Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Santos
I wake up with Halsey in my arms, her head resting against my chest, her breathing soft and steady.
The first thing I notice is the warmth of her body pressed against mine, a comfort I didn’t realize I’d missed until now.
It’s still early, the soft light of morning slipping through the cracks of the blinds, casting faint shadows across the room.
Dustin isn’t here. He must’ve slipped out sometime in the night, though I don’t remember him leaving. All I know is that we fell asleep together, Halsey nestled between us, like old times. But this wasn’t like before.
Back then, when we were just kids, sharing a bed was nothing more than a refuge from the world, a place where nothing could touch us.
But now, it’s different. We’re not children anymore.
We’re three adults trying to bridge the gaps that have widened over the years—gaps filled with complications, truths we’ve avoided, and time that changed us.
And yet, after last night, I feel like things can change.
Something shifted between us—something real, something fragile, but there.
Even with all the complications, the unhealed scars, and the questions still hanging in the air, I believe we can make it through.
Because for the first time in a long time, I see the possibility of us again—not just a fragmented memory of who we used to be, but a throuple, whole and together.
There’s beauty in the mess we’ve become.
We’re not perfect, but maybe that’s okay.
Maybe we’re meant to love each other in the imperfections, to find our way through the cracks.
Last night wasn’t a solution, but it was a beginning.
It was a reminder that even when things fall apart, we can still rebuild, piece by piece, if we’re willing to fight for it.
I brush a strand of hair from Halsey’s face, careful not to wake her just yet. I realize how much I’ve missed this—the closeness, the intimacy we used to share without thinking twice. It’s like we were always one person in two different bodies. Inseparable.
I shift slightly, careful not to disturb her.
But Halsey stirs in her sleep, her hand lightly gripping my shirt as if she’s soothing herself, even in her dreams. I watch her for a moment, my mind racing, thinking about how far we’ve drifted and how close we feel right now, in this fragile morning light.
It’s confusing, but it’s also . . . real.
The kind of real we’ve been avoiding for too long.
Slowly, her eyes flutter open. She blinks a few times, disoriented, before her gaze meets mine. “Morning,” she whispers, her voice raspy with sleep.
“Morning,” I reply, my voice barely louder than a murmur. I don’t want to break the delicate peace we’ve somehow stumbled into.
She shifts, propping herself up on one elbow, her gaze flickering toward the empty space beside us where Dustin had been. “He left?”
“Yeah,” I say softly, “sometime during the night or probably too early in the morning to help the farmhands.”
She nods. “One day I’ll wake up early enough to help him.” Then she looks between us. “I miss this. I miss us.”
I shift closer, my arm instinctively tightening around her. “I miss it too,” I admit, my voice low. “I miss you. I miss him. I miss how easy things used to be.”
She turns her head, her eyes locking onto mine, and for the first time in a while, we’re not hiding behind our usual walls. There’s no bravado, no masks—just us, stripped down to the truth of what we’ve been missing.
“It’s hard,” she says, her voice trembling slightly. “Being here, with both of you, and not knowing how to be. We’re so close, but it feels like we’re miles apart sometimes. Like we’re all just . . . stuck.”
I reach for her hand, intertwining our fingers, feeling the warmth and comfort in the simple gesture. “I know. But last night—it was different. It wasn’t perfect, but . . . it felt like maybe we’re starting to find our way back. Even if it’s slow.”
She nods, her gaze falling to our joined hands, as if she’s drawing strength from that quiet connection.
The light touch of her fingers against mine, the way our hands fit together, makes me feel grounded in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
It’s these small moments that remind me we can still find our rhythm, even when everything else feels uncertain.
“So how are things with you and therapy?” she asks softly, her voice full of concern but gentle. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I scoff lightly, a bitter chuckle escaping my lips. “Leave it to you to start with the easy questions.” My voice carries a mix of frustration and amusement, but I know she’s only trying to help.
“It’s going . . . of course,” I add, but there’s so much more beneath the surface.
Before I can stop myself, the words start pouring out like a dam breaking.
“It’s just . . . it’s complicated, you know?
My dad, his career—his unsuccessful and yet somehow still successful career put so much pressure on me.
