Page 31

MILLIE

I hate this in-between part—the stretch of time after the ceremony and before the reception when everyone scatters like puzzle pieces trying to find the next picture.

I know she's here somewhere, just a few doors or hallways away, probably posing with people who never bothered to show up when she needed them most. Laughing on cue.

Holding the bouquet like it doesn't weigh anything.

Smiling that gentle, practiced smile of hers that most people believe is real.

But I know better now. I've learned the difference.

I'm not doing great without her. I want to see her.

I want her eyes on me, that tether between us pulled tight again.

I want to touch her hand, her back, her hair.

I want to get her away from all these people who keep interrupting my thoughts, who want to talk to me like I'm the one they came here for.

I've signed so many napkins and programs I've lost count.

Posed for half a dozen awkward phone photos.

Smiled until my cheeks hurt. I've heard every variation of the same ten questions—When are you back on the ice?

Are the rumors true? How go you know Shannon?

—and I've given the same mechanical answers every time.

"I'll be back soon."

"I'm feeling great, thanks."

"No, the doctor hasn't cleared me yet."

And my personal favorite, offered with a perfectly practiced smile to some curious guest with a too-tight dress and a camera phone already recording: "My girlfriend's in the wedding."

I probably shouldn't have said that. I don't know what Harper wants me to call her in front of these people. Girlfriend might be a line I wasn't supposed to cross—not because it's a lie, but because this is her world. Her past. Her people.

And I am not one of them.

I want to be.

I want to be the person she says mine about when no one's listening. The one she looks for across a crowded room not because she's nervous or out of place, but because she just wants me close.

And maybe that's what makes us more alike than I ever realized.

We both know how to put on a show for the world.

We both understand what it costs to be wanted and watched, to be good on command.

But underneath all that, when we're alone, she softens.

I soften. We become real. And I think I'm addicted to that version of us, the private one no one else gets to see.

Eventually, I slip away.

There's this little cove just outside the reception hall—a narrow pocket of space between a row of glass doors and the hedged edge of the terrace.

It's quiet here, dim and echoey with distant laughter, and for once, no one follows.

I tuck myself into the corner, out of sight, hands deep in my pockets, head bowed like I'm praying for this whole night to fast-forward to the part where she's in my arms again.

My ribs feel too tight. My skin's too thin. There's a buzzing under my skin I can't shake off, the hum of being seen too much by strangers who know my name but not my heart.

But I'd do it again. I'd walk into that ceremony a hundred times over, endure all the stares and whispers, just to be here today. For her.

Always for her.

"You hiding, Bennett?"

I look up, and there she is—head tilted into the little cove, bouquet of delicate white flowers hanging loosely from one hand like it's an afterthought.

Her dress is still perfect, a little rumpled now in that way that makes it better, more lived-in, more hers.

She's smiling. Not the public one. The real one.

The one that stretches slow and unsure across her face like she's not entirely convinced she's allowed to be this happy.

She's never looked more beautiful.

"I guess you know me too well, Lane," I say, voice low and a little hoarse.

"Can I hide with you?" she asks, like it's a real question, like there's a universe in which I'd ever say no to that.

"You can hide with me forever, baby."

She doesn't hesitate. Just ducks her head and steps into the space beside me like she's always belonged there.

The world fades out. The music, the voices, the clinking of champagne glasses.

None of it matters. She presses her side against mine, her arm brushing mine, and we both exhale like we've been holding our breath all night just to get here.

"I missed you," she says quietly, not looking at me. "I'm sorry I left you alone," she murmurs. "Shannon's been... well, Shannon. This is the first second I've had to breathe."

That makes my skin crawl. My jaw clenches before I can stop it.

They brought her here just to parade her around like she's still theirs, still responsible for their timelines and photo ops.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Huh?" She looks up at me, and we're so close our noses graze. I reach up without thinking, gently smoothing my fingers over the soft curve of her hairline, because I'm one second away from doing something reckless. Like kissing her until we forget we're in someone else's world.

"Are you okay?" I repeat, slower this time, quieter. "With all of this. Seeing your friends... your..." I swallow, suddenly afraid of the answer. "Your ex."

She goes still. The soft edge of her smile fades, and her face shifts like she's bracing for something. For me to pull away. For her to lose this.

"Oh," she says, voice barely a breath. "I, uh..."

"I know you said you weren't in love with him anymore," I say, even though it guts me to say his name aloud, "but saying it and seeing him are two different things.

I'll understand, Harps. Seriously. No—that's a lie.

" Her eyes flick back to mine, wide and unsure.

"I won't understand," I admit, voice cracking.

"Because I—I know this started as a lie, but you deserve so much fucking better than someone who cheated on you.

Someone who used your softness against you.

Someone who doesn't see you the way I do.

