second game and a few beers neither of them really wanted, Daisy kicked her feet up on the chair next to his and said, “You seemed happy earlier. I haven’t seen that in a long time.”
He didn’t say anything right away.
Because how do you explain to your sister that the thing she tried so hard to tear apart might actually be the only thing that ever felt like home?
Instead, he shrugged. “It’s been a good weekend.”
She studied him. “You seeing someone?”
His heart thumped once. Then twice.
“No,” he said carefully. “Not really.”
Not yet. But maybe… Maybe soon.
Later, after several games and way too much trash talk they gave up playing.
The coffee table was littered with cards, empty beer bottles, and the remnants of a half-eaten bag of Nerds Clusters.
The TV played softly in the background— some random Food Network competition neither of them had paid much attention to— and the ceiling fan spun lazily above them, stirring the thick Southern air.
Daisy flopped sideways on the loveseat, feet tucked under her, a flushed grin spreading across her face. “You cheated,” she slurred, pointing at him with exaggerated drama. “Nobody wins Uno and gin rummy unless they’re a certified asshole.”
Dylan chuckled, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Maybe you just suck.”
She gasped, feigning offense, then snorted. “You’re lucky I love you.”