Violet nods. “She told me Alex was the only reason she was doing this. She couldn’t say no to him after what he did for Soul Sync Australia.”

  “I can’t believe it.” I blink at the screen, trying to keep up. “He never said a word to me.”

  “Probably because he isn’t a person who’s interested in glory. Or maybe he didn’t want to get your hopes up in case Gabby said no.”

  Alex isn’t a man who chases praise. He’s the type of man who moves mountains to ensure the people he loves get to stand in the light.

  I shake my head, overwhelmed, and so in love I could cry.

  Violet leans forward, elbows resting on the counter. “Let’s be real—I’d have paid out of pocket to make this move work. But since Gabby’s covering it all, I’ve got six months in Sydney on her tab to see if things with Elias are more than a fling. To test whether this life is worth it—without burning everything down for the sake of trying.”

  I press my fingers to my lips, tears already gathering behind my eyes.

  He did this for her, for Elias, for me. And didn’t ask for a damn thing in return.

  My throat tightens.

  I look at her—the woman who’s been my other half since college, the woman who’s seen me through hell and back—and I know this is the start of something new. Something good.

  “You’re coming, Vi.”

  “I’m coming, Mags.”

  Tears sting my eyes.

  “I love you.” My voice wobbles with joy.

  She smiles. “Love you more.”

  We blow each other kisses before she ends the call, her image freezing for a beat before the screen goes dark.

  And I sit there, heart thudding and soul full.

  Then I get up and go find my man.

  I move on instinct. It’s a floaty rush that only comes when joy meets awe—when someone you love does something behind your back and it makes you love them more.

  I hear the low thump of music and the rhythmic clink of metal—weights being lifted, dropped, lifted again.

  I push the gym door open, and there he is.

  Alex is flat on his back beneath the bar, knees bent, feet planted, lifting with that slow, controlled precision that makes every muscle in his arms and chest stand out. The barbell glints with weight plates on either end, heavy enough to buckle a lesser man. But not him.

  His bare chest is slick with sweat, glistening under the overhead lights, the ridges of his abs rising and falling with each breath. His jaw clenches, eyes locked on the ceiling—focused, grounded, in control. Beautiful in that brutal, understated way he doesn’t even try to be.

  I stand there for a moment, watching him in silence.

  God. This man.

  He gave Violet a new chapter. He gave Elias a shot at forever. And he gave me something I’ve been missing. My best friend. A sister, not by blood. An anchor.

  Without asking for anything in return.

  My throat thickens again.

  “Put the weights down.”

  He freezes mid-rep, glancing toward me. The second he sees my face, he racks the bar in one swift motion and sits up fast, swiping sweat off his brow.

  “What’s wrong, babe?” His voice is alert, immediate. Protective.

  I cross the floor toward him. Slow. Barefoot. Steady.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I say, stepping between his knees. “Everything’s so right.”

  I climb into his lap without warning, straddling him. My hands press to his sweat-slicked shoulders. My dress slides up my thighs as I settle against him, heartbeat pounding against his chest.

  His hands grip my hips, strong and warm.

  “Okay…” he says, brow cocking, lips curving. “Not that I’m complaining, but what do I owe this moment to?”

  I kiss him once—soft and sure—then lean back far enough to look into his face.

  “I talked to Violet.”

  And there it is—that flicker. That subtle pull at the corner of his mouth. He knows what’s coming but still doesn’t tell me what he’s done.

  “You didn’t tell me you called Gabby.”

  He shrugs. “It wasn’t about me.”

  I blink, breath catching.

  “I wasn’t looking for praise. I only want to make you happy. And if there was something I could do to give that to you—to give it to her, and Elias too—then I wanted to do it.”

  Something splinters inside me in the best way.

  I lean in, pressing my forehead to his, fingers weaving into his damp hair. “You’re the best man I’ve ever known.”

  His hands slide beneath my dress, pulling me tighter against him.

  “I love you, Alex.”

  “I love you more,” he says, voice low and gruff.

  Then we stop talking. Because some gratitude needs no words.

  His hands flex against my thighs, strong and sure, and I can feel it—the tension pulled tight between us. Not urgent. Not frantic. Just full of love and everything he gives me without asking for a single thing in return.

  I tilt his chin toward me and kiss him again—slower this time. Open-mouthed. Worshipful. My fingers slip through his damp hair as I move over him, the weight of my body pressing close, my dress riding higher.

  He groans into my mouth, hands sliding up my thighs under the hem of the dress, thumbs tracing the soft, sensitive skin of my butt cheeks.

  “You sure?” he says, voice rough with restraint. “Right here… this way?”

  I nod, breath catching. “Just like this. I’m sure.”

  His grip tightens. One smooth shift of his hips and I feel him ready beneath those athletic shorts, pressed hard against me through the whisper-thin cotton of my panties.

  He hooks a finger into the crotch of my panties, tugging them aside. I reach between us, pushing the band of his shorts down just far enough, and he slides into me. I gasp as he rocks up into me, the friction sparking low and hot.

  Deep. Full. Right.

  A slow exhale leaves both of us at once.