Even now, it’s like something I can’t shake. ”
I pause, drawing in a breath, feeling the familiar ache of old wounds.
“I wish he hadn’t gotten hurt the way he did.
He was supposed to have this long, legendary career.
He had so many records when he started playing, even Olympic medals.
He was unstoppable. And then—then it was just over.
One injury, and everything he worked for vanished. ”
Her fingers tighten around mine, and I feel her silently urging me to continue. So I do.
“And all he had left was me. His son. The one who could take over, who could carry the torch, who could succeed in all the ways he couldn’t anymore.
And I have, haven’t I? I’ve won two cups with different teams. I’ve lived up to his expectations, I’ve done everything he wanted.
But sometimes . . . sometimes I wonder if it’s all been for him, or if any of it has ever been for me. ”
I pause again. It’s hard to admit, but I push through the discomfort.
“If I hadn’t gotten hurt, this year could’ve been my third cup. Another victory, another title to add to the legacy. But those are my victories, right? Not his. I’ve learned to love hockey on my own terms. Skating, the ice . . . it’s my life. It’s what I breathe.”
I glance at her, needing her to understand me.
“But I’m starting to realize there’s something more I need to learn.
At some point, my career—the glory, the championships .
. . they’ll all be behind me. But my life?
My life will continue. It has to. And loving you, loving Dustin .
. . It shouldn’t be a secret. It shouldn’t be something that could ruin everything.
If the world can’t accept me—accept us—then I’ll figure out something else. I won’t lose this. I won’t lose us.”
Her eyes widen just slightly, and in that moment, I know she understands the depth of it. The shift between who I was and who I want to become. The fear of losing the sport I love, but the fiercer fear of losing her, losing us.
I lean forward slowly, mindful of my injured leg, and press my lips to hers, gently at first. Her hand comes up to cradle my face, and I feel her touch seep into me, grounding me.
The kiss is soft, tender, a quiet reflection of the promises we’re making to each other.
It’s an acknowledgment of the path we’ve chosen to walk together.
The pain in my leg is still there, a dull reminder of my injury, but for a moment, it doesn’t matter. It’s just her and me—us—finding our way back to each other, piece by piece.
She’s wearing my t-shirt, and it hangs loose on her, the fabric brushing against her thighs, but the sight of her in something that’s mine makes my heart race.
The soft cotton gives me easy access to her skin, and I can’t resist. I reach for the hem, pushing it up, exposing more of her inch by inch.
Her breath hitches as I lean in, my lips brushing against her neck, trailing soft kisses along her skin. “I missed this,” I murmur against her throat, my voice low and rough. “Is it okay if I touch you? I need to touch you, baby. I need you close.”
“Santos . . . yes, please, don’t ask, just . . .” she breathes, her hands gripping my shoulders as I move lower, my mouth tasting every inch of her. I want to savor her. I nibble on the soft skin of her collarbone, then move down slowly, taking my time, each kiss deliberate, each touch lingering.
Her fingers dig into my skin, and she arches into me, her voice a mixture of need and command. “Santos . . . please. Stop playing and give me what I want.”
I smirk against her skin. “What is it you want, baby?” I ask, my lips trailing over her chest. “Tell me.”
Her breath catches, and I can feel her body trembling under my touch. “I want you to stop teasing,” she says, her voice demanding but breathy. “I want your mouth on me. Now.”
I chuckle softly, my lips brushing over the top of her breast, but I don’t rush. “Patience,” I whisper, sucking gently on her skin, leaving marks in my wake. I move lower, kissing her through the fabric of the shirt before finally pushing it up higher, revealing her bare skin beneath.
When I reach her breasts, I pause, letting my lips hover just above her nipple. Her body tenses, her breathing coming faster, and she arches her back, pressing herself toward me, her frustration clear.
“Please,” she whispers, the word almost a plea. “Don’t make me beg.”
I grin, loving the way she’s both begging and demanding at the same time. “You don’t have to beg,” I murmur, finally letting my lips close around her nipple, sucking gently at first, then harder, drawing a gasp from her.
Her hand tangles in my hair, her grip tightening as I lavish attention on her breasts, sucking, licking, nibbling at her soft skin. “Santos,” she breathes, her voice a mixture of desperation and satisfaction. “More . . . I need more.”