Chapter 69
Sienna's POV
Hayes came down wearing casual home clothes. He stopped at the bottom of the staircase, staring at the dining table like he wasn't sure it was real.
"Sienna…"
I twisted my hands together, suddenly aware of how presumptuous this all was. "I just thought—I mean, Cindy helped, obviously, I didn't do all of this myself, but—"
"Stop." His voice was rough.
I stopped.
He walked toward the table slowly, his gaze moving from the food to the flickering candles.
When he looked back at me, something in his expression made my breath catch.
"Happy birthday, Hayes," I said quietly.
He didn't respond immediately. Just kept staring at me like he was trying to memorize my face. Then his eyes dropped to my right hand.
His jaw tightened.
"Your hand," he said, voice low and controlled in a way that meant he was angry. "You cooked with your hand still healing?"
"It's fine—"
"It's not fine." He closed the distance between us in three strides, reaching for my wrist with a gentleness that contradicted the tension in his voice. His fingers wrapped around my forearm, carefully avoiding the bandaged area, and he turned my hand over to examine it. "I told you not to use it."
"It doesn't hurt anymore," I interrupted, trying to pull away. "I can do simple things—"
"No." His grip tightened fractionally—still gentle, but firm. Immovable. "Not until it's completely healed. We agreed."
I looked up at him, startled by the intensity in his eyes. There was anger there, yes, but underneath it was something else.
"Hayes—"
"I don't give a damn about the food," he said roughly. "I care about you not making it worse."
The words hung between us.
I care about you.
My throat closed up. I stared at our joined hands.
"I wanted to do this for you," I said, barely above a whisper. "I just… I wanted to."
His exhale was long and controlled. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to something quieter, rawer. "I know. But you have to stop doing things that hurt you just because you think it's what I need."
But what if it's what I need?
I didn't say it out loud. Couldn't.
He released my wrist slowly, his fingers trailing down to my palm before letting go completely. "Promise me you won't do this again. Not until your hand is completely better."
"I promise."
"Good." He stepped back, ran a hand through his damp hair. When he looked at the table again, some of the tension had eased from his shoulders. "This looks incredible."
I managed a small smile. "Sit down before it gets cold."
---
Dinner was strange in the best way.
We ate slowly, the conversation drifting from safe topics—the game, the upcoming week's schedule, a funny story about Tyler nearly tripping over his own feet during warm-ups. Hayes asked about the studio, and I told him about Reina's latest social media campaign, about the mysterious new clients that had appeared.
I didn't mention that I knew it was him. He didn't acknowledge it either.
The candles burned lower. The wine was surprisingly good—smooth and rich, warming me from the inside.
At some point, Hayes reached across the table for the wine bottle and accidentally knocked my water glass over. Water spread across the tablecloth in a dark stain.
We both lunged forward to grab napkins at the same time.
Our hands collided.
I froze.
So did he.
His hand covered mine completely, warm and solid and impossibly familiar. For a moment neither of us moved. Then his fingers shifted, wrapping around my wrist again—the uninjured one this time—and holding on.
"Don't move," he said quietly. "I've got it."
But he didn't let go.
His thumb found that spot on my inner wrist where my pulse was racing, pressed against it deliberately. My breath stuttered. I could feel the heat of him, could smell something that was just him.
He used his other hand to mop up the water, his movements careful and controlled, but the hand on my wrist stayed exactly where it was. Anchoring me. Claiming me.
When the table was dry, he still didn't let go.
"Sienna."
I forced myself to meet his eyes.
The candlelight cast shadows across his face, making him look older, more dangerous. His gaze was locked on mine with an intensity that made my stomach flip.
"Why did you do this?" he asked, voice low.
"I told you—"
"Not the official answer. The real one."
I tried to pull my hand back. His grip tightened just enough to keep me there.
Because I missed you. Because the thought of you spending another birthday alone made me want to break something.
"I wanted you to be happy," I whispered.
Something shifted in his expression. The hard edges softened, just slightly, and when he spoke again his voice had dropped to something achingly gentle.
"Having you here already makes me happy."
The words hit like a punch.
I stared at him, unable to form a response, unable to do anything except feel the weight of what he'd just said settling over us like a second skin.
Slowly, Hayes released my wrist and stood. He came around the table and crouched beside my chair, bringing us eye-level.
"You're crying," he said softly, reaching up to brush his thumb across my cheek.
I was. I hadn't even noticed.
"Why?" His hand moved to cup my face, tilting my chin up gently. "Tell me why you're crying, Sienna."
"Because I thought you'd hate me," I choked out. "I thought you'd never forgive me for what I did."
His forehead dropped against mine.
"I never hated you," he said, the words rough and broken. "Not once. Not ever."
We stayed like that, breathing the same air, close enough that I could count his eyelashes. His hand slid to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, and I felt the familiar weight of his touch settling over me like coming home.
The doorbell rang.
We both jerked apart.