Page 21

MILLIE

I don't think Harper's asleep.

She's quiet—breathing in that soft, steady rhythm people only fall into when they feel safe.

Her cheek rests against my collarbone, skin warm where it meets mine, and I know she's still awake even if she hasn't spoken in a while.

Her silence isn't empty. It hums. It presses in around us, thick with everything we've said and everything we haven't.

We're lying tangled on my couch, the throw blanket slipping half off our legs, her knee brushing the inside of my thigh like it's always belonged there.

She's in nothing but a worn-out pair of shorts and one of my old shirts—the big faded one I used to wear after morning practices in college, the one that hangs off her shoulder like it knows it has no business trying to hide anything.

I don't think she realizes how much it wrecks me—just seeing her like this.

Quiet. Bare-faced. Hair a little mussed from the way she keeps tucking it behind her ear when she thinks I'm not looking.

She's beautiful when she's dressed for work, when she's confident and cool and sarcastic, camera in hand like a shield.

But this? This is the version of her that ruins me.

The version that forgets to protect herself.

Her breathing deepens, then slips out in a soft sigh that ghosts over my skin. Like she's trying to let go of something heavy, but it's still there, clinging to her ribs. I know that feeling too well.

Without thinking, I press my lips to her temple. Just for a second. Barely a brush.

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't pull away. Just..

. exhales again, slower this time, like maybe she needed that.

I don't know why I do it. Why I keep finding excuses to touch her.

To keep her close. I just know I can't help it.

Every time we're like this—curled up on the couch long after midnight, when the whole world feels muted and far away—it's like something inside me gets quieter too. Calmer.

But that doesn't mean I'm not aware of every single inch of her.

My hand rests on her hip, fingers splayed over the edge of her shirt, tracing soft, lazy patterns that make her skin twitch.

Her bare thigh is pressed against mine, and it takes everything I have not to shift even closer.

Not to drag her over me completely. Not to touch more.

To feel more.

I don't. I don't because I promised myself I wouldn't unless she asked me.

Because Harper is still healing, and even though we're faking it—pretending for the cameras, for the headlines, for the story they want to write about us—it's never felt fake when she looks at me like she does sometimes.

It's not just her body pressed against mine, her heartbeat syncing to mine like it's trying to memorize the rhythm.

It's the way she fits into my life without even trying.

It's the way I find myself scanning the crowd for her after games.

The way I crave her voice when something good or bad happens.

The way I think about what makes her laugh more than I think about winning.

And yeah, I want her. God, I want her.

Every look, every accidental brush of her hand, every moment she leans in like she doesn't know she's doing it—I feel it like a current under my skin.

But I also just want to hold her like this until all the cracks in her chest start to mend.

I want her to have space to exhale. To rest. To stop pretending she's fine when I can tell she isn't.

Another sigh. A little one. This time she shifts slightly, her hand brushing across my stomach as she readjusts her weight. Her fingertips drag across my skin, and I swear I stop breathing.

It's late. Way past ten, probably closer to midnight now.

We've been curled up on this couch for hours, wrapped up in a blanket that's barely clinging to our legs.

A movie plays quietly on the screen, all background noise and flickering light—something with drama and sweeping music, but I haven't registered a single scene.

Not when Harper's been in my arms like this.

Not when she's been resting her whole weight against me like she actually trusts me to hold it.

She shifts slightly, and the fabric of my shirt brushes against my bare arm. Her skin is warm. Her thigh is still half-draped over mine, and I think I could sit here for the rest of my life like this and never ask for anything more.

"Does your shoulder still hurt?" she asks.

I tilt my head slightly, surprised.

Of all the things she could be thinking about, that wasn't even on my radar. "What?"

She doesn't pull away to repeat herself. Her voice is still quiet, lips barely moving against my collarbone. "Your team posted a video from practice today. I saw you—" she hesitates, "you rubbed your shoulder. Kind of a lot."

I blink, startled by how closely she's been paying attention. That detail shouldn't matter. Most people wouldn't notice something like that in a video barely over a minute long. But she did.

A smile pulls at my lips, instinctual and stupidly fond. "It's okay," I say, brushing my nose lightly against her hair. "Doesn't hurt as much anymore."

Harper pulls back slightly, just enough to look up at me.

I feel the shift immediately, the sudden cold where her body isn't pressed to mine anymore.

I want her warmth back. I want her weight, her presence, her closeness.

Her absence is immediate and irritating.

But then her hand touches my shoulder, and it's like a flame.

Like something burns under my skin—hot, precise, impossible to ignore.

"I can help," she says, brows furrowed with concentration, with concern that folds into her voice like it's always lived there.

