“You can trust me, Daph,” he added, his tone gentler now. “I’m not going to leave.”
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to fall into that certainty, to let his words wrap around me like armor. But my throat burned, my chest felt tight, and every instinct I had screamed to run before any of this could get worse.
I looked away, blinking hard. “Cam’s trying to fix this,” I said, my voice barely audible. “But I don’t know if it’ll work.”
Kieren didn’t hesitate. “If it doesn’t, I’ll walk away from it all. The press, the team, the league. I don’t care.”
I jerked my gaze back to him, stunned. “You’d really give up everything for me?”
“I already did,” he said simply, like it wasn’t the most terrifying, reckless, heartbreakingly beautiful thing anyone had ever said to me.
And that was the moment.
The one where everything cracked open.
I didn’t respond. Couldn’t. My thoughts were a mess—fear, hope, guilt, love—colliding like a storm inside me. I turned my head again, unable to meet his eyes, afraid of what he’d see if he looked too long. I didn’t want him to see the part of me that wanted to say yes. That wanted to fall into him, into this, without a second thought.
But I didn’t get out of the car.
I didn’t run.
I sat there, heart pounding, knowing full well that if I let myself love him, truly love him, I’d never be able to take it back. That this—us—could ruin everything or be the one thing that saved me.
Outside the window, the street was quiet. The rain blurred the lights into soft halos, and for a second, it felt like we were the only two people in the world.
I pressed my forehead lightly against the glass and whispered, so softly I barely heard it myself, “You idiot… I think I love you, too.”
Chapter 28
Kieren
“Come on,” I said, nodding toward the front door. “Let’s go inside.”
She hesitated. I saw it in her eyes—the way they flicked from me to the house, like stepping over that threshold meant more than either of us could admit out loud. But after a beat, she gave a small nod and followed me.
The second we stepped inside, the warmth hit us—soft, quiet, familiar. A stark contrast to the chaos we’d just come from. The tension hadn’t vanished, not really, but in here it felt a little more manageable. Less public. Less… exposed.
I dropped the keys on the console table and glanced back at her. She stood near the door, arms folded, like she wasn’t sure what to do with herself. I got it. We were both still reeling.
“Do you want something to drink?” I asked, my voice lower now. Softer.
She blinked at me, then shrugged. “What do you have?”
I ran a hand through my hair and tried to remember. It wasn’t like I had a fully stocked bar or anything. But then it came to me.
“I know,” I said, already turning toward the kitchen.
I moved automatically, muscle memory taking over while my brain scrambled to catch up with the moment. My knuckles throbbed faintly, the way they always did after a fight—sharp at first, now settling into a dull ache. I didn’t care. If anything, I welcomed the pain. It grounded me.
I reached into the cabinet and grabbed two mugs, then poured water into the kettle and turned on the stove. She didn’t need whiskey. Neither of us did. We needed something slower. Something warm.
I glanced back toward the living room. She hadn’t sat down. Still standing, hands tucked into her sleeves, eyes scanning the space like she didn’t quite trust it. Or maybe she didn’t trust herself.
I couldn’t blame her.
My chest tightened as I turned back to the counter, focusing on the drink, the mugs, the motion of keeping my hands busy. Because what I really wanted to do was cross the room and pull her into my arms. Tell her it was okay. Tell her I’d do it all over again.
But she was scared. And I didn’t want to push her.
