Page 33 of Depths of Desire (The Saints of Westmont U #4)

Three Years Later

The apartment smelled like garlic and rosemary, courtesy of Lennox’s latest attempt at being domestic.

He’d been on a cooking kick for the past month, ever since I’d mentioned offhandedly that I missed having proper meals during training season.

Now, our kitchen counter was cluttered with herb plants and cookbooks, and our refrigerator actually contained vegetables that weren’t approaching their expiration date.

I sat curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under me, watching Lena rifle through our DVD collection with the kind of intense focus she usually reserved for constitutional law cases.

“This is tragic,” she announced, holding up a copy of Fast Five like it had personally offended her.

“You’ve been living together for two years, and this is what passes for entertainment?

Where’s the Criterion Collection ? Where are the foreign films with subtitles that make you question the nature of existence? ”

“We like explosions,” Lennox called from the kitchen, not looking up from whatever he was stirring on the stove. “And cars. Sometimes cars that explode.”

“Barbarians.” Lena tossed the DVD back into the pile and turned to survey the rest of the living room with a critical eye. “And don’t get me started on your interior design choices. Two grown men living together, and you have exactly one throw pillow. One . It’s an outrage for the gay community.”

I laughed, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep in my chest. “We have plants now.”

“Those don’t count. Lennox bought those.” She gestured toward the small forest of greenery that had sprouted on our windowsill over the past few months. “You probably don’t even know their names.”

“Jim, Pam, Michael, and that one’s obviously Dwight,” I said. But she wasn’t wrong. I could identify every stroke technique known to competitive swimming, break down the biomechanics of a perfect dive in excruciating detail, but I couldn’t tell you the difference between a succulent and a fern.

“Right,” came the snort from Snips.

“That’s what I have him for,” I said, nodding toward the kitchen, where Lennox was humming something off-key while he cooked. The sound made something warm unfurl in my chest, the same feeling I got every time I came home to find him already there, making our space feel lived-in and loved.

Lena flopped down beside me on the couch, her long legs stretching out to rest on the coffee table.

At twenty-one, she was somehow both exactly the same person she’d been at eighteen and completely transformed.

Still whip-smart and relentlessly teasing, but there was a confidence to her now that hadn’t been there in high school.

Three years at Westmont had been good to her; pre-law suited her, gave her an outlet for all that restless intelligence.

“You nervous about next week?” she asked, her tone shifting to something gentler.

LA. The Olympics. Again.

The familiar flutter of anxiety tried to take root in my stomach, but it was different now than it had been four years ago. Lighter. Less consuming.

“A little,” I admitted. “But not the way I used to be.”

It was true. The crushing weight of expectation that had defined my entire existence for years had lifted somewhere along the way, replaced by something that felt more like anticipation than dread.

I still wanted to win. That competitive fire would probably never die, but the thought of losing didn’t feel like the end of the world anymore.

“Good,” Lena said. “Because you’re going to be amazing. And even if you’re not, you’ll still be my annoying older brother who happens to be freakishly good at swimming.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“That’s what family’s for.”

The word family settled around us like a warm blanket.

It had taken years for our parents to even appear to notice who I was.

And Lena had been our champion from the beginning, fierce and loyal and completely uninterested in anyone’s discomfort with her brother’s happiness.

And there was Lennox, the foundation of this warm feeling sitting in my chest.

“Dinner’s ready,” Lennox announced, appearing in the doorway with a dish towel slung over his shoulder and a grin that still made my pulse skip. “I made that thing with chicken and lemon that you like.”

“The thing with chicken and lemon,” Lena repeated dryly. “Such poetry. No wonder Oliver fell for your charm.”

Lennox stuck his tongue out at her, a gesture that should have been juvenile but somehow looked endearing on him, and disappeared back into the kitchen. I could hear him moving around, opening cabinets, setting the table with the mismatched plates we’d accumulated over the years.

Three years.

It felt like a lifetime and no time at all.

Three years since that night at the mountain cabin when we’d collided like galaxies, and when we’d nearly lost each other, and when I’d been stupid enough to think a gold medal could fill the hole that loving someone had carved in my chest. Three years of learning how to balance ambition with affection, how to want something desperately without making it the only thing that mattered.

Lennox had moved in officially six months after we got back together, though he’d been spending most nights here anyway.

The transition had been surprisingly easy, his clothes migrating into my closet, his hockey gear claiming space next to my swim equipment, his terrible taste in movies slowly infiltrating our shared collection.

Our shared collection. Even thinking the words made something soft and happy bloom in my chest.

He’d graduated the year after me, got drafted by a minor league team in Wisconsin.

For exactly three weeks, we’d tried the long-distance thing before both admitting it was miserable and he was probably better suited for coaching anyway.

Now, he worked at a youth hockey program in the city, teaching kids how to skate and occasionally coming home with stories that made me laugh until my sides hurt.

