Chapter 28
Kieren
“Come on,” I said, nodding toward the front door. “Let’s go inside.”
She hesitated. I saw it in her eyes—the way they flicked from me to the house, like stepping over that threshold meant more than either of us could admit out loud. But after a beat, she gave a small nod and followed me.
The second we stepped inside, the warmth hit us—soft, quiet, familiar. A stark contrast to the chaos we’d just come from. The tension hadn’t vanished, not really, but in here it felt a little more manageable. Less public. Less… exposed.
I dropped the keys on the console table and glanced back at her. She stood near the door, arms folded, like she wasn’t sure what to do with herself. I got it. We were both still reeling.
“Do you want something to drink?” I asked, my voice lower now. Softer.
She blinked at me, then shrugged. “What do you have?”
I ran a hand through my hair and tried to remember. It wasn’t like I had a fully stocked bar or anything. But then it came to me.
“I know,” I said, already turning toward the kitchen.
I moved automatically, muscle memory taking over while my brain scrambled to catch up with the moment. My knuckles throbbed faintly, the way they always did after a fight—sharp at first, now settling into a dull ache. I didn’t care. If anything, I welcomed the pain. It grounded me.
I reached into the cabinet and grabbed two mugs, then poured water into the kettle and turned on the stove. She didn’t need whiskey. Neither of us did. We needed something slower. Something warm.
I glanced back toward the living room. She hadn’t sat down. Still standing, hands tucked into her sleeves, eyes scanning the space like she didn’t quite trust it. Or maybe she didn’t trust herself.
I couldn’t blame her.
My chest tightened as I turned back to the counter, focusing on the drink, the mugs, the motion of keeping my hands busy. Because what I really wanted to do was cross the room and pull her into my arms. Tell her it was okay. Tell her I’d do it all over again.
But she was scared. And I didn’t want to push her.
Not now.
I decided to go with hot chocolate.
Which, in hindsight, was a bold move considering I didn’t actually know how to make decent hot chocolate. But it felt right—something soft after the storm, something familiar. I figured if I got the ratios kind of right, she wouldn’t complain too much.
I was wrong.
She took one sip and immediately gagged, coughing into the sleeve of her hoodie like I’d just poisoned her.
“What is this?” she choked out, eyes watering. “Is this a war crime?”
I couldn’t help it—I laughed. A real laugh, from the gut. It cracked something open in me. Seeing her here, on my couch, tearing into my culinary crimes—it felt good. Familiar. Safe. Like before everything went sideways.
“It’s comfort in a cup,” I said, handing her a paper towel with mock seriousness. “Shut up and drink it.”
“I’d rather lick a battery,” she muttered, but she took another sip, anyway.
We made our way to the couch. She curled into one corner, legs tucked under her, shoulders hunched like she was trying to shrink herself.
I hated seeing her like that—guarded, quiet.
Not because I needed her to perform some version of herself for me, but because I missed the spark she usually carried.
I sat across from her, angled slightly, close enough that my knee brushed hers if either of us moved even a little. I didn’t. Not yet. I was still gauging the temperature. She was here. That was already more than I could’ve asked for earlier today.
The silence settled, but not in a bad way. It was the kind of quiet that had weight to it. Not uncomfortable—just full. I held my mug in both hands and stared down into the overly sweet sludge I’d created. Honestly, it tasted like warm sadness.
Still, I sipped it.
She caught me grimacing and snorted. “That bad, huh?”
“Worse,” I admitted. “I don’t know what I did wrong. Thought I followed the instructions.”
“You used water, didn’t you?”
“…No?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, yes.” I sighed. “Milk felt like a commitment.”
“Hot chocolate is a commitment.”
“Apparently.”
She gave me a half-smile. Not her usual grin, not the full-force sunlight I was used to, but it was something. I held onto it like a lifeline.
I shifted a little closer, just enough that our knees touched. She didn’t pull away.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
“For the hot chocolate?” she asked, teasing, but I could see the real question behind her eyes.
“For everything.”
Her gaze dropped to her mug, then back to me.
I didn’t expect forgiveness. But I hoped, maybe, for a little grace.
“Next time,” she said softly, “use milk.”
I nodded.
Next time. That meant she was thinking about one.
And that was enough to make the terrible hot chocolate worth it.
The laughter faded, slow and soft, like the end of a song you didn’t want to stop playing.
