Chapter 26: Starlit Revelations
A thin, grayish light was filtering through the blinds when Aurora woke. She was alone in the tangle of sheets that smelled overwhelmingly of him—of sweat, clean cotton, and something deeper, something essential. For a panicked second, she thought he’d left. Then she heard the low hum of a coffee grinder coming from the kitchen.
She sat up, the throw pooling around her waist. Her clothes were still scattered across his living room floor like evidence. A slow, warm ache bloomed between her thighs, a pleasant, persistent reminder. She touched her lips, remembering. Her glasses were on the floor by the couch. She retrieved them, the world snapping into sharp focus. The trophy case seemed less imposing in the flat morning light. Just polished metal and glass.
Wrapping the throw around herself, she padded barefoot toward the kitchen.
He was at the counter, his back to her, wearing only a pair of low-slung grey sweatpants. The muscles of his shoulders and back shifted as he moved, a landscape of taut skin and sinew. He was pouring steaming water into a French press, his concentration absolute.
“You take yours black, right?” he said without turning around.
She froze. “How did you know?”
He glanced over his shoulder, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. It was a different smile than the one he gave the cameras. Softer. Real. “You left a mug in my sink weeks ago. Cold, black coffee at the bottom. No sugar ring. Detective work.” He turned fully, leaning back against the counter. His eyes traveled over her, from her messy hair to the wool clutched against her chest. “Morning.”
“Morning.” She tightened the throw. “You’re very… awake.”
“Years of 6 a.m. trainings.” He nodded toward the press. “Two minutes.”
The domesticity of it was staggering. Callum Nordskov, making her coffee. In his kitchen. While she stood there wearing nothing but a blanket and the memory of his hands. The surrealness of the last twelve hours hit her in a dizzying wave.
“I should…” she gestured vaguely toward the living room. “My clothes.”
“Leave ‘em.” He pushed off the counter and walked toward her. He stopped just inches away, his warmth radiating into her. He hooked a finger under her chin, tilting her face up. “I like you in my blanket.”
He kissed her then, a slow, unhurried good morning kiss that tasted of mint toothpaste. It was so casually intimate that her heart stuttered. When he pulled back, his green eyes were clear and bright. “Coffee’s ready.”
They drank it on his couch, side by side, her legs tucked under her, the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders. He’d pulled on a t-shirt. The quiet was comfortable, punctuated only by the sipping of coffee and the distant chirp of a bird outside.
“I have training at ten,” he said finally, staring into his mug. “And then there’s a team meeting. Probably won’t be back until late.”
“Okay,” she said, her writer’s brain already constructing a narrative where last night was a singular, perfect aberration, and this was the gentle brush-off.
He looked at her, his head cocked. “That ‘okay’ sounded like it had three paragraphs behind it.”
She flushed. “It didn’t.”
“Liar.” He set his mug down and took hers, placing it next to his. He turned to face her, one arm stretched along the back of the couch behind her head. “I want to see you tonight. Properly. Not just… you fleeing at dawn with your clothes in a ball.”
A relieved laugh bubbled out of her. “Properly?”
“Yeah.” A faint blush tinged his cheeks. It was astonishing. “I, uh, I might have arranged something. Next door. On the roof. At seven.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “If you want.”
The roof. Their building had a shared rooftop garden, a little-known amenity mostly used for haphazardly storing patio furniture. “You arranged something on the roof.”
“Don’t make me say it again, Bellweather. It’s embarrassing.” He was trying for his usual cocky grin, but it wavered at the edges. “Say you’ll come.”
She looked at him—the careful hope in his eyes, the way his fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the couch cushion. The global superstar, laid bare. “I’ll come.”
---
The rest of the day passed in a haze. She worked on her manuscript, the words flowing with a newfound clarity. She didn’t overthink the kiss on the training ground, or the shattering closeness in his living room. For once, she just let the feeling sit in her chest, a bright, warm coal.
At 6:58 p.m., wearing a simple green sundress and feeling wildly underdressed for whatever “arranged something” meant, she pushed open the heavy door to the rooftop.
The sight stole her breath.
The cluttered storage space had been transformed. Fairy lights were strung in artful loops from the wrought-iron fencing, creating a canopy of tiny, glowing stars against the deepening blue sky. The old patio furniture was gone. In its place stood a small, elegant table for two, set with real china, crystal glasses, and a slim vase holding a single, perfect white orchid. Tall, portable heaters hummed softly at the perimeter, holding the evening chill at bay. And everywhere, in terracotta pots she’d never seen before, were night-blooming jasmine plants, their small, white flowers releasing a fragrance so lush and sweet it seemed to drip from the air.
Callum stood next to the table. He wore dark trousers and a simple navy sweater that made his eyes look impossibly green. His hair was its usual artful mess. He looked, for all the world, like a man waiting for a verdict.
“You did this?” Aurora finally managed, stepping out onto the transformed rooftop.
“Had some help.” He gave a shrug, but his shoulders were tight. “Catering company. Florist. You’d be shocked what you can get delivered in a few hours when you throw enough money at it.”
“It’s… it’s magical,” she whispered.
The tension melted from his frame. He pulled out her chair. “Good. Sit. Before the scallops get cold.”
The dinner was a delicate, exquisite affair. Seared scallops with a pea puree, followed by a roast duck so tender it fell apart at the touch of a fork. They talked of easy things—a terrible movie she’d watched, a ridiculous foul he’d committed in last week’s match that had him laughing about the referee’s face. The conversation was light, peppered with the easy teasing that had always been their foundation. But beneath it thrummed a new current, a charge that made her skin feel sensitized, hyper-aware of every glance, every brush of his fingers against hers as he passed the salt.
As a woman in a black apron cleared the main course, a thought struck Aurora. “The neighbors,” she said, looking toward the other buildings. “Won’t they see?”
Callum followed her gaze. “Let them look.” He leaned back in his chair, a ghost of his old, public smirk playing on his lips. “The papers would pay a fortune for a shot of this. ‘Nordskov’s Mystery Rooftop Romance.’” The smirk faded into something more sincere. “But honestly, I don’t care.”
The dessert arrived—a dark chocolate torte with a glossy ganache, garnished with a single gold leaf. It was almost too beautiful to eat.
“There’s one more thing,” Callum said, his voice dropping into a lower register. He seemed suddenly nervous again. He reached into the inside pocket of the jacket he’d draped over the back of his chair and pulled out a small, rectangular package wrapped in plain brown paper.
“Callum, you didn’t—”
“Just open it.”
She untied the simple twine, her fingers fumbling. The paper fell away to reveal a book. Not a new book. An old one. The cover was faded blue cloth, the gold lettering on the spine slightly tarnished. Pride and Prejudice. Jane Austen.
Her heart clenched. It was her favorite. She’d mentioned it once, offhand, months ago, complaining about a modern adaptation.
“It’s a first edition. 1813,” he said quietly, watching her face. “Well, a third printing. But still.”
Her eyes snapped to his. “This is… this is insane. It must have cost…”
He waved a hand, dismissing it. “Open it.”
With reverent care, she lifted the cover. The pages were thick, creamy, their edges foxed with age. And then she saw it. The margins were not clean. They were filled with handwriting. Neat, precise, masculine script.
She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me, read the printed text from Mr. Darcy’s famous slight.
In the margin, in blue ink, Callum had written: Idiot. Complete wanker. (See also: me, first time we met.)
A shocked laugh burst from her lips. She flipped a few pages.
In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.
Next to this, his note: Better. Still could have led with ‘sorry I was a prick.’
She kept turning, tears blurring the text. He had annotated the entire book. Not literary critique, but a running conversation with the story, linking it to them. Next to Elizabeth’s defense of her family: Sound familiar? (Your loyalty to your mad dad re: his football takes.) Beside Darcy’s quiet help for Lydia: Does the thing. Doesn’t need the credit. (You, with your edits for your friend’s blog. I saw.)
She looked up at him, completely unable to speak. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, watching her with an intensity that laid him bare.
“You read it,” she finally whispered, her voice thick.
“Every word.”
“You read it. And you… you thought of me. The whole time.”
“It was the only way I could think to tell you,” he said, the words rushing out now. “I’m not good with… my own words. Not for things that matter. But I could read yours. I could live in a world you love for a while. And I could see you on every page.” He reached across the table and took her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles. “I see you, Aurora. All your layers. The stubbornness and the loyalty and the wicked sense of humor you hide behind your glasses. I see the woman who knows my goal-scoring average but pretends she doesn’t, who writes sentences that can break a heart, who isn’t impressed by any of… this.” He gestured vaguely at the lights, the skyline, himself.
Tears overflowed, tracking warm paths down her cheeks. She clutched the book to her chest, a precious, impossible thing. “This is the most… nobody has ever…”
He stood up, coming around the table to kneel beside her chair. He didn’t try to stop her tears. He just wiped one away with his thumb, his touch achingly gentle. “I know I live in a fishbowl. I know my life is chaos. But I want you in it. Not hidden. In it.”
She looked down at him, this magnificent, vulnerable man on his knees amid the fairy lights and jasmine. She thought of the empty, showy trophies in his living room, and this battered, deeply thoughtful book in her hands. She knew which one was more valuable.
She set the book carefully on the table, placed her hands on either side of his face, and leaned down to kiss him. It was a seal. A promise.
When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against his. “Okay,” she said, her voice steady now.
“Okay?”
“Okay. I’m in.”
He let out a long, shuddering breath, as if he’d been holding it for years. He buried his face in the lap of her dress for a moment, just breathing her in. Then he stood, pulling her up with him, and held her close, his face pressed into her hair. The city glittered silently around them, a witness to no one but themselves.
“The dessert’s going to melt,” she murmured into his sweater after a long while.
“Sod the dessert,” he mumbled back, his arms tightening around her.
But eventually, they sat back down. He fed her a bite of the rich chocolate torte, his fingers brushing her lips. She returned the gesture. They finished the dessert sharing one fork, as the last of the sunset bled into night and the fairy lights twinkled brighter against the dark, talking softly of nothing and everything, the future an open, terrifying, wonderful book.