Page 121 of The Assist
“She didn’t pick this though. Being dragged through the mud. Getting blamed like she used her job to get close to me. Like I didn’t fall first.”
Murphy exhales, slow and thoughtful. “You love her.”
“Yeah. I do.”
“Then stop swinging like you’ve got something to prove. She doesn’t need your fists. She needs your steadiness. Your backbone.” I go quiet. Because I know he’s right. “Fight for her,” he says. “But not like that. Not like Danny’s the problem.”
I nod. “She stayed last night,” I tell him after a beat. “Didn’t want her driving.”
“Good.”
“She didn’t sleep.”
“I’d be surprised if either of you did.”
I run a hand through my hair, frustrated. “She’s scared. And I hate that she has to be.”
“She’s not alone. That’s what counts.”
I swallow hard. “If she walks away from me to keep her job, I won’t stop her.”
Murphy looks over. “But?”
“But I hope she doesn’t. I hope she knows we’re better than how this looks.”
“You are. People forget shit real fast, Dylan. Season ends; stories change. You play your game, she does her job, and eventually, this will pass.”
“I don’t want to hide it anymore.”
“Then don’t.”
“It might cost her everything.”
“And still,” Murphy fixes me with a look. “you’d do it again?”
I nod. “Every damn second.”
He claps my shoulder again. “Then you’ve got your answer, mate. Just be smart about what comes next.”
Back in the changing room, everything’s quieter. Danny’s nowhere to be seen. Jacko’s got a tray of protein muffins and offers me one like nothing’s happened. I shake my head, checking my phone for the hundredth time. No messages. Mia still hasn’t texted or appeared from upstairs.
Notyet.
And it’s that silence I hate the most. Not the rumours. Not the glares. Not even the fallout. It’s waiting for her to decide if we can survive this. IfIam still worth it. Because I know what my answer would be, I just have to hope hers hasn’t changed.
CHAPTER SIXTY
MIA
Idon’t sleep. Not really. Even curled beside Dylan in his bed, wrapped in the safety of his arms, my mind keeps spinning. Over every whisper, every photo, every angle of this mess. Over every way they could twist what we have into something shameful, selfish, or unprofessional.
And every time I look at him, calm in sleep, one arm flung protectively across my waist, I feel this ache of guilt.
He’s being pulled through fire because of me. I told him I could handle this. That I was strong enough. But the truth is, my chest feels like it’s splintering with every new headline, every ping of my phone, every unread message from people I thought respected me.
When I wake for real it’s just past six, Dylan stirs as I shift out of bed, blinking against the light filtering through the curtains.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice scratchy and low.