"

I take a shaky breath, every nerve ending in my chest burning like fire under skin.

"I want this little life we've built, even if we were pretending at first. I want you in my house because you made it a home.

I want the real you, the one who wears my hoodie with wet hair and sings off-key when she's baking.

I want your smiles—the genuine ones, the ones you wear around Summer, and Aurora, and the team.

.. and me. I want to be the reason you're happy. I want you to choose me."

Her lips part like she's about to speak, but no words come out at first. Just that look—that look that tears me in half, soft and searching and lit with something so big it scares me.

"Millie—" she starts, voice thick, but I don't move.

I can't. I'm too afraid that if I give her space, she'll walk away.

She presses her lips together, glancing down at the flowers still dangling from her fingers like she forgot they were even there.

"I don't want Isaiah," she says, and the words sound like they've been building in her throat for weeks.

"I never really did. I mistook being chosen for being loved.

To him, I was just an accessory and he never really saw me.

I had to be quiet enough, loud enough, I had to be.

.. a puppet."

My lungs contract, and I stay perfectly still as she lifts her head again, eyes glassy but clear.

"He never saw me—not the way I needed.

Not the way... you see me," she says, and her voice cracks open, trembling but honest. "You treat me like I matter when no one's looking.

You listen to me like I'm the most interesting person in the room.

I don't think I ever knew the difference before you.

"

Her hand finds my chest, flat and open over my heart.

"I've been scared," she confesses, "because this doesn't feel fake anymore.

It hasn't for a long time. But it's easier to pretend when something feels this big.

When it could ruin everything if it goes wrong.

And you—you're already so much. You're famous, and fearless, and you have this whole world I don't fit into, a whole lot of problems that are not even in this country and—"

"And we'll figure it out together," I cut in gently, catching both her hands in mine like they're the only steady thing in the universe. "It's going to be okay, Harps. We don't have to solve all of it tonight. Just breathe. I'm here with you."

She nods, eyes glassy, lips pressing together like she's trying to hold herself in place. I want to kiss her so badly my chest aches with it, but I don't. I let the moment stretch and settle between us, weightless and real.

"Let's not hide anymore," she whispers.

I nod, because even if I want to believe she means us, I know we're not quite there yet. But we're closer than we've ever been.

And then we step out of our little hiding spot and return to the noise, to the curated world she used to belong to and clearly doesn't fit in anymore.

The second we walk in, Shannon swoops in like she's been watching from a distance, practically dragging Harper away with some excuse about fixing the bride's dress. Harper glances back at me with an apologetic look as she's led off, her fingers brushing mine for one last second before they're gone.

I want to scream.

She tries to make it back to me, I can see that. But every time we're alone for more than thirty seconds, someone needs her. Shannon, or one of the bridesmaids— like Harper's a piece of borrowed property they haven't finished using.

We weren't seated together for dinner either.

Apparently it was a "logistical" thing. Bullshit.

I watch her from across the room as she sits beside Isaiah, a tightly choreographed social move I have no doubt was planned.

He leans in toward her like he's still got some kind of claim, like he's entitled to whatever is left of her, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to storm across the room and rip that illusion apart.

But Harper never looks at him.

Not once.

Her eyes keep finding me, even when she's smiling politely or pretending to laugh at someone's joke. It's a subtle game, the kind no one else sees—but every time her gaze drifts, it lands on me like gravity. Like her center of orbit has changed.

We eye-fuck each other across passed plates and wedding speeches. I know what that look means. She wants to be near me just as badly as I want her back. There's a heat in it, low and insistent, edged in frustration and longing.

Her friends don't see her anymore. Not really. They see who she was, not who she's become. And I think she's starting to realize that too.

They've made it almost impossible for her to breathe tonight, like she's here to serve a purpose instead of celebrate something. Like her comfort never mattered. Like Isaiah still holds a door open to her past.

But he doesn't. Because I do.

And when Harper finally breaks free from another photo op and finds me again—late, when most of the guests have started drifting toward the dance floor—she looks exhausted.

She walks toward me slowly, heels in her hand, bouquet long gone, hair a little loose and eyes rimmed with a kind of quiet sadness I haven't seen in a long time.

"I think I'm done," she says softly, stopping just short of touching me.

"Done?"

"I mean... I think I want to go home." Her voice is quieter now. "I'm so tired, Millie,"

I swallow and nod, already reaching for her without thinking. My hand finds the small of her back, my thumb grazing bare skin, and she exhales like she's been waiting all night for just that kind of touch.

"You've got a really nice hotel room upstairs," I murmur, "If you want us to really put on a show for your friends."

She leans in closer, until her mouth hovers over my ear, "Or we can just skip the performance. Go back home. You have a really nice bed, you know?"

My breath hitches. I nods.