  My body wraps over his and I move, slow and purposeful, setting the rhythm with the roll of my hips. Every movement is deliberate, a silent vow poured from flesh to flesh. I take him deeper, over and over, driving both of us to the edge with nothing but the strength of wanting and the grace of knowing it’s safe to give in.

  I press kisses to his jaw, his throat, his shoulder. He moves beneath me with those controlled, powerful thrusts—each one steady, claiming, anchored in love and everything he’s too humble to say out loud.

  We don’t rush.

  And when I come, it’s soft and intense all at once—my body arching into his, every nerve alight. His name falls from my lips in a whisper.

  He follows moments later, holding me so tightly I can feel his heartbeat in mine.

  Afterward, I collapse against him, forehead to forehead, both of us now slick with sweat and breathless, tangled on the bench.

  He strokes a hand down my spine. “You okay?”

  I nod, eyes closed, heart still thudding. “Better than okay.”

  Silence stretches between us, peaceful and whole.

  “I don’t need recognition,” he says after a beat, voice quiet against the top of my head. “Just this. You. Happy.”

  I press my lips to his chest, right over his heart.

  “Then you’ve got it.”

  His arms tighten around me, one hand brushing slow and lazy down my back. My dress is hitched high on my thighs, and his shorts are a mess. Neither of us moves to fix a thing.

  I tilt my head, trailing soft kisses across his shoulder. The slope of his neck. Back to his mouth.

  “You give me everything. Even when I don’t ask.”

  He lifts a hand, brushing damp hair off my forehead. His eyes—those warm, dark eyes—don’t look away for a second. “You deserve everything.”

  God. This man.

  We stay that way, tangled and quiet, breathing the same air, hearts still syncing from the high of it.

  And then⁠—

  BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

  My eyes fly open.

  “Oh shit. The cookies!”

  Chapter 21

  Magnolia Steel

  Malie’s hands are magic but not the flashy kind. Quiet. Patient. Purposeful. Sacred.

  I sit cross-legged beside her on a folded blanket, pandanus strips lying between us in neat bundles—thin, ivory ribbons with soft edges like silk.

  This has become our rhythm. A few afternoons a week after work, while Alex is still at practice, I come here. No fanfare. No mention of it to anyone. Only me and his mother showing me how to make something that means everything.

  I’ve stopped needing to count the motions. My hands remember what to do now—fold, thread, pull taut.

  The mat stretched out on the floor isn’t for me. It’s for him. A gift. A tribute. A vow made to my husband-to-be with my own hands.

  I glance at Malie, who watches my movements and gives a small nod.

  This palagi is doing it right.

  “You’re getting faster,” she says.

  “I’m still slow as molasses.”

  “Slow is fine. It means you’re putting care into it.”

  I smile at that because I am.

  “This is more than a gift,” she says, guiding a fresh strip into my fingers. “This is your promise to my son—woven by hand. Carried by your heart.”

  I don’t respond to that. Because I can’t. My throat is too tight.

  Malie told me once that a fine mat is never just an object. It’s memory. Legacy. It’s presented at births, weddings, and funerals. It holds stories in its weave. Each one can take months to complete, but I’m determined to finish this mat on time for our wedding.

  I thread another strip through, careful and slow.

  Each weave is a whisper of respect. Each knot is a vow to stand beside him, knowing exactly what that means. This mat isn’t decoration. It’s my tangible devotion to him.

  He doesn’t know I’m doing this. Not yet. But when he sees it—when he understands what it is—I hope he feels every hour invested, every careful knot, every bit of love I weaved into it.

  Our rhythm slows, and Malie’s hands are still over the fibers. “I have some bad news.”

  I glance up, heart beating a little faster now. “What is it?”

  Her fingers toy with a loose edge of pandanus, smoothing it once… twice… before she speaks.

  “My father hasn’t been well. It’s more serious than we thought, and my mother refuses to leave his side. They won’t be able to travel for the wedding.”

  My breath catches.

  “Oh, Malie––”

  “I haven’t told Aleki. He’s close to his grandparents, and I don’t think he’ll take it well.”

  She swallows, her eyes locked on the mat between us. “He’ll smile and say it’s all right, he understands. But I know him, Magnolia. He’ll tuck it away—quiet and deep—and carry it in silence.”

  She lifts her gaze, steady and soft. “That’s how he is. You need to understand that about your husband. How he conceals his pain.”

  My chest aches because she’s right. Alex isn’t a man who outwardly shatters. He folds quietly and without complaint.

  I reach for her hand, holding it. She doesn’t cry, but her silence is loud.

  “What if we bring the wedding to them?”

  Her eyes lift, wide and disbelieving.

  “We can do one ceremony here as we planned. Then we can go to Samoa and do it again with your parents and everyone there.”

  She stares at me, and a huge smile blooms. “You would do that?”

  “Of course.”

  Her fingers tighten around mine. And when she leans in to kiss my forehead, I feel her breath against my skin.

  “Oh, lo’u afafine, you are such a blessing to our family.”

  The words settle in my heart.

  And just like that, Malie and I decide—together––without Alex.

  The mat we’re weaving won’t be for the Sydney ceremony. It’s only fitting for it to be for our second wedding in Samoa.

