TWENTY

E very time I open my eyes in the morning and can confirm it’s not a dream, that he’s there, safe and sound in my arms, plastered against my back or me against his, his warm skin flush against mine, I exhale in relief. Like my body remembers it needs to breathe again.

Every time he’s there in the stands, rooting for me like I’m the only one on the field, cheering me on with his black and orange scarf wrapped proudly around his neck, one of my jerseys on like a second skin, I can breathe a little better.

And every time I catch him laughing with my friends or family, shoulders loose, easy in his own skin again, that spark back in his eyes, that smirk playing on his lips, I let a little more of the worry go.

We’re good. So fucking good it feels unreal. Like I’m stuck in some kind of fever dream, drifting high above it all, euphoric and drunk on just being with him . It’s so bad, so good, it’s dangerous.

And deep down, in the very marrow of my damn bones, I know we’re going to make it through this deportation bullshit like we survived the distance, too.

Things are looking up; his dad says as much, and apparently, he’s also knee-deep in renegotiating terms with the label after the whole shitshow with Mick.

Everything’s turning in our favor, piece by tiny fucking piece. And I’m holding on to that with both hands, holding it so very, very close. Because I can’t fucking imagine my life without him. And I don’t want to. Not now, not ever. Deportation or not.

And fuck it, if it really comes to that? If his visa gets denied and they try to tear him away from me? I already know what I’d do. It’s not even a question. It’s instinct. I’d do whatever it takes to keep him here. No hesitation.

Hell, even if he was a U.S. citizen, I think I’d still feel the same. This thing between us… it’s not temporary. It’s not some maybe . It’s solid. Real. Something I want to make official. Eventually... I’m sure of that.

It’s something I need . Something that would solidify everything we are to each other.

Everything he is to me. And me to him. We just..

. fit. In every way that matters. I fit into his life like I was always meant to be there.

And he slots into mine so perfectly it’s like he’s been a part of it forever.

Like now. It’s Thanksgiving, and my family’s doing what it always does: we give.

The diner’s transformed into a soup kitchen-slash-safe haven for anyone who doesn’t have a Thanksgiving of their own.

Besides the homeless and the ones just trying to get by, there are families here.

Families with kids, living in poverty. People who can’t afford to put a turkey on the table, let alone think about stuffing or pie.

And yet, here he is, right in the middle of it, helping in the kitchen, hauling around crates with food and laughing with my mom and dad like he’s been doing it his whole life. He fits into this too, this big part of me. And God, watching him like that?

Yeah. I’m totally fucking done for.

I love my parents and my uncle and aunt for doing this every year. I love being part of it. I love helping out when I don’t have a game, which I don’t this year. But what I love most right now?

That Jace is here. Being part of this. Being part of us . My family.

Even though my mom kind of shooed us off to the kitchen, out of the spotlight, which I get. This day isn’t about us. It’s about the people who show up hungry and lonely and need a place to belong, even if it’s just for a few hours. And yeah, Jace and I get enough attention as it is.

But not as a couple. Not yet.

We’re still not out , out. Not publicly.

For now, we’re keeping things under wraps.

Jace is totally down with that, even though he got his dad to add a new clause in the label contract.

No label rep can promote any romantic relationship or partnership of one of the band members without the full consent of the band. They decide what goes online.

He’s ready to go public. I know he is, I can see it shimmering in his eyes like a promise.

But he left the decision with me, and I’m so damn grateful for that.

I think I want to… but the attention? The scrutiny?

Everyone keeps saying it could hurt my career, influence the draft, stain my image. .. Or uplift it, maybe.

And they’re not entirely wrong. It will be a thing. No matter how much I want it not to be. I just don’t know if I’m ready for it to be a thing yet. I like that it’s just us for now.

I’m not great with attention. Never have been. That’s why I kind of like it back here, in the kitchen, working on the dessert with Jace and my brother while the chaos is up front.

“Are we sure giving him a knife is a good idea?” my brother J asks, perched on one of the counters, casually stealing slices of apples off the cutting board and munching on them.

Jace narrows his eyes at him. “What? I can slice a damn apple. I’m not completely incompetent, thank you very much. I know I don’t exactly cook, but—”

“Babe,” I cut in, grinning, “you literally almost set the kitchen on fire trying to heat dinner.”