"Yeah," I whisper back, "That sounds like exactly what I want."

────────── ???? ──────────

Harper falls asleep in my lap as soon as we got on the plane.

She doesn't say a word when we board—just slides into the window seat, tucks her legs beneath her like a cat, and leans into me. Her head fits into the crook of my shoulder like she was made to be there, and her hand rests over my thigh like it's second nature. No asking. No hesitation. Just trust.

Her friends didn't stop her. Her ex didn't stop her. And even though she'd smiled and laughed and reassured everyone that she was fine, I know she wasn't.

I know her too well now. She didn't look back when we left the wedding. She didn't have to. She'd already made her decision.

She just took my hand.

I tuck her closer when I feel her shiver, sliding my jacket over her exposed arms and gently easing her heels off, one at a time.

Her bridesmaid dress is still pressed to her body, and she looks exhausted even in sleep—like the night clung to her and wouldn't let go.

I brush a curl off her forehead and press my lips there, then her cheek.

She doesn't stir. Just breathes, slow and even, like the safest place in the world is here with me.

And it is.

The flight feels short, even though my whole body aches from staying still. I don't move. Not even when my arm goes numb beneath her. Not when the flight attendant walks by and smiles like she knows something. I just keep holding her.

By the time we land, it's past midnight, and I order the Uber while she's still wrapped in sleep. She blinks awake when we're in the car, her fingers curling loosely around mine again. The dress rustles when she shifts and leans her head on my shoulder, her palm warm over my thigh.

We don't speak. The silence is full of things we're not saying yet—weighty, electric, tender. Like maybe if we talk too loudly, we'll break whatever fragile thing has finally started to settle between us.

Sixty minutes of night-lit streets and the low hum of tires. Her thumb draws slow, lazy circles against my leg, and I don't think she even realizes she's doing it. But I do. God, do I feel it.

When we reach the apartment, I help her out of the car with one hand still linked in hers, like I'm afraid to let go now that I finally have her this close.

She's quiet as we make our way up the elevator, heels in her hand, dress gathered at her hip.

And I want to say something—anything—but I can feel the moment needs breath. Space.

She follows me inside without hesitation.

It's only when I close the door behind us and the quiet wraps around us again that she exhales.

"Hey," I say softly, brushing my knuckles down her arm as she toes off the rest of her shoes. "You okay?"

She nods, but she's looking at the floor. I tilt her chin up gently with my fingers. "Harps. You don't have to be okay right away. Just... be here."

Her eyes lift to mine, glassy and unsure. But she doesn't step back. She takes a breath, then another, then slowly closes the space between us until her hands are on my waist and her cheek is pressed to my chest.

"I didn't know how much I needed to leave until I was gone," she murmurs into me.

I press a kiss to the top of her head.

"You don't ever have to go back," I whisper.

She nods slowly, face still tucked to my chest. Then she shifts just enough to look up at me again, and there's something new in her expression—clearer, steadier, like the fog's lifted a little.

"I talked to Isaiah," she says, and her voice doesn't tremble.

My stomach knots, but I keep my face neutral. I won't flinch. I won't jump to conclusions. I trust her. God, I trust her like I've never trusted anyone, which might be the scariest part of all.

"Yeah?" I ask gently, brushing my thumb along her spine. "When?"

"Right before I found you at the wedding," she says, voice low, like the memory still tastes bitter. Her eyes flicker to my mouth, hover, then lift back to mine. "It was quick. Just... honest."

I don't say anything. Just stay still. Let her set the tempo. Her fingers are still curled lightly at my waist, and all I can feel is the warmth of her against me—how naturally we fit like this, like I was made to be held by her. She takes a breath. Then another.

"He apologized," she says finally, soft as paper.

"Said he'd do better. That it was just a mistake.

"

My jaw tightens, but I say nothing.

I wait. Her thumb brushes unconsciously against the fabric of my shirt.

A small, absent motion. Intimate in a way that undoes me.

"And I... I told him I'm not his to win back.

That whatever we had—it wasn't what I thought it was.

I think I let him convince me for a long time that what he gave me was love.

But it wasn't. It was attention. Performance.

A kind of safety that asked me to be quiet inside myself.

"

My heart stumbles. I let her speak, let her unravel at her own pace.

"My home—my heart—" she falters, eyes searching mine, "it's somewhere else now.

With someone who makes me feel like I don't have to try so hard to be understood.

I never had that before."

I draw her closer, not all at once, just the soft tug of hands that can't help themselves.

Her head tips until her forehead rests against mine.

She whispers it like she's not sure I'll believe her.

"Love shouldn't be loud, Millie. Not the kind that lasts.

It's supposed to be soft. Safe. The kind you can sleep inside of. I didn't know that until..."

I don't realize I'm holding my breath until I exhale.