  For the part of Alex’s soul that lives on the island.

  For the family that shaped the man I love.

  For all the people who deserve to see him stand in his joy.

  We roll up the mat and place it in its secret resting spot, then settle on the back patio with glasses of chilled white wine in hand. Something crisp and dry, a variety that pairs well with good company and warm air.

  She takes a sip, then angles her head toward me with a look that’s all mischief and knowing.

  “Tell me about the girl with the clever mouth and lion’s heart. The one always locking horns with Elias.”

  I laugh into my glass as I take a drink. “Violet. She’s coming to Sydney for a six-month job assignment. Alex made a quiet call and pulled a few strings to make it happen.”

  Malie arches one brow. “So your fiancé has matchmaking talents now?”

  I grin. “I’m leaning more toward a heart too big for his chest.”

  She nods at that because she knows exactly what kind of man she raised.

  “What does Violet hope to gain here?”

  I hesitate for a beat, wanting to answer her honestly—but also wanting to protect what’s still unfolding between Violet and Elias. It’s not my story to tell. But I can share what matters. What’s real.

  “Violet wants marriage and children.” I glance up, smiling. “He’s the first man she’s ever been able to see herself sharing those things with.”

  Malie hums, and I can see that she’s pleased.

  Oh, what the hell. This is Violet we’re talking about. She’s not known to be subtle.

  “She took one look at him and decided then and there she wanted to have his babies,” I add with a laugh.

  Malie lets out a full, rich laugh of her own. “Then maybe we’ll have another wedding soon.”

  I bump her shoulder with mine. “You’ll have another palagi to teach weaving to.”

  Her laughter softens, turns fond. “I wouldn’t mind having another palagi around.”

  Malie nods, eyes bright with a pride that only comes from seeing your children on the edge of something good.

  She leans her head back against the chair, eyes half closed, smile still playing at the corner of her mouth. “You weren’t born into this family. But you choose us, and we choose you. We claim you as ours.”

  Here on this porch, I realize something simple and deep: this family isn’t only something I’m marrying into. It’s something I’m becoming part of.

  Line by line. Word by word. Thread by thread.

  Not by blood.

  But by love.

  Chapter 22

  Alex Sebring

  Practice ends with the familiar ache in my legs and sweat clinging to my skin. The pitch is quiet now, boots clicking against concrete as the guys head for the showers, laughter trailing behind them. I roll out my shoulders, grab my water bottle, and start toward the locker room.

  “Sebring.”

  I glance up at the sound of my name.

  David stands outside the admin building, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Not stern. Not casual either.

  “You got a minute?”

  My stomach doesn’t drop—at least, not yet. We’ve had plenty of conversations since I got back: salary renegotiations, captain responsibilities, preseason PR. All standard stuff. But there’s something off about the timing of this one.

  “Won’t keep you long. I know home’s calling with a new fiancée waiting for you.”

  I follow him in, wiping sweat from my brow, bracing for some sponsorship obligation or media request I’ll have to fake enthusiasm for. But the second we sit, I sense it—he’s uneasy. And David is never uneasy.

  He leans back in his chair and folds his hands together. “Have you spoken to Tyson McRae?”

  The name is a punch to the ribs.

  I answer flatly. “No.”

  David nods once, slow. “I figured as much. He called me this morning.”

  Every muscle in my back tenses. Of course, the fucker called.

  I wait for the other shoe to drop—for the formal complaint, the legal jargon, the veiled threat dressed in athlete-friendly language. It would be classic Tyson. Throw elbows in the game, and cry foul when someone hits back harder.

  “He requested a meeting with you.”

  That throws me for a fucking loop. “What?”

  “At the hospital. He wants you to visit him.”

  I blink. “For what?”

  David shrugs. “He didn’t say.”

  I stare at the wall for a second, trying to make sense of it.

  Tyson McRae doesn’t do important. He does messy. Petty. Calculated. The type of man who’d rather burn the whole field than admit he lost the game.

  So what the hell is this?

  My instincts scream don’t go—but my pride won’t let me ignore it either. He’s playing a game, but I haven’t determined what kind yet.

  David adds, “You’re not obligated to go. I’m only passing along his request.”

  I nod, pushing back from the chair.

  “Appreciate the heads-up.”

  I walk out, heart pounding harder than it did during drills.

  This has trap written all over it. But if this has anything to do with Magnolia—if his reach even grazes her—I have to know. I need to look him in the eye and figure out what kind of game he’s playing. Whether this is revenge or something worse. Whether I’m keeping it between me and him… or dragging it into the light.

  Either way, I won’t let him get near her again.

  A nurse points me down the corridor to his room. I knock once, don’t wait for a reply, and step inside.

  The light is low—a dusty stripe of sun slanting in through half-closed blinds. Tyson’s propped up, face pale, leg wrapped and elevated in a traction sling. He looks like hell. Worse than I expected.

  For half a second, I almost pity him. And then I remember lying in a bed with my own leg shredded, all thanks to him.

  I bury the sympathy before it has a chance to surface.

  He opens one eye when I enter. The corner of his mouth curves up, slow and mean.