Page 70 of Made for Mayhem

Her breath caught, eyes glassy now. She didn’t respond. Just sat there breathing shallowly, fingers worrying the cuff of her sweatshirt like it was the only thing tethering her to the moment.

I stayed right where I was—close enough to steady her, far enough not to crowd—letting her be who she was, without asking her to change a thing.

The room went quiet, thick with unspoken words, so I checked on the piglet one more time, then refilled Rowdy’s water bowl. I settled back down next to her, acutely aware of the space that felt both too close and too far.

She had the neck of her hoodie pulled over her chin, her brow furrowed in thought. I reached over, my fingers brushing down the small creases on her forehead before I even realized what I’d done.

Her blue eyes met mine, wide and shimmering, a spark igniting between us at the simple touch.

“Sorry,” I murmured, wishing I hadn’t removed my hat, craving something to occupy my hands. “I shouldn’t have done that. You just looked⁠—”

“Why didn’t you ask for my number?” she interrupted, eyes searching mine.

This time it was my turn to stare at her, wide-eyed and surprised.

“I came back downstairs, you know.” Her voice cracked, vulnerability creeping in. “The second the elevator doors closed, I knew I’d made a huge mistake letting you go.”

Her admission hung in the air, and it took me a moment to register the weight of her words, my heart thundering in my chest.

A laugh escaped her, but it was a fragile sound. Those bright blue eyes glistened, threatening to spill over. “I’ve thought about that night so many times. Wondered if I’d just imagined how close I felt to you. I made it up, right? That wasn’t real.”

“Daisy.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s okay. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m a sappy mess, and you always say the right things, and I just—never mind.”

She stood before I could respond, then grabbed the hem of her sweatshirt. My breath caught as I watched her lift it over her head, revealing the delicate pajama set beneath. The thin material hugged her curves, illuminated by the soft glow of the TV, each contour accentuated in a way that left me breathless.

I froze, torn between the desire to reach out and the fear of shattering this fragile moment.

Once free of the fabric, she held the sweatshirt out to me. “I should give this back.”

I stared at the hoodie, my heart racing as I processed the familiar fabric, the faded Storm logo, realizing only now how deeply intertwined our past and present had become.

Three years ago, I admitted how deeply I feared not being chosen back. But here she was, standing in front of me, telling me she had chosen me. And still, I’d walked away.

“You didn’t imagine it,” I whispered, my heart racing with the admission.

Her gaze lifted to mine, glassy and uncertain.

“I’ve thought about you every day for the last three years. Wondering how your life had turned out. If you’d found your happiness. But never did I imagine we’d be here, standing in my living room together, given a second chance.”

I stood, closing the distance just enough to take the sweatshirt. But instead of pulling it from her hands, I folded her fingers back around it.

“Keep it,” I whispered, meaning it more than she knew.

My shirt.

My heart.

My home.

She blinked. “Ty⁠—”

“It’s yours. It always was.”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, and for a second she looked as if she might argue. But she didn’t. Instead, she tugged the sweatshirt back on, pulling it close.

We stood there for a beat longer, the space between us humming with everything we weren’t ready to touch yet.