Molly went nuclear. She leaked the story to a well-known sports blog, but she didn’t just leak it to stir the pot. She handed over proof of the underhanded deals, emails cobbled with bribery and threats. The internet does what it does best when the truth is naked: people are unpredictable and sometimes brilliant. Fans rose, more loyal than any PR team expected, and they did what fans do—they made noise. Social feeds filled, hashtags trended, podcasts lit up with indignation. Support for me and Alaric morphed into a cultural pressure the team and sponsors couldn’t ignore. The lawyers scrambled. Alaric’s father had to make a move because the heat got too hot; the easiest thing for him to keep his hands clean was to sell the team. He sold the Silver City Titans—an act intended to shield his reputation—but in doing so he lost the platform he’d used as leverage. Funny how the world sometimes corrects itself.
Alaric kept his condo. His grandfather’s will was clean—no clauses, no strings. A small miracle in the kind of life where everything is bartered for. We moved in together, two sovereign men learning what living together meant. It wasn’t cinematic at first. It was all takeout and new laundry, the awkwardness of whose toothbrush goes where, of who gets up to make coffee. The small things are the ones he taught me to love.
I glance at him driving and think of how much of my old self would look at this and laugh—mock that men can be so honest, so tied to comfort. There’s truth in that. Men get broken and used to folding their softness inward, tucking it away. I almost did it. To have someone hold it out to me—someone who’d risk losing everything for me—is not something I expected. It’s harder than rehab sometimes, knowing someone would let you be small and forgiving at the same time.
The chip rests in my palm and I feel the ridges of it like a ledger.
Molly’s porch light is already on when Alaric pulls the car into the driveway. It’s the kind of soft yellow that makes everything look warmer than it really is, like a photograph that’s been loved too long. My palms are still a little damp from holding my three-month chip. It’s sitting in my pocket now, warm from my body heat, solid and real in a way I still can’t quite believe.
Alaric kills the engine, and for a second neither of us move. I can smell the faint salt of his cologne, the faint tang of takeout from lunch that still lingers in the car. He looks over at me and grins, that small, easy smile that took weeks to come back after everything.
“You ready?” he asks.
I nod, rubbing my thumb over the chip again. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
He snorts and I follow him up the steps. The air smells like leaves and garlic. The front door opens before we even knock.
“About time!” Molly says, pulling Alaric into a hug and then turning to me. “Magnus Flint, get in here before Butter loses his mind.”
The dog comes skidding across the hardwood like he’s been waiting his whole life for this exact moment. I crouch just in time to catch him, laughing when he tries to lick my chin.
“You’ve officially outranked me as favorite human,” Molly says.
“That’s because I give him snacks when no one’s looking,” I say, scratching behind Butter’s ears.
“Pure bribery.”
Molly grins and steps aside. “Dinner’s almost ready. Mom’s in the kitchen trying not to burn the rolls.”
Alaric freezes for a half second at the wordMom, but he recovers quickly, brushing past his sister to kiss her cheek. “You actually got her to come?”
“Don’t sound so shocked,” Molly says. “She wanted to. Said she had something she needed to say.”
I straighten, a little unsure.
“Magnus,” Alaric’s mom says quietly, coming toward me. “It’s good to finally meet you properly.”
I shake her hand, trying not to feel awkward. “You too, ma’am.”
“Oh, please, it’s Joanne.” She glances at Alaric and Molly, then back to me. “And I owe you an apology.”
The words hit the air like something sacred. Alaric’s shoulders stiffen beside me.
Joanne takes a slow breath. “I can’t undo what their father did. What he said. But I can tell you that not all of us agreed with him. He—he thought he was protecting the family name, but he destroyed something good in the process. I’m sorry for that, Magnus. Truly.”
It takes me a moment to answer. My throat feels tight. “Thank you,” I manage. “That… means a lot.”
Molly, bless her, claps her hands like she’s announcing dessert. “Alright, enough emotional purging. Dinner’s ready!”
We settle around the small dining table. There’s a big bowl of pasta in the middle, a salad that looks store-bought, and rolls that are slightly singed on one side. It smells incredible anyway.
“This looks amazing,” I say.
“Liar,” Molly says, grinning. “But I appreciate it.”
Butter curls up under the table by my feet. Joanne pours wine for herself and water for me and Alaric. She doesn’t comment on it, doesn’t make a show of it, and that alone feels like a small miracle.
Molly looks at Alaric. “You hear from Kyle lately?”