I want to lie. To say I'm fine. But the truth is, I've been aching all day, the dull throb buried deep under adrenaline and distraction. Now that I'm still, now that she's touching me—I feel everything.

"Take a seat on the floor," she tells me gently, nudging my leg. "Let me help."

I don't argue. I should, maybe. But the way she's looking at me—focused, almost shy, like she needs this as much as I do—it knocks all the fight out of me.

I need her touch more than I need to pretend I'm okay.

So I ease off the couch, settling between her legs. Harper shifts behind me, folding her long limbs into a comfortable cross-legged position as she sits on the couch, her knees bracketing my sides. Her thighs are warm against my back. I close my eyes as soon as her hands settle on my shoulders.

Her fingers find the tight muscles with surprising ease, thumbs pressing firm but careful into the spots I didn't even realize were screaming for attention.

I exhale through my nose, trying to keep still, trying not to shiver as heat coils under my skin.

She moves with this kind of focused tenderness that feels dangerous.

Intimate. Her touch isn't rushed. It's deliberate. Patient.

And I'm falling apart.

Her thumbs dig into the worst knot near the top of my shoulder blade, and I flinch involuntarily. It's not sharp pain—it's the kind that feels necessary. Cleansing, almost.

"Too much?" she asks quickly, already easing up.

"No. It's—" I pause, forcing the tension out of my jaw. "It's good. Hurts, but in a good way."

She's quiet again, except for the soft exhale that fans across the back of my neck. I feel her leaning in slightly as she works, her hands skimming over the fabric of my tank top. I could swear I feel the ghost of her breath along my hairline. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking.

Her latest paperback sits on the coffee table in front of me. I reach for it to distract myself from the way her fingers are tracing heat into my skin.

"What's this one about?" I ask, flipping it over. The cover is classic Harper—a shirtless guy with too-perfect abs and a woman in a silk dress leaning into him like gravity pulled her there.

"The female lead's a nanny," she says without hesitation. "The guy's her boss. Single dad."

I grin. "Classic."

"She teaches his daughter about feelings, he teaches her how to orgasm. You know, balance."

I laugh, low in my throat, and it catches me off guard. I don't laugh like that with most people. "Didn't think you'd be the nanny trope type."

"I contain multitudes," she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "Anyway, I've never seen you read even though your bookshelf is packed."

"I read. Just... less lately." I pause, letting the truth rise to the surface like it's something sacred.

"My sisters used to read with me when I was little.

They'd build these elaborate forts with pillows and string lights.

Bring books. All the classics. And when they moved out, they kept coming back to read with me.

Especially Sunny. She left her entire library behind when she moved. "

I laugh softly. "I think I was like twelve when I started going through her books. And I never stopped. I think some of them are technically still hers, but don't tell her."

Harper lets out a breathy little chuckle, and it's so close to my ear that it makes me shiver.

Her hands are still on my shoulders, her thumbs now tracing lazy, soothing circles along the edge of my neck.

Then—her nails. Just the very tips, scratching lightly along my hairline, down to the top of my spine.

A sound escapes me before I can stop it. A low, involuntary moan from deep in my throat.

She pauses. I feel her body go still behind me, her breath catching.

"Does this feel good?" she asks, and her voice—God—it's soft, but something about it curls around my spine like a thread being pulled tight.

"So good."

My voice is breathy. Raw. Like I've been holding something back all night and finally let it slip.

And maybe I have. The truth is—it's not just the massage that feels good.

It's her. All of her. Her hands on me. Her care, her presence, her voice low and husky in my ear.

It's so good it's starting to unravel me.

So fucking good.

My muscles ache a little less, sure, but being touched like this by her... it feels dangerously close to bliss. The kind of bliss that makes you bold.

Harper shifts, her breath ghosting across the back of my neck as she speaks, voice soft like she's afraid to break whatever this is we've slipped into.

"Do you want to come up here with me? So I can get a better angle?"

Her voice is casual, even tender, but there's a thrum underneath it. Something unspoken, barely caged. I know what it means. I know what she means.

This is a bad idea.

God, it's a terrible fucking idea.

"Yeah," I rasp, too far gone to pretend I'm strong enough to say no.

I rise to my feet slowly, rolling my shoulders out, stretching my neck. The tension's still there—some of it physical, most of it not—but it's fading beneath something stronger. Heavier. Hungrier.

And when I sit down again, easing onto the sofa, and Harper shifts behind me, everything sharpens.

My awareness, my pulse, the ache in places that have nothing to do with the injury.

Her legs bracket me, long and warm, pulling me in like the tide, and I swear my breath stutters. My body locks up for a second.

Because this? This is intimacy.

This is every line between fake and real blurring into soft edges.

