Page 29

MILLIE

Harper's breathing has evened out. I can feel the soft rise and fall of her chest against mine, the way her fingers are still loosely curled into the hem of my shirt like she fell asleep trying not to let go.

I don't move.

I don't dare.

There's a weight in my arms that's heavier than her body. Something raw and wordless that's been sitting between us for days, maybe weeks. And now it's finally spilled out, seeping into every corner of the room, and I don't know how to hold it. But I do. I am.

She told me about her mom.

Whispered it like a confession, like a secret she didn't want the world to bruise. And I think that's what breaks me most—how careful she was with every word. Not because she doesn't feel it, but because she feels it so deeply she's afraid to let it out too fast.

I run my fingers through her hair slowly, over and over, the way my mom used to do for me when I was a kid and couldn't sleep. Harper makes the tiniest sound, a sleepy breath at the back of her throat, and tucks herself closer without even waking. It makes something in my chest ache.

She shouldn't have to carry all that alone.

Her mom is in a hospital bed two thousand miles away, lungs failing her, and Harper's over here trying to keep the world from cracking in half. And no one even knew. I didn't know. I thought she was crying over her ex.

I almost pushed her away for it. I almost let my own fears get so loud that I missed what was really happening right in front of me.

She didn't cry for Isaiah. She cried for her mom.

For everything she's losing and everything she's afraid she won't be able to save.

I was so caught in my own spiraling jealousy, my own fear that this isn't real, that I couldn't see how hard she was fighting just to stay upright.

Her cheek is pressed to my collarbone. Her mouth is parted slightly. She's wearing the hoodie she stole from me days ago, and I swear I've never seen anything so quietly wrecking as the way she's curled against me now—messy and soft and safe.

She kissed me.

We kissed and it wasn't like every other urgent kiss we shared. This was real. Soft. Kind. Filled with unsaid words.

I felt it in every breath I had left in me.

It was a need.

Like maybe we'd both been waiting for that exact kind of quiet, aching closeness. Like maybe everything that's been building between us finally found a place to land.

And I had to pull away. The last thing I want is to take advantage of her when she's vulnerable. I've had that happen. I've had people confuse comfort for consent. And I promised myself I'd never be that person—not even accidentally.

But I'm not sure I've ever wanted to kiss someone more. I press a kiss to the top of her head. She doesn't stir.

Outside the apartment, the city hums low and constant. Somewhere out there are cameras and strangers and reporters who think they know me. Who think I'm unshakable. Who think I'm made of bloodless wins and sharp-edged talent.

But here, in the dark, with Harper in my arms, I feel like a person. Just a person. Not Millie Bennett, not the captain of a team, not the daughter of legends. Just a woman lying in bed, holding someone so tightly it feels like her body might forget where it ends and Harper begins.

There's something terrifying about how natural it feels. How right. Her breath is warm against my collarbone, slow and even now, and every few minutes she shifts closer in her sleep, like even unconscious, she's reaching for something—maybe comfort, maybe safety. Maybe me.

I want to be that for her. I want to be the person she reaches for when she's scared or tired or hurting.

I want to be the one who gets to stay when everyone else leaves.

I want to make her feel seen, truly seen, the way she made me feel when I was bleeding out on the ice and she looked at me like I wasn't a headline or a ghost or a disappointment. Just Millie.

And it scares the hell out of me. I know what this looks like.

What it feels like. That soft, aching pressure in my chest?

It's the thing my moms talk about when they think no one's listening.

It's what my sisters talked about when they were first falling in love.

That thing I always rolled my eyes at, pretended I didn't need or want or care about.

But I get it now. Or maybe I'm starting to.

Because when Harper curled into me, shaking and quiet and brave in the way no one gives her credit for, I didn't think—I just opened my arms. And when she kissed me, I swear, something in my chest cracked open so wide I didn't think it would ever close again.

I felt her hand tremble on my cheek, felt her fear and her hope and something else she didn't say but I think I understood anyway.

And when I pulled back I still felt the echo of her lips on mine for long, breathless minutes after.

Even now, my mouth tingles with it.

I tighten my hold on her without thinking, nestling her closer.

