Orla
I lay there stunned for a while.
He’d ripped the fucking door off its hinges.
That should have been the moment everything in me shut down and fear took over. I’ll admit, it took a few seconds for my body to catch up with the reality of what he’d done, the splintered wood, the empty doorway, the noise that must have rattled down the hallway.
But with Tyler, it didn’t land like that.
I knew deep down that whatever had driven him to it hadn’t been about rage; it was panic. It was the idea of losing me. Love with nowhere sensible to go, twisting itself into something hot-headed instead.
I never felt threatened. Never felt unsafe in his arms. For all his flaws, and there were plenty, that line was one he’d never cross. He’d completely laid himself bare to me in ways I’d never imagined he could and it stirred something fiercely protective in me.
The weight of everything was still there, like a bruise that had stopped throbbing but hadn’t quite faded. I was still reeling, still turning it over in my head, the ugly truth that I’d defaulted to believing the press before believing him.
My hand rested over his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart. It was soothing. We lay there quietly breathing in the same rhythm for a while. Every so often, I felt his lips brush the top of my head, and that tiny gesture undid me more than any grand speech could.
Everything he’d said, about wanting marriage, babies, all of it—it looped in my mind like a song I couldn’t stop listening to.
I’d never expected to hear that from him.
Not Tyler Reed. Not the man I’d once assumed would bolt at the first mention of a shared future.
And this wasn’t even the first time he’d said those things.
My fingertips drifted across the ink scattered over his skin: the dice etched into his ribs, the curling laurel leaves disguising both collarbones, a string of roman numerals I couldn’t place. “What do all these mean?” I asked softly.
He huffed a rough little laugh. “Honestly? Most of ’em don’t mean anything. I was eighteen, drunk, and thought they’d make me look tougher than I was. Stupid shit, really.”
His eyes flicked down to where my hand lingered over his chest, and his voice came gentler.
“Except the phoenix. I got that one when I first went pro. Felt important, like I had to mark the moment. My whole life felt like it was burning down around me, but that…” his jaw tightened, then I felt him relax.
“That was the first time I thought maybe I could rise out of it. Maybe I wasn’t just the fuck-up everyone thought I was. ”
My heart pinched. The man who’d just torn down a door for the woman he loved was also the boy who’d once needed proof he could survive a world he’d been thrown into.
God. He never stopped showing me pieces of himself I hadn’t expected and every single one only pulled me deeper.
My gaze drifted to the dressing table. The bottle of perfume sat there, gleaming under the lamp light.
My perfume. The expensive one I wore every day. I hadn’t even realised he’d noticed.
“You really bought me the perfume?” I asked, angling my face toward his.
He turned to look at me like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Of course I did. Though I should warn you, it’s already open. I sprayed it around every day because I missed the smell of you.”
A laugh escaped me; I was feeling a little overwhelmed. “Jesus, Reed, you’re getting real soft, lately.”
“That’s the Orla effect,” he said, that glint in his eyes back again.
He kissed me slowly, reassuringly, like he’d been doing all night, before I let my head sink back against his chest. His hand traced circles on my shoulder, making my skin tingle under his fingertips.
He’d succeeded in making the once painful feeling in my ribs lift.
I’d spent years convincing myself that I’d never find anyone who truly loved me.
But here he was, proving me wrong one tiny gesture at a time.
“I’m sorry.” The words slipped after they’d been boiling in my core all evening.
He turned his head sharply. “For what?”
“For everything. For doubting you. For not giving you a chance to explain. For how quickly I believed the worst. I hate myself for it,” I said shaking my head
His arm tightened around me, his other hand tipping my chin so I had no choice but to meet those deep, steady green eyes.
“Orla. Stop that. You and I are more alike than you think. We both react before we think. Maybe that’s why we get each other.”
I gave him a small, guilty smile. “Guess that means we’re screwed.”
“Nah.” His mouth curved. “Just means we’ve gotta learn to handle it together. You don’t run, I don’t let my temper get the better of me.”
I snorted softly. “That’s a tall order.”
“Yeah, well… you’re worth it.” He brushed his thumb over my jaw, his gaze holding me still.
“So, next time you think about running, remember: your perfume’s already in my room, your toothbrush is in my bag, and your name’s the only one in my head when I picture the rest of my damn life. I meant what I said, Orla. I love you.”
I was addicted to hearing that. Like a wave that crashed so hard it left me breathless before retreating again. He wasn’t asking for perfection. Just me. And for once in my life, I had someone telling me that was enough.
“I love you, too.”
He pressed his forehead to mine, and spoke unwaveringly.
“And I’m not going anywhere, O. You can push, pull, scream at me, and I’ll still be here.
Screaming back probably.” He laughed, soft and tired.
“You’re it for me, and I’ll spend as long as it takes proving that, over and over, until you never doubt it again. ”