Chapter Twenty-Five
Lucy
Thanksgiving morning begins quietly. I wake to the soft rhythm of Dylan’s breathing beside me. Morning light slips through the curtains, painting his sleeping face in gold. His arm is draped around my waist, holding me close, our bodies still wrapped in the warmth of last night.
He stirs beside me, his breathing shifting before his eyes open. When he notices me watching him, a sleepy grin tugs at his lips.
“Morning,” he mumbles.
“Morning,” I whisper back, brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead. Waking up next to him like this feels natural. More natural than I thought it would.
Dylan shifts closer, tugging me toward him until our foreheads touch, our legs tangled beneath the sheets.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“More than okay.” I trace a line across his chest. “I’m glad it was you.”
His expression softens. “So am I.”
I expected the morning after to feel awkward or unfamiliar. Instead, it feels calm. Nothing between us has broken or shifted out of place. If anything, I feel more sure of him than I did yesterday.
Lying here with Dylan, everything feels the same in the best possible way.
The same safety in his arms.
The same quiet rhythm of his breathing beneath my cheek.
The same quiet confidence that being close to him is where I belong.
If anything, the connection between us feels stronger now.
Like we crossed a threshold together and found something gentler waiting on the other side.
Dylan pulls back just enough to look at me, his expression soft and reassuring.
“Still us?” I ask.
He leans down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to my lips. “Always.”
Everything in my life feels perfect.
Well… almost everything.
A loud bang hits the door, followed by a familiar voice.
“Lovebirds! Breakfast time!”
Gemma’s playful voice carries through the door, and Dylan groans beside me, burying his face in the pillow.
“Your sister,” I giggle, poking his side.
Dylan cracks one eye open and sighs dramatically. “She’s relentless. Can’t give us five more minutes?”
I laugh as I sit up and toss the covers aside.
“We’ve already had plenty of time,” I say. “Come on, we shouldn’t keep them waiting.”
He stretches, reaching for my hand like he’s trying to pull me back into bed.
“But I’m not ready to share you yet,” he teases.
“We’ve got the whole trip.”
Dylan finally sits up, his grin widening.
“You’re right,” he says. “Let’s get dressed before Gemma kicks the door down.”
I grab my clothes from the chair. Pulling on my jeans and the soft sweater I packed, I can feel Dylan’s eyes on me the entire time.
When I glance over, he’s still sitting on the edge of the bed, grinning like a mischievous kid.
“What?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Nothing,” he says, standing up and pulling his shirt over his head. “Just enjoying the view.”
I roll my eyes, though I can feel my cheeks warming.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you love it,” he counters.
We’re fully dressed when Gemma’s voice cuts through the door again, muffled but loud.
“If you’re not down here in two minutes, I’m eating all the bacon!”
Dylan laughs and cracks the door open. “Go ahead, Gem. I’ll just tell Mom you stole my share.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” she shouts back.
“Oh, I absolutely would,” he says, smirking as he swings the door open wider and glances at me.
Before we can step into the hallway, he catches my hand and spins me toward him, pressing a quick kiss to my lips. I laugh against his mouth, almost forgetting where we are.
“We really have to go,” I mumble, breathless.
“Do we, though?” he murmurs.
“Dylan,” I say, smiling as I press a hand to his chest. “We’re going to be late.”
He sighs dramatically but lets me go. “Fine. But only because I don’t want to explain to my mom why we missed breakfast.”
Still holding hands, we head downstairs together.
The smell of bacon and coffee greets us as soon as we reach the kitchen. Kate stands at the stove, relaxed and cheerful, while Gemma is already seated at the table, her eyes lighting up when she sees us.
“There they are,” Gemma announces. “I was starting to think you’d decided breakfast was optional.”
“Never,” Dylan says easily as I take a seat.
For a brief moment, everything feels effortless.
Kate slides a plate of pancakes onto the table, smiling as Gemma teases Dylan about sleeping in. The room hums with easy conversation, laughter brushing against the walls like something well-worn and intimate.
