And that was enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Wesley
I woke Monday morning with Griffin’s arm draped across my waist, his breathing deep and even against the back of my neck. For a moment—just one blissful, disorienting moment—I forgot everything that had happened the previous day. Forgot the press conference and the viral posts and the entire world suddenly knowing about us.
Then reality settled back in, but instead of panic, I felt… peace.
Griffin had come out. I’d posted my statement. We’d made love knowing the whole world had watched our story unfold. And we’d fallen asleep wrapped around each other, exhausted and terrified and hopeful all at once.
I shifted, careful not to wake him, and just watched. Griffin’s face was relaxed in sleep, the captain’s mask completely absent. His buzz cut was flattened against my pillow, and in the early morning light filtering through my curtains, he looked younger, more vulnerable than he ever allowed himself to appear in public.
This is what love looks like. Not the grand gestures or thepublic declarations—though those mattered too. But this, the quiet intimacy of waking up beside someone who saw you clearly and chose you. Someone who’d risked everything to stand with you. Someone who made you believe the truth was worth more than safety.
With Charles, I’d never had this. Never the peaceful morning after, never the certainty that we were building something real. Every moment with Charles had been borrowed time, the constant awareness that he’d choose his family and his closet over me when it mattered.
But Griffin had chosen differently. Had stood in front of cameras and reporters and acknowledged who he was, knowing it could cost him everything. Had read my post and responded not with anger at my independence but with gratitude for my partnership.
This is different. He’s different. We’re different.
Griffin stirred and his arm tightened around me briefly before his eyes opened. For a second, he looked disoriented—then awareness returned, and he smiled, sleepy and genuine.
“Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough.
“Morning.” I ran a thumb across his stubbled cheek. “How are you feeling?”
Griffin considered the question seriously, his blue eyes searching mine. “Scared. Relieved. Like everything changed yesterday, but also like nothing changed because you’re still here.”
“I’m still here.” I kissed him softly. “Always.”
“I need to go home. Shower, change clothes, deal with the aftermath.” Griffin grimaced. “My phone’s probably exploded overnight.”
“Mine too.” I’d silenced all notifications before we’d fallen asleep, unable to handle any more input. “But we have a few minutes. Stay for coffee?”
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
We moved through my apartment in comfortable domesticity—Griffin pulling on his jeans and T-shirt from yesterday while I started coffee, both of us gliding around each other with easy familiarity. Through my living room window, Monday morning Beaverton looked completely normal, people heading to work, traffic building, the world continuing despite everything that had shifted in mine.
“What’s your plan for today?” Griffin accepted the coffee mug I handed him.
“I honestly don’t know. I’m still suspended. I can’t go to the facility, can’t do my job.” The reminder made my stomach tighten. “I guess I just… wait. See what Davidson decides.”
Griffin winced. “This is my fault. If I hadn’t?—”
“Stop.” I cut him off firmly. “We both made choices. And I’d make the same ones again.”
“Even knowing you might lose your job?”
“Even knowing that.” I meant it. “Griffin, what we have—what we’re building—that matters more than any job. And besides, I’m good at what I do. Even if the Stormhawks let me go, I’ll land somewhere.”
The confidence in my voice was part optimism, part genuine assessment of my skills. I’d rebuilt once after Nashville. I could do it again if necessary.
But I really hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.
Griffin left after finishing his coffee, both of us reluctant to separate but acknowledging the practical realities of Monday morning. Morning skate waited for no one.
I stood at my door and watched him walk to his SUV. He turned back once to smile at me—open, honest, a smile he’d never been able to give me in public before.
