But more than that, I hated that anyone thought they had the right to reduce her to a fucking headline. That they thought they could touch her name without consequence.
Because from this point forward? Anyone who came for her—anyone—would have to go through me.
I slid back into bed; the mattress dipping beneath my weight as I curled around Kennedy, pulling her close again like the world outside hadn’t already clawed at our door.
Her scent hit me instantly—cinnamon, warmth, and something I could never name but would recognize blind. It wrapped around me, grounding me in a way that no game, no win, ever had. My fingers brushed lightly along her waist as she stirred, instinctively tucking herself against my chest like she belonged there.
She did.
“Hey,” I whispered against the shell of her ear, letting my voice be the thing that called her back gently.
Her lashes fluttered, a moment of confusion flickering in her gaze before her eyes met mine. “Morning,” she said, her voice sleep-soft and a little rough. That smile—small, drowsy, real—spread across her face like sunlight breaking over snow.
I didn’t deserve that look. Not when I knew what waited for her.
But hell, I wanted to earn it. Over and over.
For a beat, I just looked at her. Like maybe if I memorized the curve of her smile or the way she fit against me, it would shield us both from everything coming.
But the silence pressed in.
It wasn’t enough to lie here and pretend the outside world hadn’t already taken aim. I couldn’t shield her from it if we weren’t honest about what was coming. I didn’t want to break the peace—we’d had so little of it—but the storm was already circling, and she needed to know I saw it too.
“Can we talk?” I asked quietly, threading my fingers through hers where they rested between us.
She blinked, propping herself up slightly on her elbow. Concern edged her features, but she didn’t pull away. “About what?”
About the headlines. The noise. The people who thought they could reduce her to clickbait and our relationship to some fucking publicity stunt.
About how I would go to war for her if I had to.
But more than anything?
About how we couldn’t let any of it shake what we were building here.
“Everything,” I said, voice low and steady. “You. Me. Them. What happens when we stop pretending they aren’t already watching.”
She didn’t answer right away.
But she didn’t look away either. And that? That was enough—for now.
I yanked my phone from my pocket, my thumb flying across the screen as I scrolled through the endless stream of headlines that had made us their favorite circus act overnight.
Nick Maddox’s Girl: Rebound or Real Deal?
I didn’t even flinch anymore. The bullshit didn’t surprise me. But it still hit low. I held the phone out toward her like it was proof of the war waiting outside these walls.
“I’m showing you this not because I care what they think,” I said, my voice even, clipped. “But because I don’t want you going in blind.”
She leaned in, reading the headline, and I watched it land—the flare of hurt behind her eyes, the tightening of her jaw. That anger in her? It was justified. But it also twisted something in me. Made me want to break something just to feel like I was doing something.
“Nick,” she said, voice rough. “They’re questioning your play.”
“Fuck what they think.” It came out too sharp, too fast. I tried to school my tone, but I could feel my muscles tensing, my heart pounding like it was still game time. I didn’t want her to see the way it was already getting under my skin. But she did.
Her voice dropped. “Nick, I don’t want?—”
“Don’t,” I snapped, softer this time but with steel beneath it. I looked her straight in the eye. “You’re not a martyr. Don’t start now.”