Her skin is warm under my palm, her spine delicate but strong beneath my hand.

She's smaller than me in ways I forget sometimes—so sharp with words, so careful with her heart—but right now, she feels breakable.

I want to protect her from everything. From her pain.

From the fear she keeps swallowing like it doesn't burn going down.

From the past that's still clawing at her heels.

"I want to take care of you," I whisper into her hair, so softly it doesn't even sound like my voice. "I want you to let me. To choose me."

She doesn't stir. Doesn't wake. Just breathes.

I close my eyes and press a kiss into her hairline before I can stop myself. Gentle. Reverent. Something sacred in how careful I am with her now, like touching her too hard might unravel this fragile thing growing between us.

I want her to stop pretending she doesn't matter. Because she does. God, she does. To me.

Even if she doesn't know it yet.

Even if I'm not supposed to feel this way.

Even if this whole thing started with a lie.

But lying here, wrapped around her, with her heartbeat thudding against mine—I don't think any part of this is pretend anymore.

And when she makes a soft noise in her sleep, pressing closer, my hand finds the back of her neck on instinct, stroking gently through her hair until she relaxes again. I don't sleep. I don't even try.

Because if this is the only moment I ever get like this with her—if tomorrow everything goes back to pretending—I want to remember exactly how it felt to hold something real.

────────── ????──────────

I wake up to the unmistakable sound of the bedroom door flying open.

Not creaking. Not slowly turning on its hinges like a normal, respectful entrance.

No. It flings open like a goddamn SWAT team raid, and for a split second, I think we're being robbed or arrested or abducted by aliens.

My heart slams into my ribs as I jolt upright, blinking against the watery sunlight bleeding in through the curtains.

Next to me, Harper stirs, murmuring something soft before she realizes what's happening.

"Oh, thank god," comes Mama's voice from the doorway, loud and casual like she didn't just burst in unannounced. "I thought you two were kidnapped. Or dead. Or kidnapped and dead."

My brain stalls. My mouth, not so much.

"MOM. What the fuck?!"

Beside me, Harper makes a noise that sounds a lot like a squeak. Her eyes are huge as she scrambles beneath the covers like she's trying to tunnel into another multiverse. "Oh my god," she whispers over and over, practically curling into a ball. "Oh my god."

I throw a panicked glance toward the door. "Get out!" I shout.

Mama raises an eyebrow. Completely unfazed. "What? You weren't answering your phones. Harper promised I could check in, remember?"

"I didn't mean like this!" Harper wails from under the blanket, only her eyes peeking out now, wide and glassy and mortified. "I thought—I thought the door was locked!"

"It was," I mutter darkly, shooting daggers at my mother. "She picked it. Like a complete lunatic."

"Spare key," Mama corrects, holding up a set of jingling keys with an innocent shrug. "And I brought food. You're welcome."

"Mom. Seriously. Get out."

But she's not even close to done. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't dead. But clearly, you're alive. And cuddling. Cute."

Harper lets out a strangled little sound that's somewhere between a groan and a desperate laugh.

She burrows even deeper into the blanket, her head hiding in the crook of my arm like maybe if she goes still enough, she'll vanish.

"This is the worst moment of my entire life," she whispers into my side.

"It's not," I whisper back, even as my face burns red-hot. "But yeah, I get it."

Mama's grin widens. She leans against the doorframe like she has all the time in the world to observe this horror show.

"I'm just saying," she drawls, sipping her coffee with infuriating calm, "I've never seen you like this, Mills.

Sleeping in. Sharing blankets. Looking like you actually enjoy someone's else presence. It's... sweet to see you in l—"

I launch the nearest pillow at her.

She catches it one-handed without even blinking. "Rude," she says cheerfully. "You're lucky I like her."

"She's right here!" I hiss, as Harper releases a weak groan against my ribcage.

Mama shrugs. "I can see that. She's very cute. I say that with full maternal protectiveness engaged, so don't make it weird."

Harper peeks out from the covers with a hand over her face. "I'm dying," she mumbles. "Tell your mom I'm literally dying right now."

