Chapter 14
Atlas
Iwake up before Damien does. Morning light spills softly across the hotel suite, pale gold stretching through the massive windows while the city slowly comes alive below us. Everything feels quiet in the aftermath of last night.
Damien is asleep beside me, half-tangled in the sheets with one arm tucked beneath the pillow. His curls are a mess against the white hotel bedding, his face softer in sleep than it ever is when he’s awake. I stay still for a long moment, just looking at him.
Last night replays slowly in my head—the way Damien kept kissing me like he was trying to memorize me, the way he looked at me when I said I loved him.
God.
My chest tightens. Why did I say it? I was in a euphoric haze, and the words tumbled out before I could stop them. And Damien didn’t say it back.
That should probably hurt more than it does.
But honestly, it doesn’t. I saw the way his face softened, like he couldn’t believe his ears.
I saw the way his entire expression cracked open for a second, like the words physically hit him.
I saw the tears gathering in his eyes while he kissed me again and again, like he didn’t know how else to answer.
That was enough.
At least for now.
I don’t need Damien to say the words before he’s ready.
He reaches for me in his sleep. He looks calmer when I hold him. He keeps choosing me over and over, even while he’s terrified of whatever this could become. That comforts me for now.
Last night felt different than anything we’ve had before. There was no desperation in it. No panic. No trying to use sex as a distraction from something else. It felt honest and intimate in a way that almost scared me while it was happening.
I shift slightly closer to him, sliding an arm carefully around his waist. Damien immediately leans into my chest, even though he’s still asleep.
My heart absolutely cannot handle that. I bury my face against the back of his neck, breathing him in while the room stays quiet around us.
“You’re killing me,” I murmur.
Damien makes a sleepy sound that almost resembles a laugh. Then, slowly, his eyes open.
For one brief second, he looks peaceful. Then awareness comes rushing back in.
I watch it happen in real time—the tension returning to his shoulders, the walls rebuilding themselves piece by piece behind his eyes.
“Morning,” I say quietly.
Damien blinks once before turning slightly toward me. “Morning.” His voice is rough from sleep.
I kiss his shoulder gently before letting him go so he can move if he wants to. Damien sits up slowly, dragging a hand through his hair while avoiding looking directly at me. The shift in energy is subtle but immediate.
He’s nervous.
I understand why. Last night crossed lines we can’t uncross. It changed things, whether Damien wants to admit it or not.
I don’t push. Instead, I sit up beside him quietly while he starts gathering his clothes from around the room. He moves slower than usual this morning, like his brain is working too hard.
“Coffee?” I ask gently.
Damien nods. “Yeah.”
The suite is quiet while I pull on sweatpants and grab my phone off the nightstand. Damien’s jacket is hanging off the chair near the window, my dress shirt tangled on the floor near the couch.
The memory of how it got there makes heat curl pleasantly low in my stomach.
I shake it off before my brain fully commits to the image of Damien spread across the expensive hotel sheets, looking up at me with flushed cheeks and ruined lips.
I order room service—hopefully enough food to convince Damien not to survive entirely on caffeine and bad emotional decisions for at least one morning.
The shower starts running a few minutes later. I glance toward the bathroom automatically, then force myself to look away. Damien was nervous enough this morning. I could feel it the second he woke up beside me—not panicked, just quieter than usual.
And even though part of me desperately wants to drag him into my lap and ask him what he’s thinking, the smarter part of me knows Damien needs room to process things without feeling cornered.
So instead, I turn on the sports channel and sit cross-legged near the foot of the bed while the analysts replay highlights from the game.
By the time room service arrives, they’re dissecting my assist to Damien during the final goal.
“Connors and Harrow continue to show unreal chemistry on the ice,” one analyst says while footage of the winning play rolls again. “Whatever’s happening between those two off the ice is clearly translating onto it.”
I snort quietly. If only they knew.
The bathroom door opens behind me. Steam curls softly into the room while Damien walks out towel-drying his hair, wearing only gray sweatpants slung low on his hips.
My brain immediately stops functioning.
Jesus Christ, I can’t focus today.
