Chapter 41
Chapter forty-one
Brynn
The crowd is still echoing behind me as I slip through the back gate of the field, where the old metal bleachers cast long shadows and the stadium lights buzz overhead. I don’t stop walking until I’m completely out of sight.
I didn’t plan to wait for him here, not exactly.
I know Knox is giving his team a victory speech right now, trying to control the chaos of the locker room.
I could see it in the way he carried himself at the final whistle—shoulders full of pride, yes, but also something more settled.
Something quieter. Like winning wasn’t just about the scoreboard.
I lean against the fence behind the end zone, the cool metal pressing into my back, and let the night settle around me.
My heart’s still racing from the game, from the fourth-quarter touchdown that sealed it, from the roar of the town coming alive around him.
I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him look more in his element, commanding and focused, surrounded by the boys who’d run through a wall for him.
And yet, even as he celebrated with his players, I could see it written all over his face.
He was searching for someone.
He was searching for me.
When I hear footsteps crunching over the gravel, I don’t move.
Knox steps into the shadows beside the bleachers, still in his hoodie and coaching gear, the sleeves pushed up, sweat drying at his temples, the faint scrape of turf on his cheekbone from where he got clipped during a sideline pileup.
He’s the picture of everything he is—steadfast, grounded, calm after the storm.
We don’t say anything at first. He just walks straight to me, slow and certain. When he’s close enough, I reach for him without thinking, and he’s already pulling me into his arms.
The tension in my chest gives out the second I feel him wrap around me. I press my face into his shoulder, breathing him in, the scent of sweat and fresh air and something I’ve always known as safety. His hand slides up my back, steady and warm, and I let myself melt into the moment. Into him.
“You did it,” I say quietly, my voice catching even though I’m trying to stay composed. “Knox, you did it. It’s so silly to be emotional over a high school football game, but it was amazing to watch.”
He pulls back slightly, enough to look down at me. His thumb brushes my cheek. “The win feels great, but not as good as it felt to look up and see you in the stands.”
The way he says it, it’s not a line. It’s not about impressing me. It’s just the truth. Simple. Certain. That’s always been him. He doesn't say more than he has to, and when he does, it matters.
“I wanted to run down to you,” I admit, my fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie. “Right after the game. It was so hard not to.”
“I wish you could have,” he murmurs. “But this is okay.”
“You looked like the heart of the whole team,” I tell him, voice soft. “Like they’d follow you anywhere.”
“They would,” he says. “And I’d do the same for them.”
There’s a beat of silence as I look at him, the man I loved once, the man I love again. The one who showed up when I didn’t ask, who makes anyone in his orbit feel cared for. The one who carried an entire town’s pride on his shoulders and made it look like it was his honor to do it.
“I’m proud of you,” I say, my voice thick. “Not just for tonight. For all of it. For the way you’ve built those boys up. For how much you care. You’re doing exactly what you were meant to do.”
He presses his forehead to mine, and I feel his breath as he exhales slowly. “Hearing that from you means more than I can explain.”
When he kisses me, I know he’s pouring every emotion he has into it—steady, certain, and unspoken. There’s no rush, no frantic edge. Just a calm, undeniable pull between us. Like we both understand this isn’t about going back. It’s about choosing each other again—this time for something real.
Waking up tangled in Knox Dalton’s sheets should not feel like the new normal, and yet…
here we are. Again. My leg is slung across his, my arm draped over his stomach, and my face is smushed ungracefully against his bare chest, which—by the way—is very unfairly sculpted for a high school football coach who claims he “doesn’t have time for the gym. ”
I don’t know how long I’ve been awake. Ten minutes?
Twenty? Long enough to register the fact that Knox is still asleep and his thigh is doing unspeakable things to my pussy just by existing in proximity.
The morning light is sneaking in through the slats of the blinds, illuminating his skin, giving shadows to his form and my resolve slowly eroding.
This is fine. Totally fine.
Except it’s not. Because my self-control is so close to waving a white flag.
