Page 22 of The Hockey Stud

He grips the back of my neck, burying his face against my shoulder. I feel the frantic, rapid thud of his heartbeat right against mine.

"When I heard the shot from the stairwell," Levi mutters, his voice cracking slightly, "I thought you’d been shot, Dover. I swear to God, I thought you were dead."

I close my eyes, finally letting my own walls down. I wrap my arms around his torso, leaning heavily into his strength, letting the familiar scent of him ground me.

His grip tightens, his fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt like he’s trying to anchor me to the earth. The sheer terror vibrating through his massive frame tells me everything his lips haven't yet dared to form.

I bury my face in the crook of his neck. The scent of him slows the frantic hammering in my chest. We hold each other so fiercely it bruises, our hearts slamming against one another in a chaotic, desperate rhythm.

"I couldn't breathe," Levi mumbles against my skin, his voice thick and broken. "Driving here, hearing that blast... Dover, I can't lose you."

He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark, frantic, tracing every line of my face as if verifying I'm actually whole. His thumb brushes a streak of white plaster dust from my cheekbone, his touch incredibly gentle for a man who just broke down a door.

The air between us thickens, heavy with the weight of everything we've kept locked away behind closed doors.

I love him.

The truth hits me with more force than any check against the boards. I love the way he protects me and the way he holds me in the dark when the rest of the world disappears.

"You didn't lose me," I say, my voice trembling as I reach up to cup his jaw. "I'm right here, Levi."

He stares at my mouth, his breath hitching. The unspoken words hang between us, so loud they seem to vibrate in the quiet apartment. He wants to say it. I can see it in the painful contraction of his brow, the desperate way his gaze locks onto mine. But the fear of what it means for us keeps the words trapped in his throat.

Instead of speaking, he leans in and presses his forehead against mine. We just breathe each other in, standing in the wreckage of the living room, letting the silence say what we aren't ready to say out loud.

I tighten the towel around my waist and step out of the bathroom, the steam clinging to my skin. The apartment is dead quiet now. No sirens. No shouting. No cops taking pictures of the bullet hole in the ceiling.

Just Dover.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a heavy grey towel. His damp hair is messy, sticking up in spikes, and he’s staring blankly at the floorboards. He looks smaller than he does in his hockey pads. Vulnerable. It makes a knot tighten in my throat just looking at him.

While he was in the shower washing the plaster dust out of his hair, I did what I could to clean up the wreckage. I swept up the shattered glass, kicked the broken splinters of the doorframe out of the walkway, and threw a sheet over the ruined couch. It was the only way to stop my hands from shaking. I needed to move.

"Hey," I say softly.

Dover blinks, pulling himself out of whatever dark place his mind just wandered to. He looks up at me, and the sheer exhaustion in his eyes completely breaks my heart.

"Hey," he echoes, his voice a quiet rasp.

I sit down next to him. The mattress dips under my weight, and without a word, Dover shifts closer. He leans his forehead against my bare shoulder, letting out a long, shuddering breath. I wrap my arm around his back, pulling him flush against my side, and bury my face in his damp hair. He smells like my soap now. Clean. Alive.

My heart is still doing a slow, heavy thud against my ribs. I close my eyes, recalling the suffocating terror of sprinting up those apartment stairs, hearing that gunshot echo through the concrete walls, and believing—for a fraction of a second—that the man I loved was dead on the floor.

I want to tell him. The words are right there, burning a hole through my chest. I love you, Dover. I love you so much it terrifies me.

But the timing feels selfish. He just survived an attack. He doesn't need the weight of a massive confession crashing down on him right now. So, I keep my mouth shut, but I squeeze him tighter, hoping my hands can communicate what my voice can't.

"You're shaking," Dover whispers, his hand reaching up to touch my bare chest, right over my racing heart.

"I'm fine," I lie, my voice thick. "Just... glad you're here."

He shifts, tilting his head up to look at me. His eyes trace my face, searching, and before I can say anything else, he pulls me down into a kiss. It isn’t like our usual kisses—there’s no heat or urgency in it. It’s slow, deep, and desperately tender. It feels like a reassurance. A promise that he’s still whole and that we’re still here.

I pull back from the kiss, but I don’t let him go. I can’t. My hands are still locked on his waist, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest. A sudden, suffocating wave of protectiveness washes over me.

I take a deep breath, the air burning my throat, and decide to just take the plunge. “Stay here," I say, the words rushing out before I can lose my nerve. "Not just tonight, Dover. Move in with me."

Dover freezes. His eyes widen, staring at me as if trying to process my words.