Dylan moves around the kitchen easily, grabbing plates, stealing a piece of bacon from the pan while his mom swats his hand away. Gemma rolls her eyes but laughs anyway.
It’s the kind of chaos that only happens when people are completely comfortable with each other.
I try to imagine Dylan growing up here—running down these same stairs, arguing with his sister over the last pancake, his mom calling him to the table after practice.
The thought makes the house feel fuller somehow.
The walls hold years of memories I’m only just beginning to understand.
For a moment, it’s easy to picture myself fitting into that history.
Not replacing anything.
Just becoming part of it.
Then the doorbell rings.
Kate’s hand stills over the stove.
Just for a second, but it’s enough.
“That’ll be Bruce,” she says quietly, wiping her hands on her apron.
Dylan’s jaw locks. “He’s coming this morning?”
“Couldn’t we finish breakfast before the tension started?” Gemma groans.
“It’s Thanksgiving, and both of you wanted him to meet Lucy.”
Gemma leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. “This should be interesting.”
Dylan shoots her a look, but Kate is already heading for the door.
I sit a little straighter, unease curling low in my stomach. Dylan’s hand finds mine beneath the table, squeezing gently, but the shift in the room feels sudden and unavoidable.
Kate returns moments later with Bruce.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, his graying hair neatly combed. His eyes sweep the room carefully, landing on Dylan first. Then on me.
“Morning,” Bruce says. His expression warms when he looks at Dylan. “Good to see you, son.”
Then his gaze shifts to Kate and the warmth disappears behind something guarded.
“Dad,” Dylan replies, neutral.
Bruce nods once, then looks back at me. “You must be Lucy.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, my voice polite but tight. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Dylan’s told me a little about you.” His smile is brief but genuine. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“I kept breakfast warm,” Kate says. “There’s a plate for you.”
Bruce takes the seat across from Dylan, and the air is tense—thick, heavy, and charged. Whatever history exists between them hasn’t stayed in the past. But at least they’re trying to give their kids something normal. Even if neither of them seems to know what that looks like.
Conversation resumes, but it’s awkward now. Kate asks about Bruce’s drive. His answers are clipped, as though even her questions irritate him.
Dylan tries steering things toward football, but the energy doesn’t recover. Each exchange feels carefully measured, like everyone is afraid of stepping on something sharp.
I focus on my plate, appetite fading. I feel like I’ve wandered into the middle of a story I don’t know how to read.
Every smile looks forced. Every silence feels louder than the last.
Eventually, my nerves win.
“Excuse me,” I say softly, pushing my chair back. “I’m just going to use the bathroom.”
No one objects. If Dylan notices how quickly I leave, he doesn’t call attention to it.
The hallway feels cooler and lighter. I close the bathroom door behind me and lean against it, letting out a slow breath.
I stare at my reflection—hair slightly rumpled, apprehension clouding my eyes. This wasn’t how I imagined meeting Dylan’s dad. I expected awkwardness—maybe nerves—but not this undercurrent of unresolved feelings and heavy emotions.
I grip the edge of the sink and inhale deeply.
It’s just one breakfast, I tell myself. One moment.
But the unease doesn’t fade the way I hoped.
I love Dylan. I want to be here with him.
I just didn’t realize that he was dealing with something this complicated.
Suddenly pieces of Dylan fall into place.
The way he pushes himself so hard. The way he talks about football like it’s more than a game.
Maybe ambition isn’t the only thing driving him. Football gave him rules and structure when the rest of his life felt divided.
The realization makes my throat sting.
Dylan’s life already carries so much pressure—scouts, expectations, the future everyone seems to have mapped out for him.
Sitting through one strained breakfast makes something clear. Dylan doesn’t need another person asking him to hold everything together.
He needs someone willing to see the fractures and stay without pretending they’re not there.
I love him.
I hope I’m brave enough to do that.