behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Twenty-One

MILLIE

I don't think Harper's asleep.
She's quiet—breathing in that soft, steady rhythm people only fall into when they feel safe. Her cheek rests against my collarbone, skin warm where it meets mine, and I know she's still awake even if she hasn't spoken in a while. Her silence isn't empty. It hums. It presses in around us, thick with everything we've said and everything we haven't.
We're lying tangled on my couch, the throw blanket slipping half off our legs, her knee brushing the inside of my thigh like it's always belonged there. She's in nothing but a worn-out pair of shorts and one of my old shirts—the big faded one I used to wear after morning practices in college, the one that hangs off her shoulder like it knows it has no business trying to hide anything.

I don't think she realizes how much it wrecks me—just seeing her like this. Quiet. Bare-faced. Hair a little mussed from the way she keeps tucking it behind her ear when she thinks I'm not looking. She's beautiful when she's dressed for work, when she's confident and cool and sarcastic, camera in hand like a shield. But this? This is the version of her that ruins me. The version that forgets to protect herself.

Her breathing deepens, then slips out in a soft sigh that ghosts over my skin. Like she's trying to let go of something heavy, but it's still there, clinging to her ribs. I know that feeling too well.

Without thinking, I press my lips to her temple. Just for a second. Barely a brush.

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't pull away. Just... exhales again, slower this time, like maybe she needed that.
I don't know why I do it. Why I keep finding excuses to touch her. To keep her close. I just know I can't help it. Every time we're like this—curled up on the couch long after midnight, when the whole world feels muted and far away—it's like something inside me gets quieter too. Calmer.

But that doesn't mean I'm not aware of every single inch of her. My hand rests on her hip, fingers splayed over the edge of her shirt, tracing soft, lazy patterns that make her skin twitch. Her bare thigh is pressed against mine, and it takes everything I have not to shift even closer. Not to drag her over me completely. Not to touch more. To feel more.
I don't. I don't because I promised myself I wouldn't unless she asked me.
Because Harper is still healing, and even though we're faking it—pretending for the cameras, for the headlines, for the story they want to write about us—it's never felt fake when she looks at me like she does sometimes.

It's not just her body pressed against mine, her heartbeat syncing to mine like it's trying to memorize the rhythm. It's the way she fits into my life without even trying. It's the way I find myself scanning the crowd for her after games. The way I crave her voice when something good or bad happens. The way I think about what makes her laugh more than I think about winning.
And yeah, I want her. God, I want her. Every look, every accidental brush of her hand, every moment she leans in like she doesn't know she's doing it—I feel it like a current under my skin. But I also just want to hold her like this until all the cracks in her chest start to mend. I want her to have space to exhale. To rest. To stop pretending she's fine when I can tell she isn't.

Another sigh. A little one. This time she shifts slightly, her hand brushing across my stomach as she readjusts her weight. Her fingertips drag across my skin, and I swear I stop breathing.

It's late. Way past ten, probably closer to midnight now. We've been curled up on this couch for hours, wrapped up in a blanket that's barely clinging to our legs. A movie plays quietly on the screen, all background noise and flickering light—something with drama and sweeping music, but I haven't registered a single scene. Not when Harper's been in my arms like this. Not when she's been resting her whole weight against me like she actually trusts me to hold it.