His thumbs sweep over my knuckles, slow and grounding, like he’s reassuring himself that I’m really here.
“Hi,” he murmurs.
Soft. Almost broken.
The sound of his voice—close, unfiltered, not blasted through speakers—does something dangerous to my chest. I laugh, a sound that’s half sob and half hysterical joy, and it bubbles out before I can stop it.
I lift one hand from his and cup his jaw, fingers trembling against warm skin and familiar stubble.
“You absolute idiot,” I whisper, leaning in so only he can hear me. “Why would you say something like that live on air?”
His mouth curves, slow and tender, the kind of smile that undoes me because it’s just for me. Not charming. Not practiced.
Honest.
“Because I meant it,” he says.
Just that.
No qualifiers. No jokes. No retreat.
My vision blurs, and this time it’s definitely tears. They gather fast, clinging to my lashes, spilling before I can blink them away. My chest cracks wide, like something locked tight inside me finally gave up.
All the hurt.
All the fear that loving him meant standing alone again in the end.
It all dissolves under the warmth in his eyes.
“I love you,” he says again.
Quieter now. Lower. Like he’s speaking directly into the space between us, like the rest of the stadium doesn’t exist.
And somehow, for the first time, I believe him without bracing for impact.
I don’t think.
I don’t hesitate.
I rise onto my toes, fists curling into the front of his shirt, anchoring myself there, and I kiss him.
Not for the cameras.
Not for ERS or headlines or contracts or whatever story the world is going to spin tomorrow.
For us.
The kiss is soft at first. Careful. Lips meeting lips like a question asked with reverence. His breath catches, warm and familiar, and my entire body answers before my mind can interfere.
Then his hands slide to my waist.
Holding.
Anchoring.
Cherishing.
The way he always did, like he’s aware of exactly how much pressure I can take and not an ounce more. The kiss deepens, warm and certain. Real in a way that feels almost sacred.