I want to have sex with him. There, I said it. No whispering, no internal denial, no pretending I’m some enlightened, patient goddess of restraint. I want him. Naked. Now. And possibly forever.
I’ve been trying to be good. I’ve been trying to honor the timeline my very responsible, emotionally mature boyfriend laid out—the one where I “ease into intimacy” and “let trust rebuild naturally” and “don’t just jump back into bed with your rekindled flame even if he now looks like a GQ spread come to life in sweatpants. ”
But holy hell. Have you seen him?
And sleeping beside him every night, feeling his hand curl around my hip like he never wants to let me go…it’s torture. Beautiful, sexy, emotionally safe torture.
His breathing shifts deeper now, and he starts to stir beneath me. His arm tightens for a second, his lips press into my hair, and then he inhales softly.
“What time is it?” Knox reaches for his phone, squinting at the screen. “Shit. It’s already ten?”
He drops the phone back onto the nightstand and turns toward me, looping an arm around my waist and pulling me into him. His voice is thick with sleep, warm against my neck. “You make it too damn easy to sleep in. I’ve gotta get up—meeting Cam for lunch.”
I consider launching a full protest. A dramatic sit-in. Maybe even a sensual hostage negotiation. But instead, I give a lazy stretch, fake a yawn, and murmur, “You’re going to ruin me.”
He kisses my forehead before sliding out of bed, wearing nothing but boxer briefs and the kind of casual confidence that should be illegal before noon.
I roll onto my back and shamelessly admire the view, biting back a sigh.
If this were a 2004 rom-com, I’d be biting my knuckle and fanning myself dramatically.
Knox pulls a T-shirt over his head, scratching the back of his neck as he catches me staring. That knowing smirk appears, the one that wrecks me a little more every time.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he warns, trying not to smile.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re planning something illegal.”
I shrug, propping myself up on one elbow. “Unclear. Depends on Cedar Falls penal code.”
He huffs a laugh and heads into the bathroom. I hear the faucet turn on, toothbrush noises—then a beat later, his voice.
“Hey. Are you coming in here or just planning to ogle me from the sheets all day?”
I pad into the bathroom, climb up on the vanity, and swing my legs like a kid waiting for candy. He’s brushing his teeth, bare feet planted, hair a rumpled mess, and looking annoyingly good for a man with minty foam in his mouth.
“You look like a toothpaste commercial,” I say.
He pulls the brush from his mouth and mumbles, “Sexy one or weird one?”
“Somewhere between a rugged lumberjack and overworked dentist.”
He chuckles, spits, rinses, then wipes his face with a towel. “Thanks, I think.”
Then he steps toward the toilet and pauses. “Okay, fair warning—I’m about to completely ruin the mood.”
I squint. “Why?”
“I have to pee. Like, aggressively.”
“Oh my God, please don’t narrate it.”
He snorts. “Too late,” he says, and flips the lid up like it’s part of a comedy routine.
I groan and cover my ears. “Romance is officially dead.”
He glances over his shoulder, grinning. “Nah. Romance is alive and well, baby.”
I know it isn’t standup comedian level comedy, but laugh so hard I nearly fall off the vanity in a combination of embarrassment and lovesickness.
Knox flushes, then heads straight to the sink to wash his hands like the gentleman he is. I watch him through narrowed eyes, lips pursed, still perched on the vanity like I’m judging a figure-skating routine.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” I say as he dries off.
He tosses the towel onto the rack, then steps between my knees, hands bracing the counter on either side of me. “You say that like you didn’t just laugh so hard you nearly cracked a rib.”
“I did not.” I try to sound offended, but I’m grinning like an idiot.
“You absolutely did. Snort and all.”
“Lies.”
He leans in, his nose brushing mine, eyes still heavy with sleep. “You have this look on your face like you can’t decide whether to kiss me or arrest me.”
I smirk, fingers sliding into his hair. “Well, you do keep confessing things no one asked for.”
“I’m a sharer. It’s charming.”