Damien catches me looking and raises an eyebrow. “You okay?”
“Never better.”
He rolls his eyes, but there’s faint color creeping across his cheeks while he walks toward the coffee tray. Good. At least he’s not fully retreating into himself.
I hand him one of the coffees.
Damien takes it quietly. “Thanks.”
“Mhm.”
I keep my attention mostly on the television while he settles beside me on the bed with his plate.
The sports analysts have moved on to replaying the kiss on the ice.
Damien visibly tries not to react to seeing himself kissing me on national television, but fails completely.
His ears turn pink almost immediately. I bite back a smile and focus harder on the TV.
Don’t tease him. No matter how badly you want to.
The suite stays quiet except for commentary from the television and the occasional clink of silverware against our plates. I glance over just in time to catch Damien carefully moving all the strawberries from his waffle onto my plate.
I blink. “You don’t like strawberries?”
Damien looks up immediately, like he got caught doing something embarrassing. “No,” he says. “I like them.”
“Then why are you giving them to me?”
He shrugs and takes another sip of coffee. “Because they’re your favorite.”
I stare at him for a second too long, the blush on my cheeks obvious and hot. Focus. Don’t scare him off.
It’s terrifying how much affection lives inside someone who acts like he doesn’t deserve love.
“You’re really cute sometimes,” I tell him.
Damien glares at me over the rim of his coffee cup. “Take it back.”
“Never.”
Damien groans softly and shoves my shoulder.
I laugh before grabbing one of the strawberries off my plate and holding it out to him. “Here.”
He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “What are you doing?”
“Feeding you something that’s not my dick for once.”
“That sentence made me want to die.”
“Open your mouth.”
Damien stares at me for another second, like he’s debating whether murdering me would count as self-care. Finally, he leans forward and bites the strawberry from my fingers. He looks back at the TV like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
As we pack up, I catch him glancing toward me a few times before quickly looking away again. He wants to say something, but keeps stopping himself. Part of me wants to drag him back into bed and tell him we can stay here all day until he talks to me properly.
The smarter part remembers my mom telling me not to overwhelm him.
So I stay calm even when it kills me a little.
By the time we’re packed and ready to leave, Damien looks more composed.
The sharp edges are back in place, his expression carefully controlled in a way that would probably fool most people.
Not me. I can see the softness underneath it now. That’s the problem with really knowing someone: you start seeing the hidden parts even when they try to bury them.
We make our way toward the door in silence.
I grab my bag first and hold the door open for him.
Damien pauses beside me for half a second.
Then, very carefully, he slips his hand into mine.
The gesture is so small it almost wrecks me completely, because Damien doesn’t do things accidentally.
Every bit of affection from him is chosen. Intentional.
And this feels like an answer to what I said last night. Maybe not the one I eventually want.
But for now, it’s enough.
I squeeze his hand gently. Damien glances at me briefly, something vulnerable flickering across his face before he looks away again. Neither of us says anything while we walk down the hotel hallway together hand in hand.
We don’t need to. Because even without the words, I can feel it: whatever this is between us stopped being temporary a long time ago.
Damien looks devastating in a tux—black tailored jacket, crisp white shirt, dark curls pushed back just enough to expose the small silver hoops in his ears. The sharp lines of the suit make him look expensive in a way that catches me off guard sometimes.
The Tigers have a charity event tonight for the children’s hospital Grace is being treated at. I’ve been the middleman of this partnership for six months, and now it’s finally happening.
Damien agreed to be my hot date. I guess he really went for the “hot” part.
For a moment, I just stare at him.
Damien scrunches his eyebrows. “What?”
“You can’t walk around looking like that.”
His mouth twitches slightly. “That’s dramatic.”
“You look like somebody rich women divorce their husbands over.”
That actually makes him laugh.
The sound settles warmly in my chest.
I finish adjusting my cufflinks while watching him move around the apartment, gathering his wallet and phone.
Damien has seemed lighter since the away game.
He’s still guarded in certain moments, still tense underneath the surface sometimes, but softer with me overall.
More open. Which makes what happened in the hotel room feel less terrifying.