She teases me, yeah. Calls me Mister Clean with that smirk that makes me want to pin her against the wall. But she never makes me feel crazy for it. Sometimes she’ll even sit on the counter while I wipe everything down, sketching idly and humming to herself, just keeping me company. She makes the habit feel less like a compulsion and more like… something we do together. Like I’m not scrubbing away grief anymore, I’m making space for us.
And speaking of grief, God.
I didn’t realize how heavy I was still carrying it—losing Mama, the hole she left behind. For years, I thought I had to fill that emptiness with football, fans, and noise. But Amelia—she lets me talk about her. She listens when I share how Mama used to love all three of us loudly and how she’d keep us all in check, telling us the importance of brotherhood and family dinners. Some nights, Amelia just holds me in silence when the memories become too overwhelming. Other nights, she shares her own stories of loss, and it makes me feel less alone.
It’s been a year of her softening the sharpest parts of me, a year of her allowing me to grieve without shame, and a year of realizing I don’t need football to prove anything to anyone because I already proved it to the only person who matters—her.
A year of living with Amelia Hayes.
And I wouldn’t trade a single second of it.
“Baby.”
The snap of fingers in front of my face pulls me back. Amelia’s watching me from her spot beside me, head tilted, eyeliner sharp as ever, her lips curved into the smallest smirk. “Are you okay? You spaced out.”
I grin and lean in to press a kiss against her plump lips,not caring that Carter groans in disgust from the other side of the table. “Yeah, baby. I’m good.”
The bar is lively, with warm lights hanging from the rafters, and laughter echoing off the wood-paneled walls. Boots & Bourbon is crowded for Carter’s birthday, but our group has secured the long corner table, because that’s our spot.
Catalina is holding court, as usual, sitting sideways on Carter’s lap like the queen she is, gesturing with her champagne flute. “I’m just saying—if men actually read instructions, ninety percent of household disasters wouldn’t happen.”
“Instructions are for people without common sense,” Carter grunts, kissing her shoulder.
Catalina swats at him. “You almost set the grill on fire last weekend!”
“I put it out, didn’t I?”
“You left me traumatized!” she shrieks, throwing her hands up.
Layla nearly chokes on her drink, dissolving into giggles. “Oh my god, Catalina, please livestream the next one. I need content.”
Reed, sitting across from her, doesn’t say a word. But his lips twitch—barely—and his eyes? Yeah, they don’t leave her. Not for a second. He watches her laugh as if it’s the first time he’s seen sunlight in years. When her hand brushes his as she reaches for the salt, he freezes, like a man struck by lightning.
Subtle, my ass.
I smirk into my beer, filing it away for later ammo.
Catalina is still going. “You’re impossible.”
Carter smirks, his hand sliding up her thigh like he doesn’t care we’re all sitting right here. “And you love me.”
“You’re lucky I love you, grandpa.”
He kisses her neck until she squeals, and I gag so loud Amelia smacks my chest. “Grow up,” she mutters, but she’s grinning.
“Never,” I whisper back, nuzzling into her hair until she giggles.
Across the table, Layla’s leaning into Reed now, her fingers brushing his. “So, Reed,” she says sweetly, batting her lashes. “How’s business? Any new cocktails?”
Reed clears his throat, shifting with nerves. “Fine.”
“That’s it? Fine?” she teases, sipping through her straw. “Wow. Riveting. You should let me run your socials, you’d actually go viral.”
His mouth curves, barely. “I don’t need to go viral.”
Layla’s grin widens, wicked. “It’s okay, Reed, I’ll help you with your social media.”
Reed adjusts his glasses, staring at Layla, green eyes burning, until she laughs nervously and looks away.
