Chapter 13
I woke to warmth—real warmth, the kind that didn’t vanish when I shifted.
Not yet.
The air smelled like salt and something distinctly Creed—clean, masculine, familiar now in a way that made my chest tighten. His presence lingered everywhere. On my skin. In the faint ache along my hips. In the quiet certainty of last night settling into my bones.
And then I felt him.
The solid weight of his arm draped over my waist, heavy and unyielding, anchoring me there. His breath was slow and steady at my shoulder.
He hadn’t left.
He was here.
Awake. Holding me like leaving hadn’t even crossed his mind.
Carefully, I turned in his arms.
His eyes were already on me. Not guarded. Just... present. Dark with sleep and something deeper that made my pulse stumble.
“You’re still here,” I whispered. I studied him, searching for the fracture, the familiar pullback. It didn’t come. His fingers traced my spine slowly, grounding rather than claiming.
The corner of his mouth tipped upward, that infuriatingly arrogant smirk that made my stomach twist. “Well, this is my yacht.”
“Oh yes, I forgot about that,” I teased, then swallowed.
I couldn’t stop staring at him, at the raw, beautiful contradiction that was Creed.
A man at war with himself—between distance and need, between control and surrender.
His fingers slid lazily up my spine, tracing the curve of my back, but his gaze never wavered.
“I stayed in bed,” he murmured, his voice deep and deliberate, “because I wanted to stay right here with you.”
My breath hitched. Tempting. Too tempting.
“I like the sound of that,” I admitted, my voice unsteady. “But I can’t.”
He wasn’t tense. Didn’t withdraw. Just waited.
“The girls,” I explained. “Ice skating.” I had promised. “Ever since I told them stories about our skiing trip in Aspen, they’ve been begging to try it themselves. There’s a new rink near our place, and we’re going this afternoon.”
Something passed through his expression—calculation, hesitation, something close to fear—but it didn’t take over.
“Then I’ll come with you,” he said.
I blinked. “Creed—”
“If you’ll have me.”
There it was. A choice offered, not imposed.
For a moment, I could only stare at him—this impossible man tangled in my sheets, in my life. Then I nodded slowly. “Okay.”
The word felt heavier than it should have. His grip tightened, his teeth grazing my bottom lip in a slow, teasing bite.
“Good,” he murmured against my mouth. “But I’m not done with you yet.”
And as he rolled me beneath him, claiming my mouth with a kiss that was more promise than possession, I realized—
Neither was I.
* * *
WHEN WE PULLED UP TO the house, the girls didn’t hesitate. Their excitement was instant, unfiltered—the kind that made my chest ache.
Creed managed it quietly. No performance. No charm turned up too high. Just patience, crouching to their level, listening like what they said mattered.
And it did.
In the car, their voices filled the space between us. Questions. Laughter. Creed answering without deflection, without walls.
He told stories of his childhood skating adventures, and the girls hung onto every word, wide-eyed and giggling, peppering him with questions.
“Did you fall?” Morgan asked eagerly.
Creed chuckled, his smirk teasing. “Once. Maybe twice.”
Michelle gasped, scandalized. “No way! Mister, you never fall!”
His gaze flicked to me, knowing, challenging. “Don’t be so sure, Michelle.”
Something in my chest tightened, something uneasy and restless. They adored him. That much was obvious. And I—God help me, so did I.
After Ray’s death, I had never thought another man would step into their lives, that they would bond so easily, but here we were.
At the rink, cold air hit my lungs as the girls tugged us forward. Creed laced skates with steady hands, his focus intent, unhurried.
Creed crouched to Morgan’s level, his long fingers tightening the laces of her skates with ease. “Ready to show me what you’ve got?”
She grinned, nodding eagerly.
“Ready?” he asked again, looking at me this time. Heat flickered through his eyes before restraint reclaimed it.
I hesitated, then took Michelle’s hand. “Ready.”
Together, we stepped onto the ice.
Watching him beside Morgan—protective without hovering—did something dangerous to me. This wasn’t fantasy. This was reality.
Morgan, ever the fearless one, let go almost immediately, wobbling but determined, pushing forward with shaky confidence.
"You're doing great, Morgan!" His voice carried across the rink, strong, steady. Encouraging.
