Chapter 36 Come Back…Be Here
Come Back…Be Here
Ali
Ali stirred at the sound of the dresser drawer sliding shut.
The room was still dim, painted in soft gray-blue light from the sliver of dawn pushing through the blinds. Her body was heavy, warm, still humming from the way he’d woken her hours ago—tender, slow, so deep it had made her cry out his name until her voice broke.
She reached out instinctively, but the space beside her was cold.
Her eyes fluttered open.
Dylan stood across the room, shirtless, a pair of jeans zipped but unbuttoned as he slipped socks into his duffel. His back was to her, all wide shoulders and tense muscle. His movements were careful. Quiet.
He didn’t want to wake me.
Her chest tightened.
She watched him for a moment—his hand brushing over the toothbrush he’d left on her sink, the way he folded his sweatshirt instead of cramming it in. He wasn’t just leaving. He was trying to leave gently.
And somehow, that hurt worse.
“Hey,” she rasped, voice still coated in sleep.
Dylan froze.
Then he turned, eyes soft and apologetic as he crossed back to her side of the bed.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, crouching down beside her. He reached up and brushed her hair back from her face. “I was trying to let you sleep.”
Ali blinked up at him. “What time is it?”
“Little before six.” His thumb dragged gently across her cheekbone. “I’ve got an eight-thirty flight.”
Right. Of course.
He’d told her last night. She just didn’t want to believe it.
She swallowed hard, throat tight. “You were just gonna sneak out?”
He shook his head. “No. I was gonna kiss you before I left. I swear.”
Ali nodded, but the ache in her chest only grew.
Dylan exhaled and leaned his forehead against hers. “I don’t want to go.”
“I know.”
“I’ve got training this week. Kallie’s been on my ass. And Peterson wants me back for drills this week.”
She nodded again, her fingers finding his. “I know, Dylan.”
He kissed her, soft and lingering, like he didn’t want to let go.
“I’m gonna text you when I land,” he murmured. “I’m gonna call you tonight. And tomorrow. And every day until I see you again.”
Ali smiled, small and sleepy. “Okay.”
“I’m serious,” he said, voice rough now. “This doesn’t stop because I have to leave. You and me? We’re not over.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I believe you.”
Dylan pressed another kiss to her lips, then to her forehead, then finally stood.
Ali watched him finish packing through blurry eyes, heart heavy but full.
Because for the first time in ten years, she wasn’t afraid of what came next.
It had been a month since Dylan left.
Thirty-one days.
But he hadn’t missed a single text.
Not one call.
Every morning, without fail, her phone buzzed before her alarm even had a chance to go off—Good morning, baby.
Hope you slept okay. I miss you. Then came the call.
His voice, deep and rough with sleep, telling her about the protein shake he was choking down or how Rocky had already started trash talking before sunrise drills.
And every night?
He called again—right as she was climbing into bed, her hair in a messy bun, her oversized T-shirt slipping off one shoulder.
He always waited until she was under the covers.
Always asked how her day was. Always teased her in the best ways.
Some nights ended with whispered moans and shaky goodnights.
Other nights, they talked until she drifted off to sleep.
It didn’t feel like a routine. It felt like home.
Ali sat cross-legged on her couch, her Kindle open in her lap but untouched. Her eyes drifted to her phone screen for the third time in as many minutes, the last message from him still sitting there:
You looked so fucking pretty in your little sundress today. That photo should be illegal. Call you after film session—it’ll be later than normal. Get in bed without me.
She smiled, heart warm and gooey in her chest.
He’d sent it around 8 p.m., right after she’d posted a pic from brunch with the girls.
Nothing fancy—just mimosas and waffles and her in that lemon-print, sleeveless Lilly dress she used to second-guess herself in.
She hated her arms. But Dylan? Dylan had replied like it belonged on the cover of Vogue.
Ali leaned her head back against the couch and exhaled.
She missed him.
More than she thought she would. More than she’d let herself admit—even now.
Not just the sex—not the way he made her body feel like a prayer—but the way he saw her. The way he made her laugh. The way he never let her go to sleep without reminding her that she mattered.
Her phone buzzed again, and her heart jumped.
Ten minutes. Don’t fall asleep on me, Presley.
Ali grinned. It was after 10 already.
Not a chance
She hit send, then pulled the fabric of his old Magnolia Bluff football tee up to her nose and breathed him in.
Ten minutes.
She could wait.
But only just.
Ali startled awake at the sound of the front door slamming.
Hard.
She blinked, disoriented, her heart thudding as her eyes adjusted to the dim, warm light of the living room. The TV was still glowing with the Netflix screen saver, her Kindle splayed open on the cushion beside her. Her phone, face-down on her stomach, buzzed one more time before going silent.
The front door opened again—slammed again—followed by the unmistakable sound of heels being kicked off and a sharp voice muttering, “I swear to God if he ever says that shit to me again—”
Ali sat up, groggy and confused. “Ash?”
Ashley appeared in the hallway, barefoot and red-faced, her purse sliding off her shoulder. “Brant is a literal fucking child.”
Ali blinked. “Wait—what time is it?”
“Almost midnight.” Ashley threw her purse down and let out a frustrated breath. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just needed to get out of there.”
Ali’s heart dropped.
Dylan.
She grabbed her phone and turned it over—six missed calls. Two texts.
Babe? You fall asleep?
Ali, you okay? I’m getting worried.
She cursed softly under her breath and texted back as fast as her fingers would allow.
I’m okay. I’m so sorry. I fell asleep on the couch. Ashley just got home and she’s upset. I need to be here with her tonight. I’ll call you in the morning. I love you.
She stared at the screen for half a second longer, then locked the phone and set it face-down on the cushion beside her. Ashley deserved her full attention right now.
Her chest ached—not with guilt, exactly, but with that low, gnawing feeling of I didn’t mean to let you down.
“Ali?” Ashley’s voice cracked a little from the kitchen. “Do we have any wine?”
“Coming.” Ali pushed herself off the couch and padded barefoot toward her cousin, her best friend.
Ashley needed her now.
And Dylan would understand.
He always did.