In Love With Him

Chapter 25

Kennedy’s POV

The stadium was buzzing with noise—students, parents, teachers all filling the bleachers, spilling onto the grass. The scent of concession stand popcorn drifted in the air mixed with the faint smoke of fall bonfires and someone's cheap body spray. The metal bleachers clanged beneath our feet as Marty, Finn, and I made our way up toward the middle rows.

“God, it’s cold now,” Finn muttered, pulling his oversized hoodie over his head as he practically skipped two steps at a time. “You know what would fix this? Vodka.”

“Literally everything you suggest includes vodka,” I said with a snort.

“Because it works,” he shot back, blowing on his hands dramatically.

Marty was too distracted to even respond—her eyes were glued to the football players on the field. “Damn. Remind me why we didn’t join cheer?”

“Because I don’t like smiling,” I replied.

And then I saw him.

Liam.

Helmet in hand, talking with a group of teammates on the sideline. The lights from the stadium cast a warm glow across his features, his hair slightly messy, his jersey clinging to his arms and broad shoulders.

He turned—like he felt me watching—and his eyes locked with mine.

And then… he smiled. Bright, wide, genuine.

He raised his hand and waved, not caring who was watching.

My heart stuttered. I took a deep breath, but it did nothing. It didn’t settle the tornado happening inside my chest.

Liam. I’d had a crush on him since the second grade. Since he was dared to kiss me in the cafeteria, I never told anyone it was him just that it was just some reason boy. For years, I would catch myself watching him in class, at lunch, during gym. But to him? I was just… air. The quiet girl. The weird girl. Invisible.

Until now.

Until the bonfire.

Until that outfit. That makeup. That version of me that wasn’t even really me.

I sat down slowly, feeling the cool metal under my legs, and tried to focus on what Finn was saying. But my brain was tangled.

Because no matter how much I’d wanted Liam to see me all these years… I couldn’t stop thinking about Dominic.

The way his hand felt on my thigh.

The way his voice dropped when he said, “You shouldn’t have to.”

The way his jaw clenched in the car like he was barely holding something back.

I wasn’t supposed to feel anything for him. He’s my stepbrother. That should’ve been enough to shut it all down. Enough to put up every wall and boundary I’d ever learned.

But it wasn’t.

And it scared me.

And I hated—hated—that he was right.

For years, Liam didn’t even know I existed. And now? Now I show a little skin, and suddenly I’m worth his attention? It wasn’t fair. And it made everything so much harder.

I wrapped my arms around myself and stared at the field. Liam was stretching now, laughing with someone, but he glanced back up—just once—looking for me.

I smiled, small and unsure.

And I hated that a part of me was still excited he noticed me.

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what I wanted. I felt like I was torn in two.

Oneside wanted Dominic. The other side, Liam.

And I was stuck somewhere in between.

---

Dominic's POV

The club lights pulsed like a heartbeat—fast, loud, and relentless. I parked the Camaro and made my way down the beach strip. My boots hit the boardwalk with purpose, but inside I felt like a goddamn mess. I needed a distraction—something loud, wild, numbing.

The bouncer nodded at me—he knew me by now. I stepped into the haze of sweat, smoke, and bass, letting the noise drown everything out. The scent of alcohol and perfume hit hard, followed by the thrum of music that made your ribs vibrate.

One drink.

Two.

Three.

All strong. Whiskey mostly. I didn’t bother with mixers.

They were starting to work. The heat in my veins dulled the sharp edge of everything—Kennedy’s voice, her scent, the feel of her thigh under my hand… the look on her face when I told her to be smart.

“Brooding doesn’t suit you,” a flirty voice said at my side.

I looked over.

Tan. Long fake blonde hair. Smoky eyes. Short glittery dress that clung to her like plastic wrap. She looked exactly like the type I used to lose myself in.

Used to.

I gave her a crooked smile. “Then I better change that.”

She leaned in close, hand brushing my chest. “Buy me a drink and maybe I’ll make you forget whatever’s got you frowning like that.”

I bought her two. She laughed too loud and touched too much. I forced myself to flirt back. I even smiled. Told a dirty joke that used to work like magic.

But it felt like I was reading from a script I didn’t believe in anymore.

After a while, she pressed her body close and said, “You wanna get out of here?”

I hesitated. A part of me—the old part—said yes before my brain could stop it. I nodded, needing to prove something. Needing to shut off the guilt clawing up my chest.

We walked a few blocks. Her apartment was just off the boardwalk. She unlocked the door and barely had it shut behind us before she grabbed my face and kissed me hard—too hard. Her lips tasted like vodka and strawberry gloss.

Her hands were on me instantly, tugging at my belt, fumbling with my zipper. Normally that would’ve made my blood boil—in a good way. But now? Now it just made me feel… off.

My body wasn’t reacting even though her soft hands were wrapped around my c**k. My mind was somewhere else—on someone else.

