Liam pulled her closer, his free hand coming up to cup her face. His eyes searched hers—not asking permission, just memorizing this moment.
"Right now," he said quietly, "I take you somewhere without cameras."
Then he kissed her.
One big hand came to her jaw, tilting her face up to him. The other slid to the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair. No hesitation this time, no careful testing of boundaries. His mouth was warm and sure on hers, tasting faintly of victory and champagne.
Libby melted into him, hands fisting in his suit jacket, meeting him with everything she had, relief and lightning coursing through her blood in equal measure. She distantly registered that they were still in a public hallway where anyone could walk by. She didn't care. Neither did he, apparently, because he backed her against the wall, dropped his hands to her hips, and lifted her up to meet the urgency of his mouth. He kissed her like it was all he'd thought about since the last timethey'd kissed. Like any minute someone would come and pull them apart. Like they had all night and every night after to do nothing but this.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing harder now, Liam pressed his forehead to hers.
"Come with me," he said.
"Where?"
"Anywhere you want."
Libby looked at him—exhausted and honest and here—and felt that invisible string pull tight between them.
"Okay," she said.
The drive to Liam's apartment took twenty minutes through thinned Boston traffic. They talked about the game—easy, familiar hockey talk that felt like a lifeline, the same language that had started all of this months ago. But beneath the tactical breakdown, the air was thick with restraint.
He kept his right hand on the wheel, his left wrapped around hers on the center console. Every few blocks he'd glance over and shake his head slightly, like he couldn't quite believe she was real, that she'd actually come to the game wearing his jersey, that she was here now.
"What?" she asked the third time he did it.
"Nothing. Just—" He squeezed her hand. "You're here."
"I'm here."
"In my jersey." The gleam in his eyes made her face go warm.
"Seemed rude to take it off."
"On the contrary." His voice dropped. "I'd love to see it on my floor."
Heat pooled low in her stomach. "Only if it's next to yours."
His grip on the steering wheel tightened. "We need to drive faster."
"There are traffic laws, Captain."
"Suddenly very invested in breaking them."
Libby watched the city slide past. Her phone was still buzzing in her pocket—texts from Clara, probably, or her mother, or half of sports Twitter demanding to know what happened after Liam walked out of his own press conference. She ignored it. Whatever the internet thought about them could wait.
The parking garage was empty at this hour. Liam pulled into a spot marked RESERVED, killed the engine, and turned to look at her fully.
"Second thoughts?" Libby asked quietly.
"Just can't imagine this night getting any better than it already is."
"We need to work on that imagination of yours, D'Arcy."
His smile went wicked. "Lead the way."
The elevator ride to the top floor was silent again, but this time his hand was on her lower back, warm through the jersey fabric, and when she leaned slightly into the touch his fingers tightened.
