Chapter 6: Domestic Bliss
The key was exactly where he said it would be, under a heavy terracotta pot containing a stubborn, fragrant rosemary plant. Roz let herself into the quiet, sunlit flat. It was exactly as she’d left it, yet completely different in the daylight. The wooden floors gleamed, catching the last of the afternoon sun that streamed through the tall windows. Framed maps of the Highlands hung beside a sleek, minimalist desk, its surface scattered with engineering sketches and a well-used laptop. The air held a clean, masculine scent—coffee, lemon polish, damp wool from a kit bag by the door, and underneath it all, the faintest trace of lavender from a bar of soap on the sink.
And there was music. Not the pounding electronic stuff she associated with athletes, but something with gentle acoustics and a wistful, Gaelic-sung melody. It drifted from the kitchen.
She padded down the short hallway, her boots silent on the wood. He hadn’t heard her come in. He stood at the stove, his back to her, utterly focused. He was barefoot, wearing faded jeans and a soft-looking grey Henley, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His shoulders moved rhythmically as he stirred a pot. Something rich and savory simmered there, filling the air with the smell of garlic, red wine, and herbs.
On the counter beside him, a cutting board held a pile of finely chopped onions, carrots, and celery. A dusting of flour coated its surface and the back of his hand. This was the scene: domestic, focused, mundane. And it hit her with a force that eclipsed the passionate memory of the night before. This was a man in his sanctuary, creating something. For her.
She must have made a sound, a breath, the slightest shift of her bag on her shoulder. He turned.
The change in his face was instantaneous. The concentration melted away, replaced by a warmth so profound it felt like a physical touch. His striking blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “Hey,” he said, his voice low and happy.
“Hey yourself.” She leaned against the doorframe, soaking him in. “Smells incredible.”
“It’s a stew. My mum’s. Hope you’re hungry.” He wiped his hands on a tea towel, leaving faint floury prints. He didn’t come to kiss her. He just stood there, looking at her, taking in her jeans, her burgundy jumper, her probably windswept hair. “You look comfortable.”
“You said to.” She nodded towards the stove. “Need a hand?”
“Absolutely not. You’re the guest. Wine’s open on the table. Glasses in the cupboard above.” He gestured with his chin, already turning back to the pot. “Red okay?”
“Perfect.” She found the glasses, two simple, sturdy tumblers, and poured. She brought his over, setting it on the counter near his elbow. He acknowledged it with a grateful hum, his attention on adjusting the flame.
She sipped her wine, watching him work. The precision of his movements was fascinating. This wasn’t haphazard throwing-together. He diced a potato with swift, efficient chops, the knife a blur. “You’re very good at that.”
“Engineer’s brain. Follow the recipe, treat it like a formula. Gets consistent results.” He tossed the potatoes into the pot with a satisfying sizzle. “Unlike rugby. That’s all chaotic variables.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” She thought of him at the centre, adapting seamlessly to Jamie’s schedule, to Leo’s energy. “You handled the variables today brilliantly. Jamie’s already emailed me a breakdown of your ‘efficient but socially appropriate coaching methodology.’ He gave you five stars.”
Alasdair laughed, a rich, easy sound that filled the kitchen. “He’s a legend. Sharp as a tack. The lads loved it, by the way. Ewan hasn’t stopped talking about Shannon’s tackling form. I think he’s secretly hoping to recruit her.”
They chatted easily as he finished assembling the stew, letting it simmer. He washed his hands at the sink, the muscles in his forearms flexing. He dried them deliberately, then finally turned and leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. The casual pose did nothing to diminish his size. He just looked… solid. Present.
“So,” he said, his gaze soft. “How was your day? After we left.”
“Normal. Wonderful. Odd.” She swirled the wine in her glass. “It felt like the air in the centre had been charged. Everyone was a bit buzzed. It was good.”
“And you? Were you buzzed?”
She met his eyes. “Yes.”
He pushed off the counter and closed the distance between them in two slow steps. He didn’t grab her. He simply slid his hands into the back pockets of her jeans, pulling her gently against him. It was a claiming, but a quiet one. He bent his head and kissed her, a deep, searching kiss that tasted of red wine and rosemary. It was slower than the night before, less frantic, but no less potent. When he pulled back, he kept his forehead resting against hers. “Good,” he murmured.
The timer on the oven pinged. He gave her a final squeeze and released her to tend to it. He pulled out a round of crusty bread, perfectly golden. “Should be ready.”
They ate at his small wooden table, the stew steaming in wide bowls. It was phenomenal—rich, deeply flavored, the meat tender. “This is… this is ridiculous,” Roz mumbled around a mouthful. “I was prepared for pasta. Or a burned sausage.”
