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“I want it all,” I say. “The morning texts. The midnight food runs when we both look like trash. The arguments over your ridiculous cravings and who gets to name the baby. I want to be next to you when shit gets hard. When it gets weird. When it’s boring and raw and completely fucking real.”

I drag in a breath. My throat’s tight. My hands are shaking a little and I hate it, but I don’t stop.

“When I’m with you, I don’t feel like I’m performing. I don’t feel like a mistake waiting to happen. I feel like I’m worth something…like I don’t need to keep looking for the next thing to distract me from feeling nothing.”

Her lips part. “Liam…”

I drop to one knee. Half out of instinct. Half because my legs are giving up the fight.

“I’m not asking for forever. Not asking for a ring or some fairytale ending. I’m just asking you to stop pretending you don’t feel this too. To be mine. For real. No cameras. No back doors. Just us.”

And for a second, time fucking freezes.

Then she reaches for me like she’s drowning, crashes into me like I’m the only thing left above water. Her mouth —hot, hard, and desperate on mine.

She kisses me like I’m the only truth she’s got left. Like she’s done holding back, too.

And when she pulls back, breathless and wrecked, her voice is barely a whisper.

“I already am,” she says. “I’ve been yours this whole damn time.”

And just like that—I canbreatheagain.

Epilogue

Eight months later Katarina

“Ugh,canyoupleasestop kicking my ribcage?” I mutter, rubbing a hand over the side of my belly like it’ll help negotiate with the tiny human using me as a punching bag. Beside me, Layla bursts out laughing. “I’m gladsomeonefinds this hilarious.”

“Be nice to my future niece,” she coos to my stomach, leaning in like the baby can hear her clearly through all the layers of Cyclones team merch I’m buried in. “You keep going, kiddo. We’ve got big plans for you. Like learning how to throw elbows and dominate on skates.”

“Joke’s on you—Liam already bought her custom skates. She’s not even born yet and she’s got more gear than I do.”

A fresh round of cheers erupts from the rink, and I shift my weight just enough to catch Liam streaking across the ice. He’s fast, focused, locked in—completely in his element. And mine, somehow.

It still hits me sideways sometimes. How much has changed. How muchhe’schanged.

Eight months of him showing up—not in flashy, performative ways, but in the quiet ones that actually matter. Holding my hair when I puked like a gremlin at 6 a.m., rubbing my lower back until I finally passed out, cooking crime-against-nature eggs and calling them “protein pancakes” with a straight face. There’s been laughter, yelling, ridiculous cravings, a ruined couch, and more than one sex-induced charley horse. But through it all? It’s him.Alwayshim.

Now I’m rinkside in the Cyclones’ box seats, eight months pregnant, wrapped in Liam’s giant team jacket like a burrito, and definitely catching side-eyes every time I get up to yell.

“Let’s go, Liam!” I holler as the final buzzer sounds and the Cyclones close out a win over one of the top teams in the league.

The arena erupts. The roar of the crowd thrums through my chest—and so does my kid, apparently, because she gives a dramatic flip against my ribs.

I press a palm to the movement and grin. “That’s your dad out there, kid. Fingers crossed you get his skating genes and not my recent inability to walk in a straight line without needing a snack break.”

Another jab. Layla snorts beside me.

“Duly noted,” I mutter.

The Cyclones aren’t underdogs anymore. They’re contenders. Liam’s face is everywhere now—on banners, jerseys, cereal boxes, probably tattoos if I had to guess. But he’s not just the enforcer anymore. He’s the soul of this team. And somehow, he’s mine.

I move slowly through the crowd with Layla at my side, her hand braced on my back, mine resting protectively on my stomach. I know the routine by now—wait outside the locker room, lean against the wall, and let him find me like he always does.

The first wave of players filters out, all buzzed and sweaty and half-dressed. Aiden spots me immediately, towel slung around his neck, trademark smirk in place.

“Hey, Mama Novak,” he teases. “Or is it Steele now? You look like you’re about to pop in the hallway.”