Because for the first time in ten years, she wasn’t afraid of what came next.
It had been a month since Dylan left.
Thirty-one days.
But he hadn’t missed a single text.
Not one call.
Every morning, without fail, her phone buzzed before her alarm even had a chance to go off—Good morning, baby. Hope you slept okay. I miss you.Then came the call. His voice, deep and rough with sleep, telling her about the protein shake he was choking down or how Rocky had already started trash talking before sunrise drills.
And every night?
He called again—right as she was climbing into bed, her hair in a messy bun, her oversized T-shirt slipping off one shoulder. He always waited until she was under the covers. Always asked how her day was. Always teased her in the best ways. Some nights ended with whispered moans and shaky goodnights. Other nights, they talked until she drifted off to sleep.
It didn’t feel like a routine. It felt likehome.
Ali sat cross-legged on her couch, her Kindle open in her lap but untouched. Her eyes drifted to her phone screen for the third time in as many minutes, the last message from him still sitting there:
You looked so fucking pretty in your little sundress today. That photo should be illegal. Call you after film session—it’ll be later than normal. Get in bed without me.
She smiled, heart warm and gooey in her chest.
He’d sent it around 8 p.m., right after she’d posted a pic from brunch with the girls. Nothing fancy—just mimosas and waffles and her in that lemon-print, sleeveless Lilly dress she used to second-guess herself in. She hated her arms. But Dylan? Dylan had replied like it belonged on the cover ofVogue.
Ali leaned her head back against the couch and exhaled.
She missed him.
More than she thought she would. More than she’d let herself admit—even now.
Not just the sex—not the way he made her body feel like a prayer—but the way he saw her. The way he made her laugh. The way he never let her go to sleep without reminding her that she mattered.
Her phone buzzed again, and her heart jumped.
Ten minutes. Don’t fall asleep on me, Presley.
Ali grinned. It was after 10 already.
Not a chance
She hit send, then pulled the fabric of his old Magnolia Bluff football tee up to her nose and breathed him in.
Ten minutes.
She could wait.
But only just.
Ali startled awake at the sound of the front door slamming.
Hard.
She blinked, disoriented, her heart thudding as her eyes adjusted to the dim, warm light of the living room. The TV was still glowing with the Netflix screen saver, her Kindle splayed open on the cushion beside her. Her phone, face-down on her stomach, buzzed one more time before going silent.
The front door opened again—slammed again—followed by the unmistakable sound of heels being kicked off and a sharp voice muttering, “I swear to God if he ever says that shit to me again—”
Ali sat up, groggy and confused. “Ash?”