"You're not dying," Mama says, already smirking like she knows exactly how much power she wields in this moment. "You're just in lo—"

"GET OUT!" I yell, my cheeks matching my hair's color.

She raises both hands in surrender, but the sparkle in her eyes betrays her. "Fine, fine. I'm going. But don't think this conversation is over."

"It should've never started!"

"Mom's in the kitchen," she calls over her shoulder as she finally retreats. "Lauren made dinner. Be grateful. She didn't even judge me for breaking in!"

I fall back onto the bed with a groan, covering my face with both hands. Beside me, Harper is still buried under the blankets, shaking with silent laughter now, her whole body trembling against mine.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper.

"It's not your fault,"

"This is what having Luna Bennett as your mom is like," I say, horrified, even though I'm grinning through it now, my heart still racing from the adrenaline—and maybe something softer, too.

There's a beat of quiet. Just the two of us tangled up in my bed, breath catching in shared disbelief.

Then Harper snorts, and I do too, and suddenly we're laughing so hard it hurts.

That kind of raw, unfiltered laughter that spirals out of you and refuses to stop.

I press a hand to my stomach, eyes squeezed shut, Harper's forehead dropping to my shoulder as she tries—and fails—to smother the sound in her sleeve.

It feels good. Like a release valve finally opening. Like all the grief and fear and pressure of the past few days got shaken loose by one chaotic, ridiculous moment. My chest is tight from it, but not in the crushing way it's been lately. This is different. It's lighter. Brighter. Real.

When the laughter finally ebbs into breathless little hiccups, I shift to look at her. She's still curled into me, her cheeks pink with leftover blush and joy, eyes warm, crinkled at the corners. She looks younger like this. Softer. Freer.

She looks happy.

And God, I don't think I've ever wanted anything more than to keep that look on her face.

I can't stop staring. It's not even subtle.

My eyes trace the curve of her jaw, the slope of her nose, the way her mouth still quirks with the ghost of a smile.

Her short hair's all rumpled from sleep and blankets and chaos, and I want to smooth it down just so I can touch her again.

I want to tuck the blanket closer around her.

I want to do everything and nothing, all at once, just to make her feel safe and wanted and—

"What?" she asks softly, turning her head to catch me staring.

My heart stutters. I blink like I've been caught red-handed—which, to be fair, I have. "Nothing," I say quickly, trying for casual. My voice comes out softer than I expect.

She narrows her eyes, a little smile tugging at her mouth. "You were staring."

"Was not."

"Were too."

I roll my eyes and throw off the blankets before I combust. "Come on. Before my moms stage another ambush. They've probably already texted my sisters."

Harper lets me pull her up and into her hoodie again—my hoodie, technically, hanging past her hips and making her look stupidly adorable—and I can feel her gaze lingering even as I turn away. But I don't say anything else. Not out loud.

I don't say, You're really fucking beautiful.

I don't say, I've never felt this way before.

I don't say, Please don't go.

Instead, I lead her to the kitchen, where chaos, inevitably, waits.

The scent of my aunt's food hits first, warm and sharp and unmistakably home. The voices come next—Mom's soft laugh, Mama's louder one, and the clatter of dishes being set down with zero subtlety.

We don't even make it three steps in before Mama glances up from the counter and smirks.

"Well, well, well. Sleeping Beauty and her secret girlfriend finally emerge."

"Oh my God," I groan, dragging a hand over my face.

Harper turns a spectacular shade of pink beside me, half hiding behind my shoulder.

"Love," Mom says gently, like she's trying to rein in a storm that's already halfway to landfall. "Be nice."

"I am being nice," Mama says, placing a plate on the table like she's hosting a peace summit. "I didn't bring up how cozy they looked until now."

"I hate this," I whisper under my breath.

"You love this," Mom says, smiling as she hands me a glass. Her eyes crinkle at the corners when she looks at Harper. "It's good to see you smile, honey. You've been through a lot."

Harper mumbles a shy thank-you, her voice barely above a whisper, and I swear both my moms soften in real-time. It's not obvious—Mama tries to hide it with a dramatic eye-roll and Mom just ignores it like nothing happened—but I can see it.

