And there was something in his eyes—raw, unpolished, the same look I’d glimpsed at the school when he’d been tying a kid’s shoelace. The same look I’d seen in Chicago when he thought no one was watching.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.
“You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” I whispered, even though my voice shook. “We had rules. We had a line.”
“I don’t care about the line,” he said, his voice breaking, just a little.
I stared at him, trying to summon the walls back up. But my pulse was loud in my ears, my hand still caught in his.
This wasn’t the grumpy veteran. This wasn’t the headline or the contract or the fake boyfriend the league had pushed on me. This was just Kieren—standing there like a storm barely holding itself together.
And for a terrifying second, I wanted to lean into it. Into him.
But wanting and letting were two different things.
I swallowed hard, forcing a shaky breath past my lips. “Kieren…” I started, but no words followed.
Because for all my rules, for all my boundaries, I couldn’t remember which of us had crossed the line first.
I didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was both of us giving in at the same time.
One second we were breathing in the same air, holding back like idiots. The next, my hands were in his shirt and his mouth was on mine.
It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t delicate.
It was fierce. Messy. Frustrated. Like everything we hadn’t said was crashing to the surface all at once.
His hands curved around my waist, pulling me in like he couldn’t stand the space between us. I didn’t stop him. Didn’t want to. My fingers fisted in the fabric at his chest, like if I let go, the whole thing might break apart.
God, he kissed like he meant it as he pulled me back into that closet.
Like he didn’t care who I was or what I did for a living or how many times I’d tried to shove him away.
He kissed me like he knew I was scared. And maybe he was too.
I gasped as his teeth scraped my bottom lip, and he groaned into my mouth like he’d been holding that sound back for weeks. Maybe he had.
I couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember why I’d been so angry. Why I’d tried to draw lines in the sand.
There were no lines in this. Just heat. And hunger. And him.
I pressed closer, caught between the wall and the weight of him, and it should’ve scared me—being pinned like that, being wrapped up in something I couldn’t control.
But instead, it felt like breathing for the first time.
His thumb brushed my cheek. The touch was almost reverent, totally at odds with the way his mouth claimed mine like a man starved. That contradiction made my chest ache.
I kissed him harder.
Like I could shut down the thoughts. The fears. The tiny voice in my head whispering that this was a mistake.
I didn’t care.
Because in that moment, I didn’t feel like a PR stunt or a placeholder or a girl pretending she wasn’t falling.
I just felt wanted.
Not for a headline. Not for an image.