Michelle, still clutching my hand, looked up at me, uncertainty flickering in her dark eyes.
"You think I can do it too, Mommy?"
I squeezed her small fingers. “Shelly, of course. Just take it slow. I’ve got you.”
She hesitated, then nodded, determination settling into her delicate features.
Michelle’s fingers slipped from mine, her small body wobbling before finding balance. Pride and fear tangled tight in my chest as she glided forward on her own. The light in her eyes, the pure joy on her face. It stole the breath from my lungs.
I skated behind her, my chest tightening with something overwhelming. Pride. Grief. Hope.
He let them fall.
And then helped them back up.
When Michelle skated toward him, triumphant, Creed bent slightly, clapping once, controlled but sincere.
“You did that yourself,” he told her.
She beamed at him, and my heart twisted.
I looked at him then. Really looked.
This wasn’t permanence. Not yet. But it wasn’t illusion either.
And that terrified me.
They’d skated ahead of us—Morgan laughing too loudly, Michelle concentrating so hard her tongue peeked out at the corner of her mouth.
I slowed, letting a few feet open between us.
Creed didn’t notice right away.
He’d stopped near the railing, one hand resting casually against the edge, posture loose enough to look relaxed. But his eyes never left them.
Not the indulgent smile he wore when they were performing for him. Not the playful patience he offered when they tugged at his sleeve.
This was different.
He watched them like he was cataloging every wobble, every burst of laughter, every way they leaned into joy without hesitation.
There was no calculation in his expression. No control.
Just stillness.
And something that looked dangerously close to grief.
His jaw tightened, not in irritation—but restraint. As if he were holding back a thought too heavy to name. His fingers curled briefly against the rail, then loosened, like he’d caught himself wanting something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want.
Then Morgan fell. Nothing dramatic—just a clumsy slide to the ice. She popped up laughing before I could even move.
But Creed had already stepped forward.
He stopped himself halfway there, checking her reaction first. Waiting to see if she needed him. When she didn’t, he stayed where he was.
But the look on his face lingered. Something unguarded. Unrehearsed. A man standing at the edge of a life he hadn’t planned for—and didn’t know how to step away from.
I didn’t say anything.
I didn’t need to.
Because in that moment, watching him watch them, I understood the truth he hadn’t spoken yet.
This wasn’t fear of loving me.
This was fear of belonging.
And once you let yourself imagine a place you fit, walking away becomes unbearable.
That evening, after the girls had dinner, bathed, and were asleep, the house settled into a rare, fragile quiet.
Creed stood in the doorway of the living room, jacket draped over one arm, his phone dark in his hand. The lights were low, the Christmas tree blinking softly in the corner, its glow catching in the angles of his face.
He hadn’t moved toward the door yet. But he hadn’t set his jacket down either.
“You don’t have to rush off,” I said lightly, from where I was stacking mugs in the kitchen. I didn’t look at him when I said it. Didn’t want to make it feel like a test.
Silence answered me.
Not avoidance. Consideration.
“I should,” he said finally. His voice was even, measured. Too measured. “But I have an early morning.”
I nodded, rinsing the sink longer than necessary. “Of course.”
Another pause.
The clock ticked softly on the wall. The hum of the refrigerator. The kind of ordinary sounds that made the moment heavier instead of lighter.
Creed stepped forward—just one step—then stopped.
His gaze drifted upstairs.
I followed his eyes. “They wore themselves out today,” I said quietly. “They’ll sleep through the night.”
Something flickered across his face. Relief. Or regret. Or both. “I know,” he said. And then, softer, almost to himself, “They always do after the rink.”
Not they had fun.
They always do.
Like he was already filing the memory somewhere permanent.
He caught himself a second later. Straightened. Adjusted his grip on the jacket.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.
It wasn’t a promise dressed up as romance. It was careful. Real.
I met his eyes then. “You don’t have to make tonight mean anything more than it already does.”
His mouth curved slightly. Not a smile—acknowledgment.
“That’s what scares me,” he said quietly.
Then he leaned in, pressed a kiss to my forehead. When he left, the door closed softly behind him.
I stood there for a long moment afterward, listening to the house breathe.
Not feeling abandoned.
Just... paused.