I feel her settle, her thighs snug to my hips, the weight of her behind me like an anchor and an invitation all at once. Her hands find my back again, firmer now, confident. She presses the heels of her palms deep into the muscle, drawing sounds out of me I can't even pretend to control.

"Does this hurt?" she murmurs, her voice hushed and right at my ear.

I let out a low, involuntary moan that trembles with truth. "No. It feels so good, baby."

The endearment slips out before I can reel it back, and I feel her inhale behind me, feel the way her fingers hesitate, just for a second. But she doesn't correct me. Doesn't flinch. She just exhales, slow, warm, and keeps moving.

Her breath is right there, her scent wrapping around me—coconut and vanilla and something clean I can't name but already crave. Her body is practically curled around mine now, the shape of her fitting into the lines of me like a secret.

And the most dangerous part? It feels so natural. So easy. Like this has always been waiting to happen.

I haven't been held in years. Not like this.

"Did you do this for Isaiah?" I ask suddenly, my voice quieter than I mean it to be.

I don't know why I say it.

No—maybe I do.

Maybe I need to know.

Need to believe that this softness, this care, this intimacy... isn't something she gives to everyone. That it means something. That I mean something.

She stills, her fingers hovering at the base of my neck.

"No," she says finally, quietly. "He got plenty of attention from other people. He didn't need mine."

It shouldn't affect me the way it does. But God, it does. It breaks something open in me.

I reach down, find one of her legs wrapped around my hips, and pull it into my lap without thinking.

My palm slides slowly from her ankle to her knee, tracing the soft warmth of her skin over the thin fabric of her sweatpants.

Her skin is warm, and her body shifts subtly, instinctively. Her breath catches.

She doesn't stop me. And when her hands return to my body, they're no longer just massaging—they're exploring. Slower, more deliberate. Curious. Reverent. They map my shoulders, trace the curve of my neck, skim my collarbone like a question. My pulse hammers under her fingertips.

The apartment is almost completely dark now, only the dull light from the paused TV flickering across the floor. The rain outside taps at the windows like it's trying to warn us. Like it knows we're crossing a line we won't come back from.

Her mouth is so close to mine now I can feel her breath when she exhales. My whole body is on high alert, the air between us thick and humming. I want to turn around. I want to kiss her. I want her to want that too.

But instead, I ask something I'm not even sure I want the answer to.

"Do you think you'll ever be able to love someone the way you loved him?"

She's quiet. Too quiet.

I almost pull back, almost take it back—

And then—

"I don't know," she says, so soft it's almost a confession. "Right now, it feels like he took everything. Like I don't have anything left to give someone else."

My throat tightens. My hand stills over her leg.

I hate that answer.

"I know I need to move on," she says, her voice a little stronger, like she's trying to convince herself. "But how do you go from being with someone for six years to just... jumping into something else? It feels wrong."

"He did," I remind her, the words clipped. Bitter. True.

"I know," she whispers. And then she leans forward, resting her forehead against my shoulder like she can't hold her own weight anymore.

"It feels disloyal, as ridiculous as that sounds.

But I loved him for so long. I didn't think I'd ever love anyone else.

I didn't want to. And yet..."

Her breath hitches.

Her next words slice through the quiet like glass.

"...when I look back now, I realize he made me feel like I was never enough. And somehow too much at the same time."

My jaw clenches. I inhale through my nose, trying not to explode with the kind of anger I know would only make her retreat. But it burns in me. This need to protect her. To rewrite the story she's been told about herself.

Because Harper Lane? She's too much for small men, but not for me.

"You can't stop being who you are because someone else thinks it's too much, Harps." My voice is low, steady. "He can go find less."

From the sounds of it, that's exactly what he did. You don't get much better than Harper Lane.

"Do you think I'm a trainwreck?"

The question punches the air right out of me. Not because it's dramatic or exaggerated—because it's not. It's honest. Bare. And it tells me exactly where her heart is. Twisted up in the wreckage he left behind.

I huff a breath, soft and dry. "You're more like a cute little fender bender."

Her laugh comes gently, warm against my skin.

I feel her smile before I hear it. She presses her cheek to the back of my shoulder, her arms sliding around my neck from behind.

The contact is easy, but the effect it has on me is anything but.

Her body is curling around mine like ivy, and I'm losing every bit of air I had left.

I shift and gently draw her other leg into my lap, until I've got both of them tucked there, my palms warm over the soft fabric of her sweats, thumbs brushing slow circles into her calves. She fits against me like a heartbeat, steady and impossible to ignore.

My voice is a little lower when I ask, "Do you think he loved you the right way, baby?"

The endearment hangs there, soft and honest, and she doesn't flinch. Doesn't pull back. She lets it settle around us like something natural. Like something she needed to hear.