Lena had been right about the apartment, though.

Two and a half years of cohabitation, and we still lived like college students who’d never heard of interior design.

But it was ours , every scratched surface and mismatched piece of furniture, every badly hung picture and pile of books that never quite made it to shelves.

It was home in a way no place had ever been before.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Lena said, nudging me with her elbow.

“What thing?”

“That sappy, contemplative thing where you stare at Lennox like he hung the moon and personally invented happiness.”

I felt heat creep up my neck. “I don’t do that.”

“You absolutely do that. It’s disgusting and adorable in equal measure.”

From the kitchen came the sound of Lennox singing along badly to whatever playlist he had going.

Something upbeat and ridiculous that he’d probably heard on the radio and immediately added to his collection of songs that made him happy.

His voice cracked on the high notes, and I found myself smiling without conscious thought.

“Okay, maybe I do that a little,” I admitted.

“A little?” Lena raised an eyebrow. “Oliver, you look at him like he’s the solution to world peace and perfectly temperature-controlled pool water rolled into one person.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

“I know you well.”

She did. Better than almost anyone, in some ways.

Lena had been there through everything: the Olympics four years ago, the loneliness that followed, and the slow process of learning how to be happy instead of just successful.

She’d been my anchor when everything else felt uncertain, the one person who never doubted that I’d figure it out eventually.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” I said, the words coming out more serious than I’d intended.

Her expression softened. “Where else would I be? You’re about to go win a gold medal. I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Even if I don’t win?”

“ Especially if you don’t win. Someone has to be there to remind you that you’re more than your fastest time.”

The words hit something deep in my chest, something that had been tense and worried without me fully realizing it. The pressure was still there—it probably always would be—but it felt manageable now. Survivable.

“Besides,” Lena continued, “someone has to make sure Lennox doesn’t cry during the national anthem.”

“That was one time ,” Lennox protested from the kitchen, his voice carrying the wounded dignity of someone who’d been caught in an embarrassing moment. “And it was very emotional! Your brother looked really good up there!”

“He looks good everywhere,” Lena called back. “It’s genetics. Try to contain yourself.”

Their banter washed over me like familiar music, comfortable and warm and exactly what I needed. Sitting in our messy apartment with my sister making fun of my boyfriend while he cooked dinner and sang off-key felt more like winning than any medal ever had.

I made the right choice.

The thought came with a certainty that surprised me. Not about the swimming. I’d never really doubted that I belonged in the pool, but about everything else. About choosing love over solitude, about letting people into the carefully controlled space I’d built around my dreams.

Three years ago, I’d been terrified that caring about someone would make me weak, would dilute my focus, and cost me everything I’d worked for. Instead, it had made me stronger. Happier. More myself than I’d ever been when swimming was the only thing that mattered.

“Seriously, though,” Lena said, her voice dropping to something more private. “You seem different. Good different. Settled.”

I considered that. Settled had always sounded like giving up to me, like accepting less than what you really wanted.

My thoughts snapped to the little black box tucked behind my winter clothes in my closet and the gold ring inside it.

Whatever happened at the Olympics, I would have my win after.

And that didn’t feel like settling at all.

“I think I finally figured out what I wanted all along,” I said.

“And what’s that?”

I looked toward the kitchen, where Lennox was now attempting to whistle while he worked, creating a sound that was more enthusiastic than melodic.

In a few minutes, he’d call us to dinner, and we’d sit around our tiny table and eat food that was probably slightly overcooked but made with love.

Lena would complain about her constitutional law professor, Lennox would tell us about the kid who’d finally managed a clean crossover, and I’d feel that deep contentment that came from being exactly where I belonged.

“This,” I said simply. “All of this.”

Lena smiled, understanding exactly what I meant. “Good,” she said. “It’s about time.”

“Dinner!” Lennox called, and I could hear the pride in his voice, the satisfaction of creating something for the people he loved.

As we made our way to the kitchen, Lena bumped my shoulder with hers. “For the record,” she said quietly, “I think you made exactly the right choices.”

I looked around our imperfectly perfect apartment, at the herb garden thriving on the windowsill and the mismatched furniture that somehow worked together, at my sister who’d become one of my best friends, and the man who’d taught me that love wasn’t a distraction from life but was the whole point.

“Yeah,” I said, warmth spreading through my chest like sunlight on water. “I think I did too.”

And as I had since getting back together with Lennox, I wasn’t thinking about the next race, the next goal, the next thing I needed to achieve to prove my worth. I was just here, in this moment, surrounded by the people who mattered most.

It felt like the biggest victory of all.

Did you like that? There’s more. Continue reading The Saints of Westmont U with Rhett’s enemies-to-lovers, family feud story, Price of Victory. For a preview chapter, flip to the next page. And don’t forget to subscribe to Hayden Hall’s newsletter for timely updates, exclusive stories, and more.

The End.