He looked pleased. “Mum would be chuffed. It’s the only thing I can make that doesn’t resemble campfire fuel.” He tore a piece of bread, mopping up the juice. “She’d like you, I think.”
The statement hung in the air, simple and weighted. “Yeah?” she asked softly.“Aye. She appreciates people who do things. Who see a need and just… get on with it.” He gestured vaguely with his bread, encompassing her work, her life. “She was a nurse. Same vibe.”
They talked about their families then. His mum, still in Fort William, his dad a retired forestry manager. Her own parents, academics in Stirling, perpetually bemused by their artistic, then therapy-oriented daughter. The conversation flowed as easily as the wine, shifting from childhood mischief to university mishaps. He told her about nearly failing a thermodynamics exam because of a preseason training camp; she confessed about accidentally setting a still-life on fire in her first-year studio.
As they cleared the plates, shoulders brushing companionably at the sink, the lightness of the conversation settled into something deeper, quieter. He made coffee, and they took mugs to the sofa. The city lights had come on outside, twinkling in the deep blue dusk.
He sat, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. She curled into his side, her legs tucked under her, her head finding the comfortable hollow of his shoulder. His fingers began to play with the ends of her hair.
“Can I ask you something?” he said after a long, comfortable silence.
“Anything.”
“That first night. At your door. You said ‘stay.’” His voice was a soft rumble in his chest. “I’ve thought about that a lot. What was going on in your head?”
She was quiet, tracing the weave of his sweater with a finger. “I was tired of being careful,” she said finally, the truth of it crystal clear. “I spend all day carefully navigating other people’s worlds, thinking about every word, every reaction. I think… I just wanted to not be careful for once. I wanted what I wanted, without analyzing it. And I wanted you.”
His hand stilled in her hair for a moment, then resumed its gentle motion. “I’m glad.”
“What about you?” she asked, tilting her head to look up at him. “You could have easily… well.Not stayed. Not called. Not done any of this.”
He looked down at her, his expression unguarded. “I know. And I thought about that too. The easy way.” He took a breath. “The truth is, Roz, when I’m with you, I don’t feel like I’m performing. I’m not ‘Alasdair MacLeod, Rugby Spokesperson.’ I’m not even really ‘Alasdair MacLeod, Player.’ I’m just me. The lad who likes a quiet kitchen and making a decent stew. And you seem to like that lad alright.”
Her heart clenched. She pushed herself up to kneel on the couch beside him, facing him. She took his face in her hands. “I like that lad more than alright,” she said, her voice firm. “I like him a terrifying amount.”
A slow smile spread across his face, erasing the last traces of vulnerability. “Terrifying, eh?”
“Terrifying,” she confirmed, leaning in to kiss him. It was sweet, and deep, and full of the unspoken promises hovering in the air between them.
The kiss deepened, slowing into something more intent. He pulled her onto his lap, her legs straddling his hips. The weight of her, the feel of her, elicited a low groan from him. His hands slid under her jumper, finding the warm skin of her back. He broke the kiss, his breath coming faster. “Just so we’re clear,” he said, his voice rough. “I want you to stay again tonight. But we can also just… sleep. Actually sleep. I’m happy with the sofa. I’m happy with whatever you—”
She silenced him with another kiss, rolling her hips against the hard proof of his desire. “I’m not here for the sofa, Alasdair.”
His breath caught, a sharp inhale that filled the space between them. He stood then, lifting her with him as if she weighed nothing, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. He carried her to the bedroom, not in a dramatic rush, but with a deliberate, steady pace, his eyes locked on hers. The last of the city’s twilight glow filtered through the blinds, painting stripes of muted gold across the bed.
He laid her down and stood back, just looking. His gaze traveled over her, from her loose hair fanned across his pillow to the curves of her body under the soft fabric of her jumper and jeans. “Christ, Roz,” he whispered, the words thick with something like reverence. “You are a vision.”
He pulled his own sweater off, the muscles of his chest and abdomen defined in the low light. He was all power and restrained strength, a stark contrast to the gentle way he knelt on the bed beside her. His hands went to the hem of her jumper. “This alright?”
She nodded, her throat tight. He lifted it slowly, his knuckles grazing her ribs, her stomach, the undersides of her breasts. The cool air kissed her skin, followed immediately by the heat of his gaze. He traced the lace edge of her bra with a single, rough fingertip. “So beautiful,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
He unhooked the bra with a surprising deftness, letting it fall away. His eyes darkened, his lips parting slightly. He didn’t pounce. He just absorbed the sight of her, her full breasts, her peaked nipples tightening under his stare. “My sweetheart,” he breathed, leaning down to brush his lips against her collarbone.
