I only cared that someone finally said the truth out loud.
The field was empty, just the whisper of wind dragging across the turf. The sky had that bruised purple tint it got right before night fell — the kind that looked like it might split open if you breathed too hard.
I sat on the bench, elbows on my knees, gripping my water bottle like it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart. The metal creaked under my hand, the plastic cap digging into my palm.
You don’t get to care.
You don’t get to want someone who already belongs to somebody else.
She’s taken. She loves him. She chose him.
So why the hell do you want to knock his teeth in for making her sound small?
I let out a breath that hurt going down, tossed the bottle across the grass, and watched it roll until it stopped at midfield. The sound of it clattering against the ground was too sharp, too final.
Because she’s not small.
She’s not some quiet background piece that fits neatly into someone else’s story. She’s fire — steady, stubborn, the kind that burns without asking for permission.
And he doesn’t deserve to be standing in the glow.
I leaned back against the bench, staring up at the darkening sky, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Every time I thought about her — the way she pushed herself past exhaustion, the way she still found time to care — it twisted something in me I didn’t know how to untangle.
Kyle would never see it. He’d never look past what was easy, what looked good on a camera. But I had. I’d seen her when she thought no one was watching — the cracks, the fight, the impossible strength underneath it all.
And that was the problem.
Because once you saw someone like that, you didn’t forget it. You just carried it like a bruise that never faded.
Chapter 17
Ellery
It started like every dream did—with light.
Soft at first, gold leaking through a window that didn’t exist in real life. The kind of light that made you feel seen and safe at the same time.
I knew I was dreaming, but that didn’t stop the way my body reacted when I turned and saw him. Beckett.
He wasn’t saying anything. There was sweat at his temple, the faint scrape of stubble along his jaw, that same impossible mix of tension and quiet I’d learned to recognize whenever he was near me.
In the dream, I reached out before I could stop myself. My fingers brushed his chest—warm, solid, steady. The air shifted between us, heavy with everything I’d tried to ignore.
He looked at me like I was something he shouldn’t touch but couldn’t stay away from. I should’ve pulled back. I didn’t.
His hand found mine, rough calluses sliding against my skin. My pulse stuttered. The world around us blurred until it was just heat, breath, and the echo of my heartbeat against his.
There were no words, only understanding—the kind that didn’t need sound to exist. The kind that felt dangerous precisely because it felt right.
When he leaned in, everything slowed. His breath brushed my neck, sending a shiver through me that felt too real. Every place his fingers touched sparked like static—gentle, reverent, but hungry in a way that made my chest ache.
It wasn’t about possession. It was about recognition. Like two people trying to memorize each other before the world woke up and told them they couldn’t.
And God, the way he whispered my name—it didn’t sound like temptation. It sounded like surrender.
I clung to that—his voice, his warmth, the feeling of finally being seen—not as the woman holding everything together, but just me.
He moved closer, slow enough that I could feel every inch of air disappear between us. The world shrank to the rhythm of breath and heartbeat — his and mine, uneven but somehow the same. When his body pressed into mine, it wasn’t forceful; it was deliberate, reverent. The kind of closeness that didn’t ask permission because it already knew the answer.