Her head rested against the back of the couch now, her mug half-forgotten in her lap.
I watched the way the light caught the curve of her jaw, the way her lashes lowered when she looked down—like she didn’t want me to see what she was about to say.
“So…” she murmured, barely above a whisper, “what does this mean now?”
The question wasn’t casual. It wasn’t small.
It was the kind of question that could shake a relationship apart—or solidify it completely.
I didn’t even blink.
“It means you’re mine,” I said.
Her eyes snapped to mine, wide, unsure. But I didn’t let her look away.
“Not for show. Not for the media. Not for Cam. You’re mine, Daph,” I continued, my voice steady, low. “And I’ll protect you. No matter what it costs me.”
She inhaled like she’d been holding her breath.
“You’re going to get yourself kicked out of the league for me,” she said. Not a question—more like a realization. Her brows pulled together, and for a second, I saw the fear creeping in again.
But I didn’t flinch. I didn’t pull back. I leaned in closer.
“Worth it.”
Her lips parted, and for a second, I thought she was going to argue. Tell me I was being reckless or dramatic. Tell me I didn’t have to go that far.
But instead, she looked down at her hands, fingers wrapped tight around the warm mug, as if grounding herself.
“I don’t want you to lose everything,” she said quietly.
I reached out and touched her knee, light at first, then firmer. “I don't care about everything else. You’re the only thing that feels real right now. I've been in the league for years. I've hit my peak, and I'm okay with that. But you… I need you."
I meant it.
The press, the games, the fans, the endorsements—they were all noise. All temporary. But her? She cut through the noise like a damn arrow to the chest. From the second she shoved into my life, all fire and fury, pretending to hate me and doing a terrible job of it—I hadn’t been able to look away.
“You think I’d regret it?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. I saw the conflict in her eyes. She set her hot chocolate on the coffee table.
“I wouldn’t,” I said again. “I’d walk off that field tomorrow if it meant you were safe. If it meant I didn’t have to watch you get dragged online, torn apart by people who don’t know you. If we're together. I’d do it again and again.”
“Kieren…” Her voice cracked.
I leaned in until we were breathing the same air, my hand still on her leg. “Say it.”
She shook her head, like she was trying to hold something in. But her eyes shimmered, and her breath hitched.
“You don’t have to be scared of what this is,” I whispered. “Because I’m not.”
She stared at me for a long moment. Then finally, her voice so soft I almost missed it, she said, “I love you, too."
My heart stopped.
And then started again, louder than ever.
I didn’t think. I just moved.
She was still looking at me like she didn’t know whether to run or stay — like I’d just pulled the ground out from under her. And maybe I had. But I couldn’t take it back now. Wouldn’t even if I could.
So I leaned in.
At first, it wasn’t some grand, desperate thing. It was soft. Careful. A promise whispered between heartbeats. My lips brushed hers, and the world went quiet — the kind of quiet that fills every corner of your chest and makes you forget what came before it.
It wasn’t a performance this time. Not some camera-ready kiss for the brand or the headlines. It wasn’t damage control. It wasn’t part of any contract or media scheme.
It was just… us.
Her breath caught. I felt it — the tremor that went through her, the way her fingers twitched like she wanted to reach for me but wasn’t sure she was allowed.
I pulled back an inch, just enough to see her eyes.
The hesitation was there, but so was something else — something raw and trembling and real.
Then she closed the distance.
This time, she kissed me.
And everything else disappeared.
Her lips were soft but sure, tasting faintly like the hot chocolate she’d forced down, like something warm and familiar.
I cupped her jaw, my thumb brushing her cheek, and she leaned into it.
The movement wasn’t rushed or messy. It was slow.
Intentional. Like we were both afraid that if we went too fast, we’d ruin it.
It deepened — not in the wild, reckless way we’d kissed before, when emotion had been too much to contain, when the world had been watching.
This was something quieter, heavier. It was me telling her everything I couldn’t say in words.
That I meant what I’d said. That she wasn’t a contract or a storyline.
That she was the first thing in my life that made me want to be better — not for the cameras, but for myself.
Her hand found the side of my neck, fingers brushing the short hair there. The touch nearly undid me. Every nerve in my body seemed to light up under her palm.
I broke the kiss first, only because I needed air. She was still close enough that her breath mingled with mine, warm and uneven. I rested my forehead against hers, eyes shut, trying to steady the rush in my chest.