44. Jaymie
Jaymie
The world has gone still in a way that feels sacred.
The fanfair of the cup is gone and all thats left is the joy it brought and the drive to play another day.
The apartment was not just quiet—but hushed, like the air itself is holding its breath.
The kind of stillness that happens after something seismic, when adrenaline drains from your body and is replaced by something steadier. Heavie r. Fuller.
Morning light pushes gently through the slats of the blinds, streaking the bed in gold.
It paints the room in soft brushstrokes—sheets rumpled, shadows long, the glow catching on the glass of a half-empty water bottle on the nightstand.
A sweater draped over the back of the chair. Her hair tangled across the pillow.
Mallory.
She’s curled on her side, lips parted, one hand resting just above the curve of Lola’s head.
There’s a smudge of sleep beneath her eye, the faint pink of a crease on her cheek where the pillowcase left its mark.
She looks so peaceful it hurts. And between us—our daughter.
Lola breathes in slow, even puffs, her tiny mouth open just enough to show her tongue, her little nose twitching every so often like she’s dreaming about milk or movement or nothing at all.
Her hands are balled into fists near her cheeks, soft cotton sleeves wrinkled from sleep. Her lashes are impossibly long.
She’s so small. So still.
And she takes up the whole damn room.
Everything else—the Cup, the fans, the roaring win and the champagne and the flashbulbs—is somewhere else. Fuzzy at the edges. Unreal.
This right here? This is real.
My chest tightens in a way that’s not painful but sharp. Like being cracked open.
Mal lory stirs slightly, lashes fluttering before her eyes open, still hazy with sleep. She shifts onto her back and looks at me, a soft smile spreading across her face before she even speaks.
“You’re staring.”
“Always.”
Her smile deepens. “Creep.”
“Obsessed,” I counter.
She laughs quietly, a breathy, sleepy sound that tugs something loose in my chest. Her fingers find Lola’s cheek and gently trace it, featherlight.
“She’s completely out,” Mallory whispers.
“I think she drooled on me somewhere around four a.m.”
“She likes you better,” she says, teasing, her fingers still moving. “You smell like sweat and victory.”
“I smell like socks and stale Gatorade.”
“Tomato, to-mah-to.”
We fall into silence, the kind that only feels intimate with the right person. The kind that means everything is understood without being spoken.
I reach over her, careful not to jostle Lola, and open the drawer of the nightstand. My fingers find the small velvet box I tucked away weeks ago—back when everything still felt like maybe. Back when I didn’t know if this kind of morning would ever really be mine.
Mal lory watches me, eyes narrowing, curiosity blooming in the crease between her brows. Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak right away. Just watches.
I sit up slowly, cradling the box in my palm.
“Jaymie?” she asks softly.
I take a breath. Not the kind you take to calm yourself, but the kind you take before you jump. Before you leap from the high place you’ve always been afraid to fall from.
“I bought this the night she was born,” I say. “You were asleep in the hospital bed, and I was holding her, and I remember thinking— this is it . This is what I want. Forever.”
Her mouth opens slightly. Her eyes shine, wide and unblinking.
“She’s not mine by blood,” I say. “But she’s mine. Completely. And so are you. You have been, since the day you showed up at my place with that duffel bag and told me you didn’t know how to do this, but you were going to try.”
Her lips tremble.
“You made a life with me,” I say, my voice tight. “And I want to spend the rest of it making sure you both know exactly how loved you are.”
I open the box.
She gasps, one hand covering her mouth.
The ring catches the light like it was waiting for this moment. A massive oval diamond in the center, flanked by two round stones that glow like tiny stars. It’s bold and clean and stunning and completely her .
“Marry me, Mal,” I whisper. “Let me be your always. Let me be her dad. For real.”
She doesn’t speak. Not at first.
She just nods—wildly, tears streaming down her cheeks—and then she launches herself toward me, carefully, around the baby between us, her arms wrapping around my neck. The box falls between us, landing on the mattress.
“Yes,” she breathes against my shoulder. “Jaymie. Yes. Of course yes. ”
I slide the ring onto her finger, and it fits like it was made for her.
Maybe it was. Lola stirs just then, a soft sigh escaping her lips, but she doesn’t wake.
She stretches one arm dramatically above her head and flops to the side like she’s bored of our nonsense.
Mallory and I both laugh through our tears, the sound raw and real.
“I want to remember this moment forever,” she whispers.
“You will.”
We ease Lola into her crib, wrapping her in the soft blanket with the tiny moons on it. She stays asleep, her face peaceful, like nothing in the world could touch her. I brush a kiss across her forehead, then pull the door nearly shut behind us.
Mal lory turns to me in the low morning light, her hair messy and her ring catching the sun.
“Hi, fiancé,” she says, voice rough with emotion.
I step toward her, heart in my throat.
And kiss her. Deep, slow, sure.
We don’t rush.
It starts with the way she kisses me—open-mouthed and slow, like she’s memorizing the shape of me all over again.
Her hands roam, warm and familiar, curling into the back of my neck, sliding under my shirt.
She hooks a leg around my hip, dragging me closer, breath hot against my jaw.
Her nails bite into my shoulders just enough to make my spine arch.
The softness between us burns away, replaced by heat.
Hunger. Months of watching her sleep, nursing our daughter, biting her lip when I walked into a room shirtless.
Her voice is rough when she says, “I need you, now. ”
That’s all it takes.
Clothes scatter. Breath shortens. She pulls me down and opens under me, gasping my name like it’s a promise and a prayer. My mouth finds her collarbone, her throat, the inside of her thigh.
We move like we’ve been starving for this—for us —for the feel of skin and sweat and years of want finally let loose.
She bites my shoulder to keep from moaning too loud. I grip the headboard to keep from coming too fast. And when s he falls apart beneath me, nails raking, back arching, breath shaking—I follow. Hard. Fast. Deep.
After, we collapse into each other, hearts racing, skin slick, the room filled with the smell of sex and warmth and quiet triumph. Mallory laughs breathlessly against my chest. “I’m going to be sore.”
I grin, tracing lazy circles down her spine. “I’ll carry you to the kitchen. Bride privileges.”
She lifts her left hand and admires the ring, catching the light with a proud smirk. “Fiancée privileges,” she corrects.
“Wife privileges,” I whisper, kissing her again. “Soon.”