He kissed a slow, tortuous path downwards, his large hands cradling her ribs, her waist, her hips. He took his time, as if memorizing the landscape of her. When his mouth finally closed over her nipple, she cried out, her back arching off the bed. He lavished attention there, suckling gently, then with more pressure, his tongue flicking, until she was writhing.
He moved to the other breast, giving it the same worship. His hands slid down to the button of her jeans. He worked it open, then the zip, the sound loud in the quiet room. He peeled her jeans and underwear down her legs, his palms smoothing over her calves, her ankles. He tossed them aside and sat back on his heels, looking at her naked form laid bare before him.
“My wee darling,” he said, his voice ragged. “Look at you.” His hands spanned her waist, his thumbs stroking the dip of her hips. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the soft plane of her stomach. His stubble scratched deliciously against her skin.
He moved lower, his intention clear. She tensed, a flutter of nerves mixing with the aching need. He sensed it. He looked up, his chin resting on her thigh. “I’ll be gentle,” he promised, his blue eyes sincere in the half-light. “Just let me taste you, baby. Let me make you feel good.”
When his mouth finally found her core, it was with a soft, open-mouthed kiss that made her gasp. He worked her with a patient, relentless focus that was entirely his own. There was no ego, no rush. He listened to every hitch of her breath, every tremble of her thighs, adjusting his pressure, his rhythm. He held her hips down when she bucked, his strength an unyielding comfort. His tongue was an artist, circling, flicking, pressing.
The pleasure built in deep, rolling waves, tightening from her belly outwards. He felt her impending climax and redoubled his efforts, one hand slipping down to stroke her inner thigh, anchoring her. “Come on, sweetheart,” he urged against her, his voice a vibration. “Let go for me.”
She shattered, a cry tearing from her throat as the world dissolved into pulsing, golden light. He stayed with her through it, gentling his touch until she was limp, shuddering with aftershocks.
He moved up her body, kissing her stomach, between her breasts, her throat, before finally claiming her mouth. She could taste herself on his lips, a primal, intimate shock. He was still fully clothed, his jeans rough against her bare thighs, the hard length of him pressing against her belly.
“You are…” He shook his head, as if words failed. He quickly rid himself of his remaining clothes, his body a magnificent, solid shadow above her. He settled between her legs, his weight braced on his elbows. He reached down, guiding himself to her entrance. The blunt head pressed against her, and they both groaned.
He pushed inside with a slow, excruciating care, watching her face. “Alright?” he whispered, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.
She nodded, her nails digging into the hard swell of his biceps. “Yes. More.”
He sank deeper, filling her completely, a perfect, stretching fullness. He stilled, buried to the hilt, his forehead damp against hers. “God, Roz,” he choked out. “You feel… incredible.”
He began to move then, with long, deep strokes that had her seeing stars. It wasn’t frantic. It was a thorough, consuming rhythm. His hips rolled against hers, each thrust a deliberate claiming. He kissed her, swallowed her moans, whispered praise into her skin. “You take me so perfectly, baby.” “So good for me, my darling.” “I could look at you forever like this.”
His thrusts grew more urgent, his control fraying. She could feel the tension coiling in his powerful back, hear the ragged edge of his breath. She met him thrust for thrust, her heels digging into the backs of his thighs, pulling him deeper.
“Come with me,” he pleaded, his voice raw. “Please.”
It was her undoing. The command, the vulnerability in it, tipped her over another edge. Her climax ripped through her, a searing, convulsive wave that clamped down around him. He cried out her name, his own release slamming into him, his body shuddering violently as he poured himself into her.
He collapsed, his full weight a welcome crush, his face buried in her neck. They lay like that for long minutes, a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs, the only sound their ragged breathing slowing into sync.
Finally, he rolled to the side, taking her with him, keeping her close. He pulled the duvet over them, his hand stroking her damp back in a slow, absent rhythm.
“That was…” he started, then trailed off, kissing her hair. “Yeah.”
She laughed softly, a breathy, spent sound against his chest. “Yeah.”
The room was dark now, the city lights the only illumination. She traced the line of his shoulder, the hard ridge of muscle, the faint scars from his sport. He was quiet for so long she thought he’d fallen asleep.
“You should know,” he said, his voice quiet in the dark. “I don’t do this. Not like this.”
She knew what he meant. The intimacy wasn’t just physical. It was in the stew, the shared stories, the way he looked at her when she came. “I know,” she whispered back.
His arm tightened around her. “Good.”
He held her tighter, his breath warm against her hair. The words he’d whispered in the dark seemed to hang in the air, a fragile, new truth. Roz felt the weight of them, a pleasant pressure against her ribs. She didn’t reply with matching sentiment; the moment felt too vast for easy words. Instead, she pressed a soft kiss to the center of his chest, over the steady, strong beat of his heart.
Sleep claimed them tangled together, a deep, unbroken rest.
