behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

MILLIE

Harper's breathing has evened out. I can feel the soft rise and fall of her chest against mine, the way her fingers are still loosely curled into the hem of my shirt like she fell asleep trying not to let go.

I don't move.

I don't dare.

There's a weight in my arms that's heavier than her body. Something raw and wordless that's been sitting between us for days, maybe weeks. And now it's finally spilled out, seeping into every corner of the room, and I don't know how to hold it. But I do. I am.

She told me about her mom.

Whispered it like a confession, like a secret she didn't want the world to bruise. And I think that's what breaks me most—how careful she was with every word. Not because she doesn't feel it, but because she feels it so deeply she's afraid to let it out too fast.

I run my fingers through her hair slowly, over and over, the way my mom used to do for me when I was a kid and couldn't sleep. Harper makes the tiniest sound, a sleepy breath at the back of her throat, and tucks herself closer without even waking. It makes something in my chest ache.

She shouldn't have to carry all that alone.

Her mom is in a hospital bed two thousand miles away, lungs failing her, and Harper's over here trying to keep the world from cracking in half. And no one even knew. I didn't know. I thought she was crying over her ex.

I almost pushed her away for it. I almost let my own fears get so loud that I missed what was really happening right in front of me. She didn't cry for Isaiah. She cried for her mom. For everything she's losing and everything she's afraid she won't be able to save. I was so caught in my own spiraling jealousy, my own fear that this isn't real, that I couldn't see how hard she was fighting just to stay upright.

Her cheek is pressed to my collarbone. Her mouth is parted slightly. She's wearing the hoodie she stole from me days ago, and I swear I've never seen anything so quietly wrecking as the way she's curled against me now—messy and soft and safe.

She kissed me.
We kissed and it wasn't like every other urgent kiss we shared. This was real. Soft. Kind. Filled with unsaid words.
I felt it in every breath I had left in me.

It was a need.
Like maybe we'd both been waiting for that exact kind of quiet, aching closeness. Like maybe everything that's been building between us finally found a place to land.

And I had to pull away. The last thing I want is to take advantage of her when she's vulnerable. I've had that happen. I've had people confuse comfort for consent. And I promised myself I'd never be that person—not even accidentally.

But I'm not sure I've ever wanted to kiss someone more. I press a kiss to the top of her head. She doesn't stir.

Outside the apartment, the city hums low and constant. Somewhere out there are cameras and strangers and reporters who think they know me. Who think I'm unshakable. Who think I'm made of bloodless wins and sharp-edged talent.

But here, in the dark, with Harper in my arms, I feel like a person. Just a person. Not Millie Bennett, not the captain of a team, not the daughter of legends. Just a woman lying in bed, holding someone so tightly it feels like her body might forget where it ends and Harper begins.

There's something terrifying about how natural it feels. How right. Her breath is warm against my collarbone, slow and even now, and every few minutes she shifts closer in her sleep, like even unconscious, she's reaching for something—maybe comfort, maybe safety. Maybe me.