Page 108 of Arrogant Puck

He looks at me. His gaze is soft. His eyes start to water. And seeing him like this cracks my heart.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

He takes my hand and brings it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to my palm. He wipes the tear that slips out. “Thankyou.”

I lean in and kiss his lips—soft, tender, nothing like the desperate kisses we shared in the kitchen. When I pull back, I wrap my arms around his shoulders, trying to embrace his massive frame.

I wipe his tears.

“You’re going to be okay,” I whisper.

He pulls back to look at me, his eyes searching my face like he’s trying to determine if I’m telling the truth. It’s clear he doesn’t believe it, doesn’t trust that healing is possible for someone like him.

“Slater,” I say firmly, holding his gaze. “You’re going to be okay… I promise.”

The words feel inadequate for the depth of his pain, but they’re all I have to offer. Sometimes healing starts with someone else believing in you when you can’t believe in yourself.

He doesn’t respond with words, just leans into me, his head dropping to rest against my shoulder. The weight of him settling against me feels like trust, like surrender. I tighten my arms around him, one hand moving to stroke through his dark hair.

We stay like that for a long time—minutes or maybe hours, I lose track. This connection feels deeper than anything I’ve ever experienced. It’s not about desire or attraction, though those things are there. It’s about seeing someone completely, scars and all, and choosing to stay anyway.

I can feel myself falling for him, really and truly falling. Not for the hockey star or the rich boy with the perfect face, but for this broken man who’s brave enough to hand over his armor when I ask for it.

Eventually, he lifts his head, and I notice how his breathing has evened out, how some of the tension has left his shoulders. The sadness is wearing off, and so are the pills, leaving him more present, more himself.

“Your hands are so small,” he says quietly, taking one of my hands in both of his. His fingers trace along my palm, following the lines like he’s reading my future.

“Yours are massive,” I reply, threading our fingers together. “I bet you could palm a basketball when you were twelve.”

“Ten, actually.” A small smile tugs at his lips. “My mom used to say I was going to be a giant like my dad.”

“Is he tall? Your dad.”

“Six-four. But he had soft hands.” Slater’s thumb brushes across my knuckles. “My mom always teased that he wasn’t a real man because his hands were soft.”

I study his face as he talks, noting how his features soften when he mentions his parents, like maybe he has good memories of them once upon a time.

“Where are they?” I ask. “Your parents.”

He sighs. “Funny enough, I got this drug problem from my mom. I get the rest of my fucked-up-ness from my dad.”

“What about before?” I ask, trying to hear something positive. “Before grief took over and tore you guys apart.”

He glances at me, searching my face.

“That loss is unlike anything, Sage.” His voice catches in his throat. “Before Archer died, was just before. It’s a… distant memory. A life that doesn’t seem real. I try to forget about it because this is after. This is what’s real.”

He intertwines his fingers with mine.

“But I try. I try my best every fucking day, Sage.”

I kiss the tip of his shoulder, feeling the melancholy in his tone, knowing that there’s nothing I can do to take that pain away.

I grab his face and turn him to look at me.

I whisper, “I’m so sorry, Slater. So sorry that you have to bear this all alone.”

He kisses me, flicking his tongue against mine, and then he pauses.

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