“It’s alarming,” I tease.
He kisses the corner of my mouth. “That’s fair. Which is why I should leave before I toss you over my shoulder and become very late for lunch.”
My arms tighten around him. “I’m not hearing a downside.”
He lets out a low, frustrated laugh as he steps back. “You’re dangerous, Brynn.”
I let out a theatrical sigh, draping myself across his chest. “You’re choosing Cam over me?”
He grins against my temple. “Cam has food. You’re gorgeous, but you don’t make breakfast tacos.”
“You don’t know that. I could have secret taco skills.”
He pulls back, raising a brow. “If you did, I’d propose on the spot.”
“I’ll remember that the next time I microwave nachos.”
We head out of the bathroom together, still tangled up in flirty glances and easy smiles. Knox tugs on a sweater and jeans, then whistles once. Priscilla trots into the room from her spot curled up in the hallway, tail wagging like she’s already halfway to excited.
“Hey, Pres,” he says, crouching to scratch behind her ears. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”
I stand against the counter as he scoops kibble into her bowl and lets her out into the small backyard through the sliding door.
It’s such a simple act—muscle memory and quiet care—but it makes my chest squeeze.
Seeing him like this, just a man and his dog in the morning, it’s the kind of moment that makes you feel all warm inside.
Priscilla gives a few satisfied tail wags when he lets her back inside, then flops dramatically onto the rug like she’s already exhausted from the effort. Knox ruffles her ears on the way to the door, grabbing his keys off the counter.
He turns to me, lips quirking. “You gonna walk me out?”
“Only if you behave.”
“I make no promises.”
I follow him out, dragging the sleeves of his sweatshirt down over my hands like some lovesick teenager. We cross the few feet of driveway between our doors, and he stops just before his truck, turning to face me.
“I’ll see you tonight?”
I nod. “I’ll be ready.”
His gaze drags down my legs—bare, thanks to my sleep shorts and an entire lack of shame—and his voice drops a notch. “Don’t wear anything you don’t want ruined.”
I lift a brow. “Should I be worried?”
He grins, cocky and entirely too hot for a man standing in a driveway at ten in the morning. “You should be ready.”
I open my front door and glance back just in time to see him climb into his truck, give a quick wave, and disappear down the road.
As soon as it clicks shut behind me, I flop face-first onto the couch with a dramatic sigh.
If tonight doesn’t end with me finally, blissfully, biblically horizontal with Knox Dalton, I might combust from sheer sexual tension.
Two hours later, I’m still in one of Knox’s old T-shirts, sipping lukewarm coffee on my couch, when there’s a knock at the door.
I frown, shuffle over, open it to find a delivery guy with a sleek navy box in his hands.
“Delivery for Brynn Marlow,” he says.
“Thanks,” I mutter, confused but intrigued, and take it inside.
It’s heavier than I expected. Expensive-feeling. I carry it to the coffee table, sit down on the couch, and carefully lift the lid.
The first thing I see is navy blue silk. Deep, rich, impossibly elegant. I tug it out gently and let it unfurl—a floor-length evening gown with a thigh-high slit and the kind of neckline that would make my mother clutch her pearls. It’s stunning. I mean, stun-ning.
The shoes are next—silver heels, strappy and delicate, like they were plucked from a fashion shoot I definitely don’t belong in. Nestled on top of the tissue paper is a handwritten note in Knox’s unmistakably blocky handwriting.
Will you go to homecoming with me? My place at 7. No one else I’d rather show off. Dress to impress.
Also: underneath, less is more.
—K
My face goes up in flames. Because underneath the note, beneath another layer of tissue paper, is a matching set of navy-blue lingerie. Lacy, intricate, barely-there. A bra, panties, and a garter belt that could make a nun rethink her vows.
I lean back on the couch, staring at the contents of the box like it’s either a dream or a trap. Tonight might actually be the night. And Lord help me—I hope it is. And if Knox Dalton is ready to take things there…well, I’ll have shaved legs and be emotionally prepared.