Page 107 of The Assist
“Look at you,” I say, smiling. “Practically a domestic goddess.”
He snorts. “Hey, Icookedlast time.”
“You microwaved a pizza.”
“Same thing.”
I laugh, and the sound feels easy. God, it’s been a long time since I feltthis.
We eat perched on the sofa, cross-legged, picking from each other’s plates, making a mess. Dylan tells me about Murphy nearly starting a brawl at training today because Jacko stole his water bottle. I tell him about Sophie’s latest Tinder disaster.
And underneath it all there’s the constant hum between us. Every glance, and brush of his fingers against mine. All the slow, wicked smiles he shoots me from under those stupidly long lashes. The tension is there, crackling like static. But it’s different now, too. It’s layered with something heavier. Something that feels dangerously close to love. I know he’s said it, and I’m aware I haven’t. It’s not that I don’t feel it, and more that I don’t want to admit just yet. Becausewhat happens if that gets ripped apart and I’m left trying to pick up the pieces?
After we’ve eaten, I curl up into his side, and he wraps an arm around me, holding me close. He’s quiet for a long minute. Then he says, “My mum’s coming down.”
I tilt my head to look up at him. “Yeah?”
“Day after tomorrow,” he says. “Finally convinced her to come to a game.” His voice is casual, but there’s an edge to it; a tightness around the words that makes me nudge him gently.
“You nervous?”
He lets out a soft breath. “Yeah. She’s not seen me play in person since I turned pro. She’s only watched the games on TV. And she’s going to be staying with me for a few days.”
I feel his heart beating under my hand, it’s fast and uneven. “And you want me to meet her,” I say, it’s not a question.
He looks down at me, something raw and uncertain flashing through his eyes. “I do,” he says. “I really do. But I get if it’s too soon, or if it’s too much.”
“I want to,” I cut in before he can spiral. “I want to meet her, Dylan.”
The relief that crashes over his face guts me. “Yeah?” he says softly.
“Yeah.”
He kisses me. It’s a slow, searching kiss that feels like a promise.
I kiss him back, threading my fingers through his hair, tugging him closer. The air shifts, thickens. He deepens the kiss, pulling me into his lap, hands gripping my hips, anchoring me to him like he can’t bear to let me go.
I press my forehead to his. “If we’re actually doing this, this thing. I should probably warn you,” I murmur.
“About what?”
“I’m kind of a handful.”
He grins against my mouth. “Good. I like having my hands full.”
I laugh, and he kisses me again, harder this time, like he’s trying to brand me. I let him. Because this, it’s worth the risk.
We tumble back onto the sofa, tangled together, mouths and hands everywhere.
Clothes tugged aside but not removed, as if neither of us can stand the thought of being separated even for a second.
Every kiss, every touch, every breath shared between us feels desperate and tender at the same time. Like we’re building something too fragile to name but too important to let go. Eventually, we slow, breathing hard, hearts pounding. I lie sprawled across him, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns up and down my spine.
“We need to be more careful, at the rink, I mean.” I murmur into the soft fabric of his t-shirt.
He hums. “I know.”
“If Murphy saw us the other day, it’s only a matter of time before someone else does.”
