Page 97 of The Assist
Mia: I wish you were here with me. Wish I could crawl into bed with you and let you hold me until everything stops hurting.
I swallow hard, my heart punching against my ribs. The thought of her hurting and not being able to do anything to stop it hurts like hell.
Dylan: Baby, if you were here right now, I’d pull you into my arms and not let go. I’d kiss you until you forgot everything else. I’d make you feel so loved you’d never doubt it again.
The three dots blink and disappear several times and my gut clenches at what she’s going through. But finally, she responds.
Mia: You already do.
I let the phone drop onto the bed beside me, a stupid, aching smile pulling at my mouth. It’s three words, that’s all, but they hold so much weight. They mean everything. I’m so fucking gone for this girl. And no matter how scary, I wouldn’t change it for anything.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
MIA
The rink is filled with memories as I stand just inside the entrance, my bag slung over one shoulder, and my heart hammering against my ribs. The noise of the guys messing around on the ice echoes faintly, distant enough that for a second, it feels like I’m underwater. Not quite part of the world. Not quite ready to step back into it. Not when everything inside me feels cracked open and raw.
I square my shoulders and move forward. I can do this. Ihaveto do this.
The second I step toward the physio room, I spot him.
Dylan. Leaning against the wall in his track pants and team hoodie, like he’s been waiting for me all morning. Which, knowing him, he probably has. The moment his eyes meet mine, the air shifts. It’s heavy and electrically charged.
He pushes off the wall in one fluid move and closes the distance between us. No teasing smile. No cocky swagger. Just Dylan. Raw and fierce. All that focus locked on me like I’m the only thing that matters. And for the first time in days, the tightness in my chest loosens a little. I feel somehow lighter in that moment.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and rough.
“Hey.” My voice wobbles, and I hate it. But Dylan doesn’t say anything.
He cups the back of my neck with one big hand and pulls me into him, holding me there like I’m something breakable. And maybe I am. Maybe I don’t have to pretend otherwise with him.
I press my forehead against his chest, breathing in his clean, warm scent.
For a few seconds, neither of us move. The world pauses. Then his arms tighten around me, like he can feel me slipping. “Talk to me, baby,” he murmurs against my hair. “Tell me everything.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, fists curling into the soft fabric of his hoodie. “It’s official,” I whisper. “My dad has dementia.” The words slice out of me, sharp and ragged.
Dylan swears under his breath, his hands sweeping up and down my back in soothing strokes. I feel his heart pounding against my cheek, strong and steady. “I’m so fucking sorry, Mia.”
A fresh wave of grief surges through me, burning the back of my throat. “It’s early stages,” I choke out. “But it’s happening. And it’s…” I have to stop, breathe. “God, it’s like watching him disappear piece by piece and I can’t do anything to stop it.”
Dylan pulls back enough to tip my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. “I’m here,” he says fiercely. “You hear me? I’m not going anywhere. Whatever you need, whenever you need it, you’ve got me.”
Tears blur my vision, but I blink them away. He’s here and he means it. Every rough, ragged word of it. I lean up and kiss him. Not soft. Not sweet.
I pour everything into it; the ache, the fear, the desperate need to feel somethinggood. Dylan growls low in his throat and kisses me back, deep and claiming. His hands slide down to my hips, gripping tight like he needs me just as badly.
Before I know it, he’s backing me into the physio room, kicking the door shut behind us.
The second it clicks closed we’re on each other. Clothes are shoved out of the way, frantic hands finding bare skin. He lifts me onto the treatment table like I weigh nothing, standing between my spread thighs, his mouth devouring mine.
I tug his hoodie over his head, desperate to touch him. To feel that solid strength anchoring me when everything else feels like it’s slipping through my fingers.
Dylan’s hands trail up my thighs, before pulling my leggings down over my bum. His touch is both reverent and greedy, like he’s trying to worship me and consume me all at once.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he rasps against my neck, his breath hot and shivery against my skin. “I’m never gonna get enough of you.”
Tears sting my eyes again, not from sadness this time, but from the overwhelmingrightnessof it. I tug him closer, needing him inside me, needing to lose myself in him for a while.