They adore her. And it terrifies me a little, how much that matters to me. How much she matters.

"Sit, eat," Mama says gently, pulling out a chair. "Lauren made pasta and it's getting cold. Don't make me get dramatic."

"You are dramatic, darling," Mom adds, clearly still enjoying herself. "You broke into her bedroom."

"I used a key."

"Still counts." she kisses the top of her head like they've done it a million times before, then mom stares at me, "I tried to stop her, sweetheart but she's always been faster than me."

We take our seats at the table, the scent of garlic bread and roasted tomatoes thick in the air, steam rising from the plates like an invitation.

Harper's hand brushes against mine under the table.

She hesitates, barely a second—but I reach for her first. Curling my fingers around hers, grounding her the way I wish someone had done for me a long time ago.

Her palm is warm. A little clammy. I can feel the tremble in her knuckles like nerves are still fighting to stay upright.

I tilt my head, eyes searching her face. Are you okay? I don't say it, but I think it hard enough that I hope she hears me.

Somehow, she does. She nods, so subtly it's almost a whisper of movement, and gives me a small, brave smile. One that hits me straight in the chest. Like she's saying, I'm still here.

I squeeze her hand in response. So am I.

From across the table, there's a very loud, very fake cough. Mom's hand is at her mouth, like she's trying to play it off, but the twinkle in her eye gives her away. Mama just raises her brows and doesn't even pretend to hide it.

"Oh my god," I groan, turning to glare at them both.

"What?" Mom says, far too innocently.

"We didn't say anything," Mama chimes in, sipping her coffee with a smug grin. "We're just sitting here. Observing. Like any normal, emotionally supportive parents."

Harper's gone pink again—cherry blossom soft and climbing into her cheeks. She ducks her head and fiddles with her fork like maybe she can use it as a distraction. Or a weapon. Hard to say.

"You two are insufferable," I mutter, stabbing a piece of garlic bread.

"Insufferably proud," Mom corrects. "And insufferably glad to see you eating something that isn't a protein bar or rage."

"That's not fair," I say.

"She's not wrong," Harper whispers beside me, and when I turn to her, she's grinning behind her hand.

Harper laughs. Actually laughs, and the sound goes straight through me, filling the parts I didn't realize were still hollow.

She looks lighter. Maybe not healed—but not haunted either.

Her shoulders have dropped, her posture isn't so rigid, and even though she's still curled half behind me, there's warmth in her face now. Color. Life.

And I can't stop looking at her. She catches me again, this time with a little wrinkle in her nose and an almost shy smile like she knows what she's doing to me—and doesn't mind.

I don't say anything. Just pick up a piece of bread and hand it to her.

"You're feeding her now?" Mama says, scandalized.

"Would you like me to feed you, too?" I shoot back.

She holds up both hands. "No judgment. Just saying, you were never this gentle with your sisters."

"That's because my sisters were already practically grown when I was a kid," I say, rolling my eyes as I stab a piece of avocado toast with my fork. "I was the baby. They coddled me and also used me for all their weird experiments. It built character."

"You loved it," Mom says, sipping from her mug.

I shrug. "I loved them. Still do. Even when they braided my hair so tight I lost peripheral vision."

Harper lets out a laugh that makes my chest warm. She leans into me without thinking, like her body trusts mine, and suddenly her shoulder is pressed to mine, light and familiar and effortless.

I glance at her. She's smiling. That soft, genuine smile like this place, this moment, might actually feel safe to her. It feels like watching the sun break through clouds.

I want her to stay here forever.

"Anyway," I say, turning back to my plate, "I like her better than them."

There's a pause—just long enough for me to brace myself.

"Amelia Bennett," Mama gasps, clutching her chest like I just threw a dagger across the table. "You take that back right now."

"I won't," I say sweetly, picking up a grape and popping it in my mouth. "Harper is quiet. She's thoughtful. She doesn't convince me to put on a two-person musical in the living room or be her ballet teacher to tell her that her performance is great."

"Oh, that musical slayed," Mom says without missing a beat. "You had choreography and everything."

"I was eight."