Dawn crept in, a pale, silvery light sketching the lines of the room. Roz woke to the feeling of his hand, heavy and warm, resting on her hip. He was still asleep, his face relaxed, the sharp intensity of his features softened. She watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, the faint scar above his eyebrow from some long-ago match.
A strange, quiet joy settled in her. This was new. Waking like this, in the calm after the storm of feeling.
She carefully extricated herself, the cool air raising goosebumps on her skin. She found his discarded Henley on the floor and pulled it on. It smelled intensely of him—clean cotton, that faint lavender soap, and something deeper, uniquely his. Swimming in the fabric, she padded out to the kitchen.
The evidence of last night’s dinner was still there: two bowls in the sink, the wine glasses holding their final stains. She started tidying, running water, moving quietly. The domestic ritual felt profound, a claiming of space in the quiet morning.
“You’re stealing my clothes.”
His voice, thick with sleep, came from the doorway. He leaned against the frame, wearing only his jeans, buttoned but not zipped. His hair was mussed, his chest bare. He looked rumpled and real and utterly beautiful.
“Borrowing,” she corrected, not turning from the sink. “It’s colder than I expected.”
“It’s a drafty old place. I like the high ceilings.” He walked up behind her, his body a solid wall of heat. He wrapped his arms around her waist, his chin settling on her shoulder. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to. It’s a nice kitchen to be in.” She leaned back into him. “Thank you for dinner. For everything.”
He nuzzled her neck. “My pleasure. Truly.” He fell silent for a moment, his hands splayed on her stomach through the soft cotton of his shirt. “What’s your day like?”
“Shift at the centre starts at one.” She felt a minor tension enter his body. “What?” she asked, turning in his arms to face him.
“I’ve got a media day. Press conference, then a heap of individual interviews. The usual pre-match circus.” He made a face. “They’ll ask about the outreach, which is fine. Good, even.” He paused, his thumbs drawing circles on her hips. “They might ask about you.”
The statement landed between them, simple and complex. “Oh.”
“Aye, ‘oh.’” He searched her face. “It’s not a secret, what we’re doing. The lads know. Ewan can’t keep his mouth shut. It’ll get out. I just… I want to handle it right. For you.”
She considered it. The thought of her name in some sports column, linked to his, was vaguely nauseating. But hiding felt worse, a denial of the quiet joy she’d just felt. “What does ‘handling it right’ look like?”
“No comment on my private life. A firm but polite redirect. I protect my space. Our space.” His gaze was steady. “But I won’t lie if directly asked. I just wanted you to know. So you aren’t blindsided.”
She appreciated the warning, the lack of melodrama. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.” She traced the line of his jaw. “Will it be a problem? For the team? The… image?”
He scoffed softly. “The only ‘image’ they care about is me not getting pictured falling out of a club at 3 a.m. This?” He gestured between them. “This is boring and wholesome. They’ll love it. It’s you I’m thinking about. The attention can be… grating.”
“I’m a big girl, Alasdair. I can handle grating.” She offered a small smile. “I might have to institute a ‘no reading the comments’ rule for myself, though.”
He laughed, the sound bright in the quiet kitchen. “A solid policy. I should adopt it.” He kissed her forehead. “Right. I need to shovel some fuel into this engine before I face the hordes. Eggs?”
They cooked together, moving around each other with an easy synchronicity that felt both new and deeply familiar. He scrambled eggs while she toasted bread. They ate at the counter, elbows touching. He told her about the upcoming match, the strategic worries, a teammate’s minor injury. It was ordinary. It was everything.
When it was time for her to leave, a tangible reluctance settled over them. She changed back into her own clothes, the previous day’s scent clinging to them faintly. He walked her to the door, leaning against it as she pulled on her boots.
“I’ll probably be late done tonight,” he said. “Media stuff always drags. Then team dinner. A curfew, believe it or not.”
“I believe it.” She stood, shouldering her bag. “Recovery and all that.”
“Aye.” He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was infinitely gentle. “Can I see you tomorrow? After the madness? I’ll be fit for nothing but a couch and a bad film.”
“I’d like that.” The agreement felt significant, a plan made in the clear light of day.
He pulled her into a final, deep kiss. It was slower than the night before, less urgent, but brimming with a potent affection. When he finally pulled back, he kept his hands on her shoulders, his blue eyes serious.
“You’re so special, Roz,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “You undo me, baby.”
The words, so raw and unexpectedly tender, stole the air from her lungs. They weren’t polished. They weren’t a trope. They were a confession, scuffed at the edges and real. Her eyes stung. She couldn’t speak. She just cupped his face and kissed him once, softly, on the mouth.
Then she turned and walked down the path, the feel of his gaze warm on her back until she turned the corner.