Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Stella
Today the gym smelled like rubber and sweat and the faint ghost of yesterday’s adrenaline.
At five a.m., the lights were still half-dim, the bleachers empty, the only sound the rhythmic pop of my serve hitting the far wall and the echo that followed.
My first NCAA playoff match is in three days.
My arm burned. My lungs screamed. But I kept feeding balls into the machine over and over, trying to outrun the fear that had been living under my ribs since the night Tristan walked away.
I didn’t hear the door open.
I only felt the shift in the air—like the whole building had taken a breath and held it.
Then he was there.
Tristan stepped out of the shadows in an oversized black hoodie, hood up, jaw tight enough to split stone. His duffel hung from one shoulder like he’d either just come from practice or hadn’t slept at all.
The next ball slipped from my fingers.
He caught it one-handed before it hit the floor.
My pulse stumbled.
He didn’t say anything at first. He just came toward me, slow and deliberate, like every step cost him something. Like he’d already fought this battle with himself and lost.
Or won.
I didn’t know which was more dangerous.
“Vale,” I said, but it came out thinner than I meant it to.
His eyes dragged over me—sweat-damp ponytail, volleyball shorts, flushed skin, the rise and fall of my chest—and that look alone nearly took my knees out.
God.
I had missed him angry.
Missed him wrecked.
Missed him wanting me enough to look like it hurt.
He stopped close enough that I could feel the heat of him.
“I ended it with Isa, for good. She knows where she stands.”
No hello.
No preamble.
Just truth dropped between us like a lit match.
I stared at him.
He swallowed once, hard, like even saying her name here in front of me scraped him raw.
“She deserved better than half,” he said.
The machine behind me whirred uselessly, waiting for the next ball I no longer had in my hand.
I wet my lips. His gaze dropped to my mouth and stayed there one brutal second too long.
Then he stepped in and braced one hand against the wall beside my head.
“Did you meant it?” he asked.
My breath caught.
“What?”
His laugh was low and broken.
“Don’t do that.”
His other hand came up with the ball still trapped in it, pressing it absently against his thigh like he needed something to keep from reaching for me.
“At the coffee shop. Before that. All of it.” His eyes pinned mine. “When you said you wanted me back. When you looked at me like you still—”
He cut himself off so sharply his jaw flexed.
The silence between us turned electric.
I lifted my chin.
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
That did something to him.
I saw it hit low and hard.
He stepped closer, close enough now that the front of my shirt brushed his hoodie every time I breathed.
“You want me back, Stells?” His voice was wrecked gravel, scraped raw from somewhere deep. “For real?”
My spine touched cinder block.
There was nowhere to go.
Nowhere I wanted to go.
“Yes.”
It came out steady.
His eyes shut for half a second like that one word had nearly finished him.
When he opened them again, they were darker. Hungrier. Honest in a way Tristan almost never let himself be.
“I leave in an hour.”
My heart dropped.
“For the away game,” he said. “First one.”
Of course the timing would be cruel and the universe would finally crack this open just to hand us distance.
I tried not to let it show. Maybe I failed, because his mouth twisted like he hated it too.
“I’m not here to play with you,” he said. “I’m not here to start something and vanish.” His breath hit my cheek warm and uneven. “That’s exactly what I’m trying not to be.”
My chest ached so hard it felt like bruising.
“Then why are you here?”
His eyes moved over my face like he was memorizing it for war.
“To tell you, it’s you. And we’re on. And I can’t fight this any more, baby. It’s me and you…maybe forever if we both want that.”
Every nerve in my body lit up.
He went on before I could speak.
“It’s been you in the cafeteria. You in the gym. You in the training room. You in every room I walk into before I’m ready.” His fingers flexed against the wall beside my head. “You in my head before games. You in my chest when I should be thinking about anything else.”
I stopped breathing.
He leaned closer, forehead almost touching mine now.
“I was trying to choose myself,” he said. “My game. My future. My discipline. But I’m done pretending I don’t want you and punishing the both of us for it.”
My hands curled into the front pocket of his hoodie.
Not pulling him in.
Just holding on.
His gaze dropped to my mouth again.
Mine dropped to his.
The world narrowed to shared air, pounding blood, and the unbearable ache of almost.
“You should be scared of me,” I whispered, because it was the only truth I had left. “Because I will own your heart. I’ll take it in my hands and stamp my name on your soul until you feel me every time you breathe.”