"You loved it,"

"I just wanted to play hockey,"

Harper giggles again, head tilted into my shoulder like she's trying to muffle the sound, but I feel it. The joy. The ease. Her fingers still tangled in mine under the table like it's the most natural thing in the world.

I glance over and catch her watching me.

"What?" she asks, softly, that smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

"Nothing," I say, even as my stomach flips.

It's that she's really, really beautiful. It's that she's glowing in the soft light, her hair a little messy from sleep, her laugh still caught in her throat. It's that she's here. At my table. In my world.

"She's smitten," Mom says under her breath, not even trying to be subtle.

"Why do you hate me so much? You have two other daughters, you know?"

Mom ignores me. "She used to get that exact look when she watched replays of Luna scoring in the finals. You've officially reached Bennett Hall-of-Fame status, Harper."

Harper's face goes pink. "That's a terrifying amount of pressure."

"You're doing great, sweetheart," Mom says, beaming at her.

Harper lets out a breathy laugh and then bumps my knee under the table. I bump hers back.

And I think—this is what people mean when they talk about falling. It's not just the big, dramatic moments. It's nights like this. Laughing over dinner. Teasing that means love. Feeling like someone might actually see you—and want you to stay.

And I do—fuck, I want her to stay. I want her to smile here. In this room. To feel like this tiny space isn't just walls and furniture, but somewhere she can set down all her fears without having to pick them back up.

God, I want her. And I want her to want me too—but I'd take the first part even if the second never happens.

After dinner, Mom and Mama practically force us onto the couch, waving us off with dish towels and mushy looks while they "reclaim their kitchen" like it's some sacred temple we've desecrated with our fake-but-not-kinda-fake love.

Harper laughs as we retreat to the living room, tugging my hoodie sleeves over her hands, cheeks still a little pink from the morning's ambush.

Her hair's wild again, curling loose around her face from laughing earlier, and every time she tucks it behind her ear, I want to reach out and tuck it for her.

The TV is on, humming quietly with some mindless rom-com, but neither of us is paying attention. She's got that faraway look on her face—eyes caught somewhere between here and wherever her thoughts are spiraling. It makes my chest pull tight.

I can't take it anymore.

"Harps?" My voice dips low, just for her. She blinks, pulls her focus back to me like I'm everything in the room that matters. And Jesus, that makes me feel powerful and small all at once. "Are you okay?"

She hesitates—just long enough for my heart to thud one panicked beat against my ribs—before she smiles. Soft. Real. "Yeah."

"You sure?" I shift toward her, closer than friends sit, closer than fake girlfriends should, but not close enough to stop myself.

Her eyes flick to my mouth for half a second—blink-and-you-miss-it—but I feel it. I feel it everywhere. My skin is buzzing.

"I have no fucking idea what I'm going to do," she admits quietly. "With any of it. But right now? I feel... happy. You make me feel safe, like I can forget the real world for a minute."

I don't think she realizes what those words do to me. It's like something cracks open in my chest—wide, blinding. Like her voice just pressed against every raw edge inside me and smoothed them down with one sentence.

Safe.

Happy.

With me.

I reach out before I can stop myself, fingers brushing her jaw, slow and reverent. Her eyes flutter. She leans into it. My thumb traces over that soft spot under her cheekbone, my heart in my throat.

"You don't have to forget, baby," I whisper, voice cracking like it wasn't meant for words. "Just... let me live it with you. We'll carry it together. I promise it'll feel lighter."

"Millie," she says, voice barely above a whisper.

I don't know what she's going to say. I don't know what I want her to say.

But before she can, a loud clatter from the kitchen breaks the moment, followed by a very dramatic, "Luna, don't you dare— Baby, no! You're getting water everywhere!"

Harper jumps slightly, startled, and then—she laughs. And maybe it's selfish, but I love the sound of it. I love that I made her feel safe enough to laugh.

I lean back into the couch, still watching her, still completely fucking gone for her. "Told you. Living with a Bennett is chaos."

She's still smiling as she tugs the sleeves of my hoodie over her hands. "I think I kind of like it."

I don't think she realizes what that does to me, either.