Jace scoffs, mock offended. “How was I supposed to know you can’t put foil in the microwave?!”

J nearly chokes on an apple slice from laughing, a lock of his longish hair escaping from where he has it tied back, and I just shake my head, raising one brow.

Jace sighs dramatically. “Then teach me how to properly dice apples like a respectable sous chef. Let me be professional , like you stupid King people.”

I chuckle, nudging him with my shoulder as I grab another crate of apples and plop them into the sink. “Wash these first. Then I’ll show you how to cut them so fast Gordon Ramsay would be jealous.”

He snorts. “No way. You’re not that fast.”

“Watch me.”

“You know I love watching you,” he says, pinching my ass with a grin. “Today is all about thanks, right? Well, I’m very thankful for those pants.”

He winks at me before grabbing a couple of apples and getting to work.

“Well…” J snickers as he hops off the counter and starts measuring out the spices for the apple crumble we’re serving later, “I guess he’s back to himself, huh?”

I grin at my man, who’s absolutely butchering the poor apples, looking ridiculous in his shorts and tee combined with a damn beanie.

Yeah. He’s actually wearing a knitted black beanie with orange trim, one my mom made for him. Even though it’s like seventy degrees out, he didn’t want to disappoint her by not wearing it.

I’m honestly not sure how I’m going to get him out of it… especially since I brought the surf gear. It’s sitting on the back porch, boards prepped, waiting for us. We still haven’t had time to hit the water since he’s been back.

Even though we wake up together almost every day now, things have been hectic. I’ve got classes, games, and more practice than ever, and Jace has to head into LA every other day.

They’ve started working on the new album, the interviews haven’t stopped, they’ve done short performances here and there, and, on top of it all, they just got nominated for two major awards.

I couldn’t be more proud if I fucking tried.

Still, even with us now living in the same house, same state, we don’t see each other as much as I want. I want to see him every damn day.

We try, though. We squeeze in morning jogs whenever we can, where he trails behind me checking out my ass, and always end up on our bench to watch the world wake up.

He even made me play soccer with him once when my team had the day off.

I didn’t tell him it was boring as fuck (still don’t get what’s so fun about kicking a ball back and forth) but I did it for him.

But today? Today, I’ve got plans. Boards. Ocean. Sunset. Him. Us.

My mom walks in just then, apron smudged, but her smile is wide, like it is every year. She gives us that look, the one that says she knows everything without saying a word.

“You boys have done enough,” she says, gently swatting a towel at Jace’s hand. “Let us handle the rest of the dessert. I’ll set some food aside for you on the back deck so you can eat after you catch those waves.”

I eye my mom in gratitude, and she pats me on the back before nudging Jace away from the cutting board.

“Well, I want to say thank you for helping,” she teases, holding up the tray of very uneven apple pieces, “but these don’t exactly look like diced apples. What are they? Apple chunks? Apple boulders?”

“ Mom ,” I mutter, half laughing.

She grins and winks at Jace as she steals his knife. “I’m kidding, honey. They’re perfect. Now shoo. Out of my kitchen. Go surf and be cool or something before the sun’s gone.”

“What? I really can’t help serving food?”

She waves the knife at him like a sword. “No. Not unless you want to cause a damn riot with half the line vying for a selfie and the other half asking for autographs. We’re trying to keep this about the community, remember?”

Jace—honest to God—pouts, before I grab his wrist and tug him toward the staff exit at the back of the diner.

“I love that you guys do this,” he says as we step outside and turn to the side deck, reserved for staff only, tucked just out of sight from the guests. Our surfboards and wetsuits are waiting for us, propped against and over the railing like they’re as ready as we are.

Following him down the back steps toward the beach, boards under one arm, suits in hand, I can’t stop smiling, giddy that we’re finally hitting the waves after all this time.

Jace kicks off his sneakers and pulls off his socks the second we hit the sand and digs his toes in deep.

His smile is so wide it stretches clear across his face.

The sun’s lower now, casting everything in gold, making him look so damn beautiful, and the breeze off the ocean is soft, salty, and warm.