For one heartbeat, the gym went perfectly still.
Then something in his face broke open.
Not fear.
Not resistance.
Recognition.
“You already did,” he said, voice husky and ruined.
The words hit me so hard I swayed.
His hand came up then—slow, shaking once before he steadied it—and hooked two fingers under my chin.
I let him lift my face.
I let him see everything.
The want.
The terror.
The fact that I was done pretending I could survive him halfway.
His thumb brushed my bottom lip, and I made the smallest sound in the back of my throat before I could stop it.
His eyes burned.
“Say it again,” he said.
“That I want you back?”
His jaw tightened.
“No. Say you won’t run, especially when it gets hard.”
I held his stare.
“This time,” I whispered, “I’m all in.”
A tremor moved through him.
His mouth hovered just above mine.
So close I could feel the shape of his next breath.
So close that one inch would’ve changed everything.
But he stopped.
Actually stopped.
And somehow that was hotter than if he’d kissed me.
Because it meant this mattered.
Because it meant he was choosing this.
Because it meant when he finally did kiss me, it wouldn’t be a relapse or a weakness or some dark-corner mistake he could walk away from.
His forehead touched mine.
“When I get back,” he said, each word low and deliberate, “I’m making you mine.”
My fingers tightened in his hoodie.
“Tristan—”
He pulled back just enough to look at me.
No armor.
No smirk.
No escape.
Just him.
“It’s on, Stells,” he said quietly. “The second I get back, I’m taking you to my room, locking the door, and undressing you slowly enough that you feel every second of how long I’ve wanted this.”
A shiver chased down my spine.
Not because I doubted him.
Because my body betrayed me instantly—already seeing it.
His bedroom door clicking shut.
His hands at my waist.
His mouth taking its time like he had all night to worship every place he’d denied himself.
Then, with a control that looked like it cost him blood, he pressed one hard kiss to the corner of my mouth.
Not enough.
Nowhere near enough.
Just enough to brand.
I made a helpless sound and his eyes flashed like he nearly changed his mind right there.
But he stepped back.
Actually stepped back.
Breathing hard.
Hands clenched.
Face wrecked.
“I have to go before I do something that makes getting on that bus impossible.”
I stared at him, pulse hammering.
“That sounds like it could be a problem.”
That pulled the ghost of a grin from him.
“Be good.” He pressed another hard kiss to the side of my neck, savoring the moment.
Then he looked at me one last time—really looked, like he was taking something with him—and the grin vanished, leaving only heat and promise.
“Play angry while I’m gone,” he said.
I lifted my chin.
“I always do.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth one final time.
“Yeah,” he said roughly. “I know.”
Then he turned and walked out of the half-lit gym without looking back, leaving me against the wall, breathless and burning and already counting the days until he came home.
Outside, dawn was just beginning to stain the windows gold.
Inside, everything had already been set on fire.
The worst part is that he leaves me burning.
Not truly kissed the way my body had been aching for.
Not claimed until I was trembling and lost.
Just one devastating press of his mouth at the corner of my lips—like a vow he was sealing with fire.
Then he was gone. Hood up, shoulders tight, walking out for three long away games and leaving me against that cold gym wall with my pulse racing and every inch of my skin still alive from the ghost of his touch.
Day one without him—
I don’t even finish my cool-down stretches before my body betrays me. Every downward dog feels like the brush of his hand beside my head. Every hamstring hold echoes with the memory of his breath hot against my ear. Every sip of water tastes like the kiss he refused to finish.
By the time I’m showered and sitting in the library for my Econ exam, I’m a live wire.
Skin too sensitive. Heart pounding too hard.
The worst part? He hasn’t texted yet—he’s thirty thousand feet in the air, radio silent—and still the anticipation is everywhere, thick and electric, like the air itself is humming with the promise of him.
I force my eyes to the screen.
I fail spectacularly.
Because every quiet moment tightens the ache low in my belly.
We’re both out here pretending to focus—him in hotel rooms and arenas, me in lectures and film sessions—when we both know the countdown is ticking down to the second he walks through my door and finally gives us everything we’ve been starving for.
The texts begin late that night, soft and aching at first.
Tristan:
Just landed. Hotel smells like regret and bad coffee.
You still carrying my kiss on your lips, baby?
My stomach dips like I’ve missed a step.
Me:
Still burning from it.
You left me aching on purpose, didn’t you?
Tristan: