Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player - Chapter 58: Chapter 58

EMILIA
PRESENT TIME
I wake up with a sharp breath, like I’ve just hit the surface after drowning.
He's gone again.
My chest rises and falls like I’ve been running, chasing something I can’t have. I don’t scream, even though I want to. The pain sits there, right beneath my ribcage, steady and sharp.
I feel the wetness on my face. My pillow is soaked. I’m not surprised — I don’t even try to wipe the tears away this time. I just lie there in the silence, with my eyes closed letting the ache settle.
Letting the cloud of nostalgia and longing pass so I can finally remember where I am.
Where I’m supposed to be.
But I don’t fall apart.
Not like I used to.
I take a deep breath and put a hand over my chest, like I’m trying to hold myself together. The grief is still there. It probably always will be. But so is something else.
Me.
For a second, I don’t know where I am. I’m still half in the dream — chocolate on our fingers, Luther’s laugh echoing in the kitchen, his hand in my hair, warm and familiar. And half in my grief — wanting to run after my brother, drag him back and never let go.
Then I blink, and I’m back in bed.
My head is on a tear-soaked pillow that smells like detergent and something warm — something like him.
Liam’s arm is wrapped tight around my waist, holding me like I might slip away if he lets go.
And honestly… maybe I would have. A few months ago, before I met him, I think I would’ve drifted away without even trying.
But not now. Not with him holding me like this.
His chest rises and falls against my back, slow and steady. He’s still asleep, breathing soft, but I can feel him.
And I feel… grounded.
His thumb moves a little against my skin, like even in his dreams he’s trying to soothe me. My throat tightens, and my heart swells so painfully it almost knocks the air from my lungs.
I don’t move. I just lay there, breathing him in. Letting the quiet wrap around us like a blanket. His leg is tangled with mine, like we’re puzzle pieces that finally found each other.
I turn just enough to see his face.
The curtains that usually hide our sliding glass door — it leads to a balcony of sorts and gives a breathtaking view — are drawn open, bringing in just enough moonlight for me to see the rain outside and the faint outline of Liam.
God.
He looks perfect like this. His lashes brush his cheeks, and his lips are slightly parted. His hair’s messy in the best way. He looks peaceful. Strong. Soft. Beautiful.
I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the way… I stopped feeling alone.
My heart still aches for Luther. That pain hasn’t vanished. Maybe it never will. But right now, with Liam holding me like I matter—
I don’t feel shattered anymore.
I feel like someone’s trying to put the pieces back together.
I reach for his hand, brushing my fingers across his. He stirs, tightens his grip on me.
“You okay?” he mumbles, still half-asleep, voice deep and rough.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I think I will be.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
I squint my eyes, my mind drifting to Stone. Rage like no other starts building up in my chest. “No, I’d rather not.”
I have so many regrets. I should have dismembered him the moment Liam knocked him down. Smashed the tequila bottle over his head. Force him to swallow my heel down his throat.
But the conclusion I’ve come to is somehow more satisfying than all that. Though, I won’t say no to headbutting him again.
“What’s the time?” I look at the bedside clock and try not to smile.
“3 AM.”
He presses his forehead into the back of my neck. He doesn’t say anything else, but I can feel what he means.
I’m not okay. Not completely.
But I’m not alone.
And that means everything.
“I’m so sorry, Em.” His voice is low, rough with something that sounds a lot like regret. I barely hear him over the way my heart starts hammering — especially when I feel his breath, warm and soft, brushing against the back of my neck.
“I shouldn’t have talked to you like that,” he says. “I have no excuse. I was an asshole.” He lets out a short, self-deprecating laugh that tickles my skin. “It’s weird apologising when I can’t even see your face.”
I’m not sure what it is I hear in his voice that makes my chest ache — like he’s not just apologising for tonight, but for every moment he’s ever hurt me without meaning to.
That thing pulls tight in my chest again. I don’t even think — I just roll over, shifting so we’re lying face-to-face. His arm stays locked around me, pulling me right into him.
I’m not ready for what I see.
His blue eyes are raw with regret. His blond hair is messy and adorable, and he looks unfairly handsome in the morning light, like something straight out of a dream I’m afraid to wake up from.
“Oh,” I breathe, stunned for a second. “Are you even familiar with the concept of morning breath, Mr. Calloway?”
He laughs — a real, belly laugh — and it lights up his entire face. I swear the whole world feels a little brighter. “Only like fifty percent. Do I have morning breath?” he teases.
“Yeah,” I lie, even though honestly, I can’t smell anything except him—and it’s doing dangerous things to my heart.
His grin gets even wider, if that's possible, all sunshine and mischief. “Good. We’re matching.”
“Hey!” I swat at his arm, but he catches my hand easily, his fingers curling around mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He doesn’t let go.
His smile slowly fades away. “I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he says, voice so raw it makes my throat tighten. “But... I’m asking you to anyway.”
He squeezes my hand gently, like he’s afraid I’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.
Like somehow, I’m the one who matters most.
“I said things I shouldn’t have too,” I mutter. He lifts an eyebrow at me, like he’s not buying it.
“Well, you weren’t wrong.”
“But—"
“For once, Emilia,” he says, voice low and rough, “just take the damn apology. No excuses. No brushing it off. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He pulls in a shaky breath, like the words are harder to say than they should be. “So yell at me. Throw something. Hate me if you want.” His voice drops even lower. “Just... don’t pretend it didn’t matter. Please.”
I purse my lips, trying to stay mad, but it’s hard when he’s looking at me like that.
Then I remember last night and everything he said and the flames within me reignite.
“Fine,” I grumble. “But I don’t accept your apology. I’m livid. I have no idea where you got the audacity to talk to me like that.”
“How audacious of me.” He says beneath his breath, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
My stomach flips.
“I thought I was supposed to be telling you off?”
“You are,” he says, smile seated on his lips in a way that makes me think he meant: “That’s my girl.”
“There’s nothing funny about this,” I huff. “You’re either going to talk to me with respect or I’m throwing you overboard. And I’m not like Becca — I won’t have the captain fish you back out.”
He laughs under his breath, but there’s no teasing in his eyes anymore. Just something softer. Warmer. “I’m sorry. I promise it won’t happen again,” he says again, quieter this time. “You were right. I just didn’t want to admit it.”
I blink at him, thrown off. “Right about what?”
He holds my gaze, like he’s afraid to say it but even more afraid not to. “I would’ve killed to be in his place.”
It takes me a second to get what he means — and when I do, my heart stumbles. My brain short-circuits.
W-what?
Before I can say anything, his hand leaves my waist and brushes my cheek, so gently it makes my throat tighten.
He smiles at me — a little sad, a little wrecked — like I’m the only thing that makes sense in a world that doesn’t.
“It makes no sense at all,” he murmurs. “How I can like you this much.”
The space between us feels too small now. Like breathing him in is the easiest thing in the world.
“And if it makes you feel any better,” he adds, thumb skimming lightly over my cheek, “I’d gladly go overboard... if you’re the one who pushes me.”