Page 116 of Hometown Touchdown
I’m sprawled across the rug with a glass of wine and a bowl of red grapes, flipping through a bridal magazine Kinsey accidentally left in my car. Accidentally. Right.
“You know,” I say, holding up a page of sparkly white dresses, “if we ever get married, you’ll need to wear a tux. And not one of those cheap rental ones that smells like Axe and desperation.”
Knox doesn’t look up, as if he isn’t fazed by my statement. “Will it have to be tailored?”
“Obviously.”
He nods like this is a serious concern. “Do they make those to fit a quarterback's shoulders?”
“We’ll have it custom stitched with ‘Coach Daddy’ on the inside.”
That earns me a raised brow. “That’s a bold move for a woman who wants me to keep my clothes on during formal events.”
I grin and pop another grape into my mouth. “Who said I want your clothes on at all?”
There’s a pause—his hands stalling on a towel—and then that grin I know too well spreads across his face. “You’re trying to distract me from my domestic groove.”
“Mission accomplished.”
He tosses the towel and walks over, kneeling beside me on the rug, bracing himself with one arm and stealing a grape with the other.
I let myself watch him for a moment, really watch him. The curve of his jaw. The flecks of gold in his eyes. The quiet way he settles beside me, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. No rush. No performance. Just him, close and unguarded.
And I realize—I don’t need the ring yet. Or a wedding date. Or answers to every question about the future. I just need this.
This ease. This love. This man. This ordinary, beautiful life we’re building in between laundry loads and late-night talks and stolen grapes on a Monday. It’s not flashy, but it’s ours.
I spent so long believing love was supposed to feel like fireworks—explosive and all-consuming. My last relationshipfelt like that. Volatile. Bright. Over too fast, leaving more ash than warmth.
But with Knox? It’s steady. Solid. The kind of love that holds you up instead of knocking you down. The kind that grows roots and stays.
It’s not about nostalgia or the people we used to be. It’s who we are now. What we’ve fought for. What we’ve chosen.
We broke apart once and somehow, we found our way back. Stronger, smarter, softer in the ways that matter most.
And I finally understand what love is supposed to feel like.
“Hey,” he murmurs, leaning in, his voice all gravel and warmth. “Where’d you go just now?”
I shake my head and smile, tracing my finger down his arm. “Just thinking about how much I love you.”
He studies me. “You know, if you keep talking like that, I’m gonna do something reckless.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Stay ready, Marlow.”
I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.
Not at first.
It started innocently enough. I came downstairs for socks—because someone (me) forgot to bring clean ones to Knox’s place after spendingyet anothernight here pretending we aren’t basically living together.
The plan was simple: sneak into the laundry room, grab socks from the dryer, return to my bubble bath and my latest hockey romance on my Kindle.
But then I heard my name.
And—okay, yes. I paused.
