Page 16

Max

The announcer's voice booms: "Please welcome... Max Dalton and... Morgan Bailey?"

His confusion echoes through the arena. I glance at Otto beside me, both of us ready to step forward, and that's when I see her.

Time stops.

She's standing in the entrance, backlit by arena lights.

My heart slams against my ribs—she's here, she came, she's real .

But her expression is unreadable at this distance, and suddenly I can't move, can't breathe, can't do anything but watch her and wonder if she's here to save us or end us publicly.

Otto spots her, removes his and Spookie’s aviators with careful precision, and hands them to Tracy. "Zat's too timely." Then he hands me Spookie’s leash.

And disappears without another word, leaving me alone in the center of the arena.

Morgan walks toward me, her steps measured, deliberate. The crowd's murmuring grows, confusion rippling through the stands. Cameras flash. Judges whisper. But all I can focus on is the way she holds my gaze, unwavering, as she closes the distance between us.

She takes position beside me, close enough that I catch the faint scent of her shampoo. Spookie falls into perfect heel position next to Stanley, both dogs eerily still, waiting for our lead–or perhaps sensing the weight of the moment.

"I almost didn't come." Her voice is soft, meant only for me despite the microphones nearby. "I thought I was done. But I finally learned something. From dogs."

My throat tightens. I want to touch her, pull her close, explain everything—but she's not finished.

"Dogs don't judge words." Her voice wavers but holds, and God, I love her strength. "They trust actions. They're smart enough to know that what matters is how someone treats them." She swallows hard. "And I see you are all in with me. You let the whole world misunderstand you, for me."

"Thank you," is all I can manage, the words rough in my throat.

She nods, eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I trust you."

The music starts, and we move.

It's nothing like our practice runs. This is poetry in motion, every step charged with meaning.

Stanley and Spookie weave between us, a complex dance of trust and precision, but I barely notice the routine we've practiced for weeks.

All I can feel is Morgan beside me, the electricity when our hands brush, the way she meets my eyes at every turn.

We flow together like we've done this for years, like we were made for this moment. The dogs mirror our energy, their movements sharp and graceful. When Morgan signals a command, both Stanley and Spookie respond instantly—Otto's training paying off in ways he never planned.

The final pose brings us face to face, dogs seated at perfect attention on either side. The arena falls silent for one breathless moment.

Then erupts.

The standing ovation hits like a wave, but I barely hear it. Morgan's eyes hold mine, bright with tears and something that looks like joy.

"The winners," the announcer calls, voice booming over the applause, "Max Dalton and Morgan Bailey!"

From the wings, Tracy fist-pumps silently, her clipboard forgotten at her feet. Otto has materialized somehow in the front row, arms crossed, face impassive except for what might be the ghost of a smile.

I turn to Morgan, heart pounding. "Still trust me?"

She smiles through her tears. "Now more than ever."

“Will you marry me?”

“Forever.”

I kiss her, quick but deep, pouring weeks of longing into the press of my lips against hers. Cameras click frantically, and I know tomorrow's headlines are already writing themselves.

When we break apart, I take the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, my fiancée, Dr. Morgan Bailey." The applause swells again. "The prize money will be split between The Bark Side's mobile veterinary clinic and the Children's Leukemia Center."

Morgan's eyes widen at the announcement, and I kiss her again, longer this time, not caring who sees or what they think.

"Take the damn trophy and get a room!" Amanda shouts from somewhere in the crowd.

Otto appears beside us, sunglasses now hooked in his collar. "You good?"

I nod, raising my hand to acknowledge him. "And thank you to our incredible trainer, Otto Brauer!"

The crowd cheers again. Otto grunts what might be "You're welcome" or might be "Never again" and moves to collect the dogs' leashes.

Morgan's lips brush my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "Your place or mine?"

"My place has missed you." I squeeze her hand, threading our fingers together. "Let's go to our place."

The door clicks shut behind us, and suddenly the world shrinks to just this: Morgan, backlit by city lights, kicking off her shoes with a quiet sigh. I want to memorize everything about this moment—the way her hair falls loose around her shoulders, how her eyes meet mine in the dim light.

"Hi," she whispers.

"Hi." I step closer, drawn to her like gravity. "You came back."

"I watched the broadcast." Her voice catches. "When you announced the donation to the leukemia center, I understood. Why you couldn't let me win that day."

"I wanted to tell you. God, Morgan, I wanted to tell you everything."

"Then tell me now."

I cup her face in my hands and kiss her, soft and deep, before wrapping my arms around her. She fits against me perfectly, her head tucked under my chin.

"May I tell you about my sister Emmy?"

I feel her softening against my chest. She just… softens. Like a window opening.

“Emmy…” she says, barely above a whisper. Like she’s about to ask something, but stops.

Then, quietly: “Please.”

And finally, finally, I let the words come. About Emmy's laugh, how it filled rooms. Her Frozen obsession that drove me crazy until suddenly it didn't. How she agreed to name Stanley for me.

"She was so sure I’d win the Stanley cup someday," I whisper into Morgan's hair. "Even when things got bad, she'd say, 'You'll win it, Maxie. And Stanley will wear a tiny cup around her neck.'"