"Thank you for telling me," I murmur, letting my fingers slip into the curls at the base of her neck. "That must've taken everything."

She nods, her cheek brushing against my chest again. "It did. But it felt... freeing. Like I finally closed a door that's been cracked open for too long."

I want to kiss her. God, I want to. But I want her to know first. That she's safe here. That I'm not going anywhere.

"You didn't have to tell me," I whisper. "But you did. And that means everything."

Her lips twitch into something almost like a smile. Her arms slide further around me until we're pressed together from shoulder to knee.

"I wanted you to know," she says. "Because I've never said this to anyone and meant it before, but—I don't want anyone else. I want this. I want you. Even when it's messy or confusing or terrifying. Especially then."

I swallow hard. My hand curves around her waist. Her skin's warm beneath the thin silk of her dress.

"You have me, Harps," I say. "You've had me."

She smiles, eyes shining. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Then, softer, like a secret meant only for her, I murmur, "And I think about kissing you every second I'm not already kissing you."

Her breath catches. Her fingers tighten at my waist.

"Then why aren't you?" she asks, voice airy and low, heat curling around the edges.

My heart skips once—maybe twice—and then I lean in until my forehead brushes hers. "Because I wanted to be sure you were home first. Not just here. Not just staying the night. But ready to want this."

"I'm home," she says, so sure it makes my chest ache.

My lips brush hers once—just once, testing the weight of it. She chases the second kiss like she's starved for it, like maybe she's been holding herself back for weeks too.

There's no desperation in it. Just closeness. Want. Tenderness wrapped in slow, smoldering heat.

Her hands find the hem of my shirt and slip beneath, palms flat over my skin like she's grounding herself there.

I groan softly into her mouth, pulling her tighter against me until we're tangled and breathless and pressed into the safety of this home we built, even if we didn't know we were building it.

Harper breaks the kiss just long enough to whisper, "Come with me."

I follow without hesitation, her fingers curled into mine, she opens the bedroom door like it's something sacred, then stops in the doorway to look back at me.

Her dress is wrinkled from the plane, from the car, from curling up in my lap—but she's never looked more beautiful.

Lips kiss-bitten. Hair a little messy. Eyes soft and full and sure.

"Are you sure?" I ask, voice low, rough.

She nods, walking backward until the backs of her knees hit the bed. "I've never been more sure."

I take her in slowly, carefully. The way her chest rises and falls. The way she watches me like I might disappear if she blinks too long.

I step between her knees, and she runs her hands up my sides, dragging my shirt off like she's been waiting her whole life for it. And maybe she has. Maybe I have too.

She kisses me again—this time deeper. Slower. Like she wants to savor it. I lift her gently by the hips and lay her back, crawling over her like the space between us has finally broken open.

"God," she breathes, fingers digging into my shoulders. "You're..."

But she doesn't finish. Just closes her eyes like the sensation's too much, like the feel of us like this is something she needs to memorize.

My hands move reverently over her, learning every line and curve, every place that makes her sigh into my mouth. I kiss her jaw. Her collarbone. The bare skin above her heart. "Tell me what you need."

Her breath hitches, soft and unsure. "You. Just... you."

God.

That single sentence tears through me like a storm.

I kiss her again, slower this time, drinking in the taste of her like it's the only thing tethering me to the ground.

Her lips part beneath mine, pliant and warm, and I memorize the feel of them—how she opens up for me like a secret she's never told anyone else.

My fingers find the zipper at the back of her dress and drag it down, slow and deliberate, until the fabric loosens and slips from her shoulders. The soft rustle of it falling to the floor is the only sound between us for a moment—until I look at her.

And forget how to breathe.

She's not wearing a bra, and something about that feels intimate in a way that wrecks me.

Like she trusted her whole body to me before I even asked.

I lean back for just a second, just to look, and my chest tightens at the sight of her—bare, blushing, and already arching slightly beneath the weight of my gaze.

"Jesus, Harper," I whisper, almost to myself. "You're so fucking beautiful."

Her cheeks flush deeper, and I reach out, brushing my thumb over her breast, watching her breath stutter. My fingers find her nipple and I roll it gently, smiling when her back lifts from the bed, her soft gasp escaping before she can stop it.

"That's it," I murmur, trailing kisses down her jaw, her throat, the slope of her shoulder. "Needy tonight, baby?"

She whimpers when my mouth hovers just above her skin, close enough for warmth but not enough for contact. I don't move until her hips shift beneath me, until her hands are tangled in my hair like she can't decide whether to pull me closer or push me over the edge.

"There's nothing," I breathe, teasing her with the barest graze of my lips, "nothing I'd like more than hearing you beg."

She bites her lip. Her fingers tremble where they hold me. And then, with a soft, cracking whisper—

"Then make me."