I wake to golden morning light and the steady rhythm of Blaze's heartbeat beneath my ear.
For a moment, I don't move. Just lie there, cataloging the sensations—the warmth of his body, the weight of his arm draped across my back, the soft rise and fall of his chest. It feels surreal. After everything that happened, after the spiral and the email and the hours spent dead inside this apartment, I'm here. Blaze is here.
We're okay.
More than okay.
Blaze stirs, a soft sound escaping his throat as consciousness returns. His arm tightens around me instinctively, pulling me closer before his eyes even open.
"Morning." His voice is rough with sleep, low and intimate in the quiet apartment.
"Morning." I shift, propping myself up to look at him properly. Sleep-mussed hair. Pillow creases on his cheek. Eyes soft and unguarded in a way they rarely are around anyone else.
Beautiful. The word surfaces unbidden, and I don't push it away.
"How are you feeling?" He reaches up, brushing a curl from my forehead. The touch is gentle, reverent.
"Better." I lean into the contact. "Still scared. But better."
"Scared is okay." His thumb traces along my cheekbone. "We can be scared together."
Something shifts in the air between us. The tenderness deepens into something heavier, more charged. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back up. A question.
I answer by closing the distance.
This kiss is different from every one that came before. Not desperate like our first time in the locker room, fueled by weeks of tension and denial. Not brief and reassuring like the kisses we've stolen since. This one is slow. Deliberate. Exploratory, like we have all the time in the world.
Blaze's hand slides into my hair, cradling my skull. I melt into him, letting my weight settle, letting myself be held. The vulnerability of it should terrify me—being this open, this exposed—but instead it feels like coming home.
"Ash." He breathes my name like a prayer. "We don't have to—"
"I want to." The words come out steady, certain. "I can't get enough of you, Blaze. Your hands, your mouth, the way you look at me—I'm done pretending I don't crave all of it." I meet his eyes. "This isn't confusion. This is me finally knowing exactly what I want."
Something breaks open in his expression—joy and relief and a love so fierce it makes my chest ache. He pulls me down into another kiss, deeper this time, and I let myself fall.
We migrate from the couch to the bedroom without breaking contact, hands tangled, mouths seeking. Clothes disappear slowly—his shirt first, then mine, then everything else—each layer removed with care instead of urgency. Blaze kisses every inch of skin he reveals, murmuring words against my collarbone, my ribs, the jut of my hip.
"God, you're perfect." His lips trail down my stomach, teeth grazing my hip bone. "Every fantasy I've ever had—none of them came close to this. To you."
My breath catches. "Show me."
And he does.
Unlike our first time—all desperation and heat and years of tension exploding at once—this is something else entirely. Blaze takes me apart slowly, methodically, learning what makes me gasp and shiver and arch off the bed. He worships every part of my body like it's sacred, like I'm something precious instead of broken.
When I try to rush, he slows me down. Pins my wrists gently, kisses the protest from my lips.
"Let me take care of you," he whispers. "Just this once. Let me show you what you deserve."
I surrender. Let go of control, of fear, of every wall I've ever built. Let Blaze see me—really see me—vulnerable and wanting and completely, terrifyingly open.
It's overwhelming. The sensation, yes, but more than that—the intimacy. The way he looks at me like I hung the stars. The way his hands shake slightly when he touches me, like he can't believe this is real either.
"I love you." The words spill from me without permission, torn from somewhere deep in my chest. "I love you. I've loved you since we were kids and I didn't know what it meant. I love you and it terrifies me and I don't care anymore."
Blaze freezes above me.
For a heartbeat, I panic—too much, too soon, I've ruined everything—
Then he's kissing me fiercely, desperately, tears mingling with the press of our lips.
"I love you too." The words come out broken, reverent. "God, Ashy. I've loved you my whole life."
After that, there are no more words. Just sensation and connection and the overwhelming rightness of being together. When we finally come undone—tangled together, foreheads pressed close, breathing each other's air—I feel something fundamental shift inside me. Like the last broken piece of myself has finally clicked into place.
We lie in the aftermath, sweat-slicked and breathless, hearts pounding in sync. My head rests on his chest again—my favorite place, I'm realizing—and his fingers trace lazy patterns on my back.
"Ash?" His voice is drowsy, sated.
"Mm?"
"The email you sent Wellington. We're going to fix it. First thing this morning. You're playing in that championship."
I'm quiet for a moment, processing. Twenty-four hours ago, I was convinced withdrawing was the only option. That removing myself from the equation was the selfless choice. That Blaze's future mattered more than my own dreams.
But lying here now, wrapped in his arms, I realize the truth. We're not separate equations. We're variables in the same formula—stronger together than apart. What Blaze said wasn't just romantic sentiment. It was strategy. We're better as a team.
We always have been.
"I'm not giving up," I say quietly. "I'm going to fight for my spot. Prove to Wellington I deserve to be on that ice."
His arms tighten around me. "Damn right you are. And I'll be there every step of the way."
"What if he says no? What if the damage is already done?"
"Then we figure out the next thing. Together." He presses a kiss to the top of my head. "That's how this works now, Ash. You don't face anything alone anymore. Not if I have anything to say about it."
I close my eyes, letting the words wash over me.
For so long, I've been convinced that needing someone is weakness. That relying on another person means setting yourself up for disappointment. That the only person I can truly count on is myself.
But maybe that was never strength. Maybe it was just fear dressed up as independence.
"Thank you," I whisper. "For not giving up on me. Even when I gave up on myself."
"Always, Ashy." His voice is thick with emotion. "That's what you do for the people you love. You fight for them. Even when they can't fight for themselves."
The morning light has shifted, golden warmth spreading across the bed, across our tangled bodies. We should get up. Should shower, get dressed, head to Wellington's office for the conversation that will determine whether I still have a place on this team.
But I let myself have this moment a little longer. The peace of his arms around me. The steady beat of his heart under my ear. The knowledge that whatever happens next, I won't be facing it alone.
"I love you," I say again, just because I can. Because the words feel new on my tongue, revolutionary after years of denial.
"I love you too." His voice is soft, certain. "Now let's go get your spot back."
I smile against his chest. For the first time since this nightmare began, I believe we can actually do this.