"I don't know," she says after a moment, her voice thoughtful and full of unraveling threads.

"He loved me loudly. I think... the romantic in me thought that was the right way.

The grand gestures. The big love confessions.

He wasn't afraid to touch me in public, to post about me, to say all the right things.

I used to think that meant something."

Her hands tighten slightly where they rest on my collarbone.

Not tense. Just real.

"But now that I'm away from him," she continues, quieter, "I'm realizing.

.. there were a lot of ways I convinced myself he was showing me love.

But really, he was just showing me off. "

That lands heavy in my chest. I hate that. That someone took her love—someone soft and vulnerable and radiant like her—and turned it into a mirror instead of a home.

Leaning back into her hold, I let my weight press against her gently, and in doing so, push her deeper into the sofa cushions. Her body adjusts, curves naturally to hold me closer, and the shift pulls me tighter into her frame—her thighs warm at my sides, her arms still cradling my chest.

"I thought he loved me loudly," she says, and her voice cracks slightly. "But when I found him with someone else, it was like he screamed at me that he didn't want me. That was the loudest he's ever been."

God.

I close my eyes, my breath catching. My heart stumbles at the rawness of it. I don't know if she hears it, the way I exhale like I'm trying to calm down a fire that's already started to spread through my ribs.

Because her words are still echoing. And so is her body against mine—warm, solid, heartbreakingly open. I can feel her breath against my neck, feel the thud of her pulse against my back, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that doesn't match mine anymore. It's faster. Uneven. Wanting.

And so is mine. The air between us is shifting. Thicker. More dangerous. Her fingertips are idly brushing along my collarbone now, like she doesn't even realize she's doing it, but I do. I feel every featherlight touch like it's carving me open.

I turn slowly, carefully, enough to look at her. Our faces are so close my nose nearly grazes hers. Her lips—those soft, full lips I've tried not to think about too often—are parted just slightly, and I can feel her breath ghosting against my mouth.

She's looking at me like she's scared. Like she's hopeful. Like she wants this, but she doesn't know if she's allowed to want it.

And I... God, I want to kiss her.

I want to press my mouth to hers and show her what it feels like to be loved gently, not loudly. To be held like she's something to be known, not displayed.

But if I kiss her, I don't know if I'll be able to stop. And this thing between us—it was only supposed to be pretend.

I let my hand drift up her calf, slow and thoughtful, and settle on her knee. Her skin is warm under my palm, and her whole body seems to lean toward the touch.

Her eyes flick to my mouth. It's not subtle. It's a lightning strike. A live wire connecting directly to every nerve in my body.

I feel it.

The moment teeters, breath suspended.

My blood roars in my ears. I can taste the tension, thick and electric in the dark space between us, tighter than it's ever been.

We're not touching anymore, not really, but her body is wrapped around mine like she was made to hold me this way.

Her thighs snug against my hips. Her arms loosely looped around my shoulders.

Her chest—soft, warm—pressed against my back like it belongs there.

I want to ask her if she feels it too.

This burn.

This ache.

This slow, consuming heat that coils deeper every time we get too close and pretend it's nothing.

But my voice is wrecked, ruined by restraint, and all I manage is her name.

"Harper..."

It comes out as a rasp. An admission. A prayer I didn't mean to say out loud.

She inhales sharply, like she wasn't expecting it to sound like that—like she can hear how much I want her in just those two syllables.

Her eyes meet mine, wide and shining and unreadable.

She looks at me like she's on the edge of a cliff she doesn't know how to jump from.

"Millie..." Her voice breaks on my name, breathy and thin, lips parting as if she's already halfway to kissing me. My heart stutters.

"I'm here," I whisper, gentler now, threading my fingers through the hand she's still resting against my chest. "I'm here, baby."

She closes her eyes, like the words hit something raw inside her, and then—without warning—her hands slide into my hair, fisting there with something dangerously close to desperation.

And fuck— My head tips back, a helpless sound slipping from my throat. My body is on fire. Her grip is firm, trembling slightly, but intentional. The way she holds me there, so close, so still—it's not just tension anymore. It's need. It's surrender.

Her forehead presses to mine, and her lips hover a breath from my mouth.

"I don't want to think anymore," she whispers.

"I'm tired of trying to figure it out. I just—"

She swallows hard, her grip tightening in my hair, pulling me in closer.

Her voice is barely a breath when she says it, "Will you help me? "

My whole body lurches with the force of it.

If you ever have 'needs', just come to me.

Her breath is shaking. Her body, wound tight around me. Her skin, flushed and warm. Her lips, so close I can feel the promise on them. And that's it.

That's the moment I snap. I groan, low and hoarse, like the sound's been clawing its way up for hours.

"Of course, love."