"She adored me as much as I adored her. And when she died, my world shattered."

The silence swells.

And at that moment, I can’t hold the tears anymore.

They come quiet and slow, like grief curling out of some buried place. And we just stay like that—holding each other—while time suspends around us.

Her arms tighten around me. And when my breath finally calms, I feel her soften again. Her fingertips skim my spine. Her voice is barely above a whisper.

"That’s why you couldn’t tell me," she says. "You couldn’t risk giving false hope to other families."

"Like someone gave Emmy." My voice roughens. "She fought so hard, believing she'd see me lift that cup."

"And now you fight for other kids like her."

"Yeah." I pull back just enough to see her face. "But I should have trusted you with the truth."

"No." She touches my cheek. "You were protecting something precious. I understand that now."

“I know you do. Of all people—you do.”

A soft laugh escapes her. “I understand many things now. May I tell you about dogs?”

She makes me smile and I feel a weight lift from my shoulders. “Always.”

"I wanted to find a man who would be like a dog—loyal, protective, true. But when I was at the hotel, after I had decided I wouldn’t join you for the contest, I missed Spookie so much.

And wondered if he’d miss me too, or if he’d be fine with Otto.

And that’s when it hit me. I needed to learn to be more like a dog myself—and trust the people who prove their love with actions. "

I smile, unable to resist. “So… have you found your dog-man?”

She nods, eyes shining. “I have. And he even has a dog’s name.”

I growl, grip her ass, and give her one playful smack. “Careful, woman. I might hump your leg.”

She laughs. “I’m counting on it.”

I press my forehead to hers. “I love you,” I whisper, the words still not enough, but all I have.

“I love you too.”

All the feelings we’ve hidden—fear, longing, the ache of almost losing each other—rise to the surface, raw and unstoppable. It’s not just love. It’s the desperate need to claim and be claimed, to remind each other we’re here, we survived, and we’re not letting go.

We undress each other slowly, reverently. Every touch feels like coming home.

"I want everything," she breathes against my mouth. "No fear this time."

And I believe her.

I kiss her like a man who almost lost everything. Like a man claiming what's his. Our mouths are hungry, breath tangled. I press her into the bed and she opens beneath me—eager, trembling, ready.

Her shirt comes off first. Then mine. I trace the line of her collarbone with my mouth, feel her body arch toward me. My hands move over her slowly, reverently, cupping her tits, dragging my thumbs across her nipples until she gasps.

“More,” she whispers.

I unbutton her jeans. Peel them off inch by inch. She’s wet already—slick and swollen beneath the lace, heat pulsing between her thighs. I slide her panties down and press my mouth to her cunt, groaning as her hips buck under my tongue.

She moans my name like a prayer, like I’m the only thing keeping her grounded. I suck her clit softly, then hard, teasing her with slow strokes of my tongue until she starts to tremble. I slide two fingers inside her, curling them toward her sweet spot.

“Max—” Her thighs are shaking. “I’m—”

I don’t stop. I hold her down and let her come on my mouth, soaking me, hips rolling like she’s chasing the sky. She’s wild. Beautiful. Wrecked.

When she’s panting, dazed, I rise and kiss her—let her taste herself on my lips.

“I need to be inside you,” I whisper against her throat. “I need you, Morgan.”

“Take me,” she says. “I want it all.”

I slide inside her in one long, aching thrust.

Fuck.

She’s tight. Hot. Gripping me like she doesn’t want to let go. Her legs wrap around me, her nails dig into my back, and suddenly we’re moving—slow at first, then faster. Harder.

I brace my hands beside her head, watching her face as I fuck her deep. Her eyes flutter, her mouth parts in a desperate moan. I slam into her, and she claws at me like she wants me deeper, closer, fused.

“I love you,” she gasps, again and again, like she’s just learned how.

“I’ve got you,” I growl into her skin. “You’re mine.”

We roll. She climbs on top, riding me with a rhythm that’s sinful and reverent. Her tits bounce, her hands gripping my chest. Her head tips back and she shudders, close again.

I thumb her clit, watching her break.

She comes with a strangled cry, her whole body shaking, falling forward into my arms.

I flip her once more and give her everything—rough and tender, deep and filthy—until I’m there too, hips jerking, groaning into her neck as I come hard, buried inside her.

We collapse together. Sweaty. Breathless. Tangled limbs and full hearts.

Her fingers trace the side of my jaw.

Still inside her, I kiss her like I never want to stop.

Because I don’t.

After, tangled in sheets and afterglow, she reaches for her purse. "My hair's a mess."

I hesitate, then pull Emmy's Frozen brush from the nightstand. "Use this."

She takes it, turning it over in her hands. Her touch is gentle. When she sees Elsa on the handle and glitter in the bristles, understanding dawns in her eyes.

And she says nothing.

She just runs the brush through her tangles with careful strokes, and something in my chest unknots. When she finishes, she places it back on the nightstand with deliberate tenderness.

"Thank you," she whispers, and I know.

I know.

"Hungry?" I ask, pulling her close again.

Her smile is soft, knowing. "Secret ice cream?"

“Only if you feed it to me naked.”