Page 166 of Power Play
She pulls my shirt, slowly, her fingers curling into the fabric like she needs to hold on to something.
“I loveyou,” she says, voice quiet, words clear. It knocks the breath out of me.
I kiss her.
Not the desperate kind of kiss we used to throw at each other between chaos and apology. This one’s slower. Like we finally understand what it means.
Her hands move up under my shirt, cool against my skin, and I suck in a breath when her nails drag lightly over my ribs.
She steps back and glances at the bags, then at me. “Bedroom still the same?”
“Better. New sheets. Less bachelor smell.”
“Oh, good,” she murmurs. “Because I plan to mess them up.”
She turns, grabbing her tote and sauntering down the hall like she owns the place. Like she ownsme. And she does. Completely.
“Are you coming?” she calls over her shoulder.
“Not yet,” I mutter, following after her. “But give it five minutes.”
She laughs, it’s low, wicked, familiar, and I swear it’s the best sound I’ve ever heard.
By the time I reach the doorway, she’s already peeled off her hoodie, tossing it onto the bed like a gauntlet. The sight of her there, in this space that was never supposed to be mine alone, feels like coming home.
No dramatic declarations. No second-guessing.
Just her.
Just us.
And finally, finally, everything we didn’t say finds its way into the spaces between our mouths, our hands, our breath.
The cracks are still there.
But now, we’re sealing them shut together.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
SOPHIE
The morning after the Cup game is quiet. Not just quiet in the literal sense, though Murphy is still passed out next to me, snoring like someone who fought a war last night and won, but quiet in my chest, too. Peaceful. Soft. Still.
I haven’t felt like this in months.
I push the sheets back and slip out of bed, careful not to wake him. My legs are sore in that very specific way that has nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with the night we just had. I find one of his oversized Raptors shirts and pad barefoot to the kitchen, blinking blearily against the early light pouring through the windows.
Two suitcases and a tote bag still sit by the front door. I never unpacked last night. Too busy throwing him against walls and kissing him like I was starving. Which I was.
Emotionally. Physically. The whole damn buffet.
I grab a mug and make coffee, the smell alone enough to make me sigh. It’s not just caffeine. It’s the promise of a normal morning. Of a new start.
I lean against the counter, watching the sun crawl across the floor, and I think about how far we’ve come.
Six weeks ago, I couldn’t look at him without feeling like my insides were made of glass and someone had taken a hammer to them. Now? I look at him and feel whole again.
He never gave up. Not really. Not when I pushed him away. Not when I made it hard. Not when I stood at his door with my baggage, literal and emotional, and gave him the most uncertain version of myself.
