Orla
My legs barely carried me to the tube station after Tyler Reed kissed my cheek.
Fuck.
It was nothing.
But it was everything.
We’d just sat and talked for hours, and somehow, I’d started believing I’d been wrong about him all along.
Sure, he was still flirty, cocky, full of that big-grin charm he wore like armour.
But he hadn’t tried anything—no wandering hands, no leaning in too close, no sleazy lines or half-baked attempt to walk me home just to angle for a shag.
He kissed my cheek, said goodnight and left me standing there like I’d forgotten how to breathe.
For a full minute I just stood on the pavement, too dazed to move. The streetlights were haloed in the humid air, my skin still tingling where his mouth had been. It was the gentlest kiss I’d ever been given and somehow it hit harder than all the others combined.
His scent still clung to me, maddening and heavy. It was so distinctly him it lingered in my head long after he was gone. It felt like he’d branded me with it.
I picked up my pace as the street dimmed, trainers smacking against the pavement, but I couldn’t outrun the loop playing in my mind. Every word. Every look. The way he’d let his guard slip and spoken like a real person, not the headline version of himself. Childhood stuff. Family stuff. Real shit.
Kate had been right about it all. There was more to him than anyone gave him credit for.
Jesus, what was I doing?
Everyone had warned me. Gwen had flat-out called him a walking red flag.
There was no getting away from the fact that he was hot, chaotic and completely dangerous.
I’d built up my guard sky-high, brick on top of brick.
And somehow, he was dismantling it one piece at a time.
A flash of sincerity here. A laugh that didn’t feel rehearsed there.
A cheek kiss that knocked the sense out of me more than any filthy line ever could.
I needed to be careful. It was just a drink. Just a chat.
Like two colleagues. Yes. That’s it.
He was my colleague.
Casual.
A colleague I wanted to fuck into next week.
God, Orla. You fucking idiot.
The train roared into the station, a hot gust of air rushing up from the tunnel.
I swiped in, stumbled into a carriage, and collapsed onto the scratchy fabric seat.
The place smelled like metal and damp concrete.
Strangers swayed around me, blank-faced, headphones in, the city moving on as though nothing monumental had just happened.
Meanwhile, I sat there with crimson cheeks, hair half-fallen, and eyes that absolutely betrayed me in the dark reflection of the window.
When the carriage jolted forward, my hand brushed the side of my face. That tiny patch of skin still burned. Ridiculous. It was just a kiss. A friendly, polite, meaningless kiss.
So why did it feel like he’d reached straight through my ribs and twisted something I didn’t know was still alive?
By the time I surfaced back in Balham, some of the spell had worn off. The air was cooler, my street quiet, and my heartbeat finally slowing but my thoughts were still a riot.
I trudged up to the flat, unlocked the door, and dropped my bag inside.
The silence hit me like a wall. Too quiet and ordinary, when my head was in disarray.
My keys clinked against the counter as I threw them down, and I leant there for a second, palms flat against the surface, trying to breathe him out of my system.
All I could think about… was him.
The warmth of his laugh. The way his voice gravelled when he said he liked my opinions. The look he gave me before he kissed my cheek like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.
My pulse just wouldn’t settle.
I kicked off my shoes, walked into the bathroom, and turned on the shower. The pipes groaned, steam curling around the mirror. I stripped down and stepped under the spray, hoping the heat would melt him off me. That stupid grin, that scent, that calm way he’d said, “Goodnight, Orla.”
But it didn’t.
Every drop of water just reminded me how close he’d been, how his breath had brushed my cheek before his lips did.
This was way beyond the realms of attraction now. That was the problem. He’d made me feel seen and I’d forgotten what that felt like. Which meant I was in serious fucking trouble.
I knocked off the shower, wrapped myself in a towel and stepped out just as my phone vibrated against the counter.
Kate:
Semi-final tomorrow. You sitting with the WAGs or the medical team?
I hadn’t told them about the drink, but they’d been on my case about Tyler all week and they didn’t need any more encouragement.
Me:
Very funny. Get a new hobby.
Kate:
Jordan says he’ll give him your number if you want
Me:
You and your fiancé can fuck off. But also… tell him good luck.
Kate:
I will. See you tomorrow, Mrs Reed.
I groaned, dropped the phone face-down on the counter, and buried my face in my hands.
Mrs Reed. Fuck off.
…But also, Jesus.
If only Kate knew, my insubordinate brain was picturing something far worse than a wedding.
It was him sprawled on my sofa like he belonged there, dimples flashing when I walked in from a long day at work.
Him texting me stupid memes between training sessions.
Me at his match, not as the physio, not as a colleague, but as his and only his.
The thought turned my insides. I shoved it away so hard I nearly knocked the phone off the counter. Nope. Absolutely not. This was how you got burned. I’d sworn off men for a reason. And Tyler Reed was basically a burning building in human form.
Still, when I finally dragged myself to bed, his kiss was waiting for me.
A ghost against my cheek, a flutter in my chest. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t put it to rest.