She paused, fingers brushing down my chest. “Something wrong?”

I cleared my throat, trying to shake it off. “Nah. Just… tired. Long week.”

She smirked, clearly not buying it. “I’ve got something to wake you up.”

She pushed me back toward the bed, climbing on top of me. I let it happen. Her hands roamed, mouth trailing down my torso, lips brushing lower.

Her lips wrapped around my c**k, just barely sucking on the head. She ran her tongue along my length, moaning.

My heart should’ve been racing. My body should’ve been on fire.

But instead…

I felt nothing.

No spark. No burn. Just guilt.

Guilt and a rising sense of frustration. Like my body knew something I didn’t want to admit.

This isn’t what you want.

This isn’t who you want.

I stared up at the ceiling, jaw tight, willing my mind to shut up, begging my body to cooperate.

But it didn’t.

She paused and looked up at me. “Seriously? Still nothing?”

I ran a hand down my face, ashamed, pissed off at myself, but also… relieved?

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, sitting up and zipping up my jeans. “This was a mistake.”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes and flopping back onto the bed like she’d been robbed. “Whatever.”

I didn’t look back. I grabbed my jacket, opened the door, and stepped into the night.

The second the door shut behind me, I sucked in the salty air and exhaled a shaky breath.

I couldn’t even pretend anymore.

Because no matter what I did…

No matter how many drinks I had or how pretty the girl was…

She wasn’t Kennedy.

And apparently, that’s all my body cared about now.

The night air didn’t sober me up—it made me more restless. More aware. The lights of the boardwalk blurred slightly as I made my way back toward the bar. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to face the silence, the guilt, or the images of Kennedy burned behind my eyelids.

So I went back to the one place that gave me permission to feel nothing.

Back at the bar, I slid into the same stool, my fingers curling around another glass of whiskey like it was a lifeline.

Another drink.

And another.

And another.

By the time I reached what I guessed was my fifteenth or maybe sixteenth, I was well past buzzed and drifting into that dangerous, numb territory—where the world was spinning but your thoughts were louder than the music.

I leaned forward on the bar, elbow bent, staring blankly at the bottle of Jameson in front of me.

The bartender, a scruffy guy in his mid-thirties with sleeves of faded tattoos and tired eyes, leaned in. “You planning to drink your way into a coma, or should I cut you off now?”

I scoffed, rolling the glass between my palms. “Rough night.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Looks more like a rough life.”

I huffed a laugh, bitter and humorless. “You don’t even know the half of it.”

He dried a glass with a rag, leaning casually on the bar. “Try me.”

I didn’t know why I said anything. Maybe it was the alcohol. Or maybe I just needed someone—anyone—to hear me.

“There’s this girl,” I said, my voice low.

The bartender smirked. “There always is.”

I nodded slowly, the words thick in my throat. “She’s… perfect. Smart, sarcastic, tough. Drives me f*****g crazy. And when I’m around her—nothing else matters. It’s like the world quiets.”

He nodded. “So what’s the problem? She married or something?”

I took another swig, letting the burn hit the back of my throat before answering.

“She’s my stepsister.”

The bartender blinked once, but didn’t recoil or judge.

“Ah,” he said slowly. “Yeah. That’s a tough one.”

“You think?” I muttered, slumping against the bar.

He leaned his arms on the counter, folding his hands. “You in love with her?”

I stared at the half-empty glass in front of me. “I don’t know what it is… But when I’m not around her, I can’t breathe right. And when I am, I want to protect her from everything—even from myself.”

The bartender whistled. “Man, you’ve got it bad.”

I chuckled bitterly. “It’s stupid. She doesn’t even know. And even if she did—it’s not like I can act on it. I’d ruin everything.”

He tilted his head. “Is she blood?”

I looked up, frowning. “What?”

“You said stepsister. Not sister. So you’re not related?”

“No. Our parents getting married in about two months. We didn’t grow up together. Hell, I didn’t even meet her until a few weeks ago.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “Look, I’ve seen all kinds come through here. Drunks, liars, cheaters, losers. But you—you look like a guy who’s trying to do the right thing… even when it’s ripping you apart.”

I swallowed hard.

“Truth is,” he continued, “love doesn’t always come in the neat little package society wants it to. It’s messy. Complicated. And sometimes… yeah, it breaks a few rules. But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. You just gotta figure out what you’re willing to risk for it.”

He set down the glass he was drying and poured me one more, sliding it toward me.

“On the house,” he said. “For the guy who looks like he’s finally being honest—with himself.”

I nodded slowly, lifting the glass with a trembling hand.

“To messy love,” I muttered.

And took the drink.

But Kennedy’s face still burned behind my eyes. Her voice. Her scent. Her laugh.

No matter how much I drank… I couldn’t drown her out.

And maybe, deep down, I didn’t want to.