Her fingers clawed at his back when he entered her— carefully, inch by inch. She gasped, and he kissed the corner of her mouth, stilling to let her adjust.
“You okay?” he whispered, forehead against hers.
She nodded, eyes glassy. “You feel… so good.”
Dylan let out a shaky breath and began to move.
They found a rhythm— soft, slow, bodies tangled. He whispered to her the whole time— telling her how good she felt, how perfect she looked like this, how much he loved her.
Ali’s head tipped back. She moaned— quiet, raw, completely lost in the moment.
Her legs wrapped around him. Her hands gripped his shoulders. She moved with him now, less nervous, more sure.
And when she came— trembling, gasping his name— it nearly broke him.
He followed with a groan, his body shuddering against hers, burying his face in her neck as the world went quiet around them.
They didn’t speak right away.
She clung to him like a lifeline, and he wrapped her in his arms, still inside her, breathing her in.
“I love you,” she said again, softer now. “I’ve never loved anyone.”
He kissed her shoulder. Her wrist. Her lips.
“I’m yours,” he said. “All of me.”
Haunted
Dylan
Sunday mornings usually meant recovery— ice baths, tape, team meetings.
Today, it meant Ali.
She was still asleep when he woke up, curled against him, one leg thrown over his waist and her hair a tangle of gold across his pillow. Her bare skin glowed in the sliver of light comingthrough the blinds. His hoodie was half off one shoulder, his sheets twisted around her hips.
She looked like she belonged here.
And maybe she did.
He didn’t move. Just stared at her for a while. Memorizing the curve of her nose, the faint freckles, the way she breathed steady and slow.
Eventually, she stirred. Eyes blinking open. Smile soft and sleepy.
“Hey,” she murmured, voice scratchy with sleep.
“Hey,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You hungry?”
He made her a breakfast sandwich with extra cheese because she liked it that way, and she called it gourmet like he was a five-star chef. They curled up under the same blanket on his couch, limbs tangled, watchingGilmore Girlsbecause “if I have to pick between Rory and football, you’re gonna lose, McKenzie.”
He didn’t mind.
He watched the show with one eye, and her with the other. She’d steal glances at him during the funny parts. Nudge his leg during the emotional ones. Their laughter filled the room like it was stitched into the air.
Later that afternoon, when the sun sank low and golden light spilled through the blinds, Dylan rolled over and kissed her.
Not rushed. Not desperate. Just slow, deliberate affection pressed to her lips like a promise. His palm cradled her cheek, thumb brushing the soft skin under her eye as if he needed to memorize her. Her breath caught— because even now, even after everything— they were still soft with each other.
