Page 10 of For Pucking Ever

Derrick chuckles, though it sounds strained. "Alright my ass. This is⁠—"

"Your home for as long as you're here with me," I tell him in no uncertain terms.

His eyes meet mine, and something passes between us; vulnerability, gratitude, and something deeper I'm not ready to name. He looks away first.

"Let's get you inside," I murmur, killing the engine. Whatever lies ahead for us, it starts now.

Welcome home, Princesse. I don't say it out loud—not yet—but the words settle heavily on my tongue, waiting. I shouldn't think it. I shouldn't. But having him here in my home. Maybe.

FOUR

DERRICK

“You sure you’re okay, baby?”

My mom’s voice crackles over the speakerphone, soft and full of worry, like she’s trying to hold me together from eighty miles away. I know I shouldn't have used my phone without help but that's what Siri is for, right?

I shift against the cool sheets of the massive bed I’m lying in, the curtains mute the morning sun into soft, heavy shadows across the room. The smell of fresh paint and lemon-scented wood polish clings to the air, a strange but not unpleasant mix. Clean. New.

“I’m fine, Ma,” I lie.

The words scrape out of me like broken glass. The truth is, I’m anything but fine.

I glance around the guest room Bast put me in last night. It's beautiful in that understated way he seems to carry himself with. It’s nothing flashy but there’s quality in every detail, the kind of place that doesn't need to announce its worth.

The walls are painted a muted gray-blue that reminds me of the ocean right before a storm, the exact color of twilight on Lark Bay when I'd sit at the pier after rough practice sessions back home. Tall ceilings. Thick crown molding that must be original to the house. Massive windows that would flood the space with light if the curtains were open, though right now they're mercifully closed, giving my aching head the darkness it craves. Everything is soft and heavy and still.

The furniture's modern but warm. Earth tones, clean lines. Nothing extra, nothing missing. There's a discipline to the simplicity that strikes me as familiar.

And everywhere. . .all over the room, are paintings.

Some landscapes, wide open and wild, brushstrokes loose and alive, capturing places I've never been but somehow recognize in my bones. Some more abstract, almost dreamlike in their realism, bursts of color pulled together into things that feel real even if they don't look it at first glance. One opposite the bed shows what might be a figure standing alone at the edge of something vast. Ocean? Sky? The line between is deliberately blurred, and I can't stop staring at it.

Every canvas signed with the same tidy scrawl in the bottom corner:

"I swear, Ma, this guy's house looks like it belongs in some fancy-ass magazine," I murmur, smiling despite myself, feeling the pull of dry lips. "There's art everywhere. Big-ass windows. Real cozy, but also. . .I don't know. Him. It fits him." I don't add that I'm still trying to figure out who ‘him’ actually is, the man behind the reputation, the myth I've followed since I was twelve. Sebastian Bergeron is a mystery, and extremely private.

There's a pause on the other end of the line, then a soft chuckle that reminds me of Saturday mornings and pancakes. “Sounds like you’re in good hands, baby.”

I swallow hard against the sudden tightness in my throat. Yeah. Good hands.

The same hands that caught me when I nearly collapsed getting out of the hospital bed yesterday. Strong and steady when my legs turned to water beneath me, saving me the indignity of face-planting on the floor.

The same hands that held me steady in the shower last night, strong and sure as I leaned against him, too dizzy to stand on my own. Those capable fingers adjusting the water temperature with practiced precision, his palm warm against my shoulder blade as I swayed. He kept his eyes respectfully averted while still making sure I didn't crack my skull open on his fancy tiles.

He didn't flinch. Didn't joke. Didn't make it weird. He just. . .took care of me. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to have me standing naked and vulnerable in his personal space.

It should've embarrassed me. Should've made me feel small. Should've shredded whatever was left of my pride after that puck rearranged my brain.

But somehow, it didn't.

Somehow, it made me feel like I wasn't completely alone anymore in this strange limbo between who I was and whatever broken version of myself I might become.

"You're resting, right?" Mom presses, her voice gentle but firm. The way she used to sound when I'd try hiding a fever so I could still make practice. "No screen time, no trying to get up and sneak around, no⁠—"

"Yes, Momma," I cut in with a groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. "I'm practically handcuffed to this ridiculously comfortable bed. I couldn't escape if I wanted to."

The movement sends a fresh spike of pain through my skull but I bite it back. She's got enough weight on her shoulders without carrying mine too.