Page 116 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"I'm falling in love with you, Hannah Porter," I interrupt, the words flowing now that I've started. "Maybe I've already fallen. And it terrifies me because I've never felt this way before, never been this vulnerable with anyone. But I'd rather be scared with you than feeling safe with anyone else."

A tear escapes, tracking down her cheek, and I can't stop myself from reaching up to brush it away. The contact seems to break something open between us, because suddenly she's moving forward, closing the distance, her arms wrapping around my waist as she presses her face into my chest.

I hold her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other splayed across her back, feeling her heartbeat through the thin material of her sweater. We stand like that for what might be minutes or hours, time losing meaning in the simple fact of her in my arms again.

"I was so worried when you got hurt," she murmurs against my shirt. "And then you didn't answer my texts, and I thought maybe…maybe you were done with me and regretted everything."

"Never," I state, tightening my arms around her. "I don’t regret a single thing, Hannah."

She pulls back just enough to look up at me, her makeup smudged, her eyes still red-rimmed, and yet more beautiful to me than any perfectly polished puck bunny could ever be.

"I'm still mad at you," she informs me, though the curve of her lips suggests otherwise.

"You have every right to be." I brush a strand of hair from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear. "I should have told you about Cade, about Megan, about all of it."

"Yes, you should have," she agrees. "No more secrets. If we're going to do this—really do this—I need to know you'll talk to me. Even about the hard stuff. Especially about the hard stuff."

"I promise," I say, meaning it more than any promise I've ever made. "No more secrets."

She searches my face, seeming satisfied with what she finds there. "Good. Because I think I might be falling in love with you too, and I'd rather not do it alone."

The words hit me like a body check and a perfect pass all at once—knocking the wind out of me even as they fill me with unexpected joy. I lean down slowly, giving her plenty of time to pull away if she wants to.

She doesn't. Instead, she rises on her tiptoes, meeting me halfway, her lips soft and certain against mine. The kiss is gentle, cautious at first, then deepening as the last barriers between us dissolve. Her hands find their way into my hair, careful to avoid the injured side of my face, while mine settle at her waist, holding her steady against me.

When we finally break apart, both slightly breathless, I rest my forehead against hers, mindful of my injury. "Don’t leave tonight," I whisper. "Just…stay with me."

She nods, her eyes never leaving mine. "Okay."

It's not a resolution, not entirely. We still have things to work through, trust to rebuild, boundaries to establish. But it's a beginning—or perhaps a new beginning, stronger than the first because it's built on honesty and vulnerability rather than confusion and circumstance.

And for tonight, that's more than enough.

Chapter 31

Relief washes through me like a cleansing rain. The tightness in my chest—the ache that's been building all week—dissolves beneath the weight of Sanderson’s confession. He's falling in love with me. The words echo in my mind, sweeter each time I replay them.

His arms around me feel different now, weighted with more warmth and safety. His heartbeat thuds beneath my ear, steady and reassuring as we stand in his kitchen, neither of us willing to break the embrace that feels like coming home.

"You should rest," I whisper against his chest, mindful of his injury. "Those pills will kick in soon."

"I don't want to waste a minute of this," he murmurs into my hair. "Not when I thought I'd lost you."

I pull back just enough to look up at him, really look at him. The cut along his cheekbone has stopped bleeding, but the bruise spreading beneath it has darkened to a mottled purple. His left eye is swollen, though not completely shut. Despite it all, he's impossibly beautiful to me—not because of his physical perfection, but because of the vulnerability in his gaze, the way he looks at me like I'm the only girl in the world.

"You haven't lost me," I assure him, reaching up to trace my finger gently along his jaw, careful to avoid the injured area. "I was hurt and confused, but I'm still here."

His eyes—those warm honey-amber eyes I've come to crave—soften with something deeper than desire. "Thank you," he says simply. "For giving me a chance to explain. For listening. For seeing me."

I rise on my tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to his uninjured cheek. "I see you, James. And I really like what I see."

His hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head with surprising gentleness from someone so physically commanding. His touch telegraphs a question, and I answer by tilting my face upward, meeting him halfway.

Our lips connect in a kiss that starts achingly tender. His mouth moves against mine as if memorizing every sensation, every subtle reaction. I sigh against him, my hands sliding up to rest on his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken beneath my palms.

Gradually, the kiss deepens, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips in silent request. I open to him without hesitation, the taste of him—beer and something just him—flooding my senses. Heat builds between us, slow and inexorable, a tide rising rather than a wave crashing.

When we finally break apart, both slightly breathless, his forehead rests against mine. "I've missed you," he admits, the words surprisingly vulnerable from someone so outwardly confident. "Even though it's been days, not weeks. Is that crazy?"

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