In Love With Him

Chapter 44

Dominic – POV

I was way past drunk.

I lost count of how many shots I’d thrown back—vodka, tequila, something neon I couldn’t even name anymore. At this point, I wasn’t drinking to have fun. I was drinking to shut my brain up. I was drowning every thought, every image, every ache of guilt that gnawed at the back of my skull.

It was starting to work.

A few girls gravitated toward me, like they always used to. Blonde, flirty, loud. They laughed a little too hard, touched my arms, whispered in my ear. One of them pressed a shot to my lips. I drank it. Then another girl leaned in and kissed me. I kissed her back. Then another. Hands were everywhere—mine, theirs. My head spun, not just from the alcohol, but from the familiarity of it all. I was starting to feel like my old self again.

The version of me that didn’t care.

Then my phone vibrated in my pocket.

I barely noticed it at first. But something told me to look. I fumbled it out with one hand and squinted at the screen.

Kennedy.

“Hey, just checking in. You okay?”

And just like that, the floodgates opened.

Her name. That simple message. It hit me like a freight train, shoving the alcohol-fueled haze straight out of my chest. The guilt roared back so fast it nearly made me sick.

I tightened my jaw, pulling away from the hands grabbing at me. One of the girls asked what was wrong—I didn’t answer. I just staggered away, shoving through the crowd. Their voices faded behind me. My skin burned everywhere they had touched.

I made it to my car and stared at the door for what felt like forever.

“f**k,” I muttered, dragging my hand down my face. I was in no condition to drive. But I also wasn’t staying here.

I climbed in and started the engine. I drove slowly. Carefully. I was only a few blocks away. I kept the windows down, letting the cold air slap me in the face. It helped. A little.

I pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. The house was quiet. I made it up the steps, forcing myself not to trip. Each stair was a mountain. But I finally made it to my room, closing the door behind me with a soft click before collapsing face-first onto the bed.

“f**k,” I groaned into the pillow. My head spun. My stomach twisted with regret. This wasn’t supposed to feel worse. This was supposed to fix everything.

I don’t know how long I laid there, half-suffocating in my shame, when I heard it.

“Dominic?”

Her voice.

Soft. Gentle. Laced with concern.

I turned my head slowly toward the bathroom doorway, and there she was—Kennedy. Standing in her oversized t-shirt, shorts, hair in a messy bun, bare-faced and beautiful. She looked tired but worried. Her eyebrows pulled together as she took in the state of me.

“You okay?” she asked. “You look like shit.”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. “Yeah. Just… drank too much.”

She nodded slowly, like she didn’t believe me but wasn’t going to push. I prayed she’d go back to her room. That she wouldn’t get closer. I wasn’t safe right now—not for her. I was barely hanging on.

But of course, she didn’t leave.

She walked into the room and sat gently beside me, her hand brushing through my hair like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It sent chills down my spine.

Her fingers were soft and slow, soothing—but to me, they felt like fire. Every stroke lit up my nerves. Her scent wrapped around me—sweet, clean, familiar. Intoxicating.

I could feel all my blood rushing to my c**k.

No.

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to take a deep breath. Slow. Inhale. Exhale. Focus.

Then I felt her shift, the bed dipping beside me, the heat of her body closing in.

I cracked one eye open.

She was laying next to me now. Her head resting beside mine, her hand still running gently through my hair. Like I was the one who needed taking care of now.

My pulse quickened. My breathing turned uneven. I could feel the last sliver of my self-control hanging by a thread.

“Are you gonna throw up?” she asked, brows furrowed slightly.

I shook my head quickly. “Nope.”

I didn’t trust myself to say anything else.

Then her body shifted again, curling a little closer. I could feel her thigh brush mine. Her warmth radiated into me.

“Go to bed, Kennedy,” I said, voice low and gravelly.

She gave me that little smile. The soft one. The one that wrecks me.

“I want to make sure you’re okay.”

God.

Her words twisted the guilt tighter in my chest. After everything I did tonight—everything I tried to do—she was still here. Still taking care of me. Still looking at me like I was good.

Like I hadn’t already crossed the line in my head a thousand times.

And maybe I hadn’t touched her. Maybe I never would. But right now… it didn’t feel like that made me innocent. Cause I wanted to, in the worst way.

I clenched my jaw and closed my eyes again, silently begging the universe to put me out of my misery.

Because being this close to her—hurting and wanting her at the same time—felt like drowning in fire.

I stirred with a groan, the inside of my skull feeling like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it all night long. Repeatedly. No rhythm. No mercy. Just raw, blunt destruction.

“f**k…” I muttered, my voice scratchy like I’d swallowed sandpaper.

Every part of me hurt—my head, my stomach, my back from sleeping fully dressed and twisted like a corpse. My mouth was dry. My throat was raw. And my brain… my brain felt like it had been set on fire, then kicked.

I didn’t remember falling asleep.

I tried to blink the fog away, but the second I sat up, my head snapped back down again. A wave of nausea slammed into me, and I barely choked it down before it hit the floor. My stomach flipped violently, but I clenched my jaw and swallowed hard.

Jesus. Never again.

And then, like a slow playback reel, the last thing I did remember started to replay.

Kennedy.

My eyes snapped open.

I shot upright, instantly regretting it. The room spun violently like a carnival ride from hell, and I clutched my temples, groaning again.

Where was she?

I looked around frantically, my vision still half blurry, half darkness. The space beside me was cold. She was gone.

Then I saw it—on my nightstand.

Two Tylenols. A bottle of water. And a note.

My heart stopped for a second as I reached out, hands shaky, and picked up the folded paper.

Her handwriting.

"Take the Tylenol and drink the water, went to my doctor’s appointment. Be back soon.

Love,

Kennedy."

Love.

That single word hit harder than the hangover pounding in my skull.

“Love Kennedy.”

Did she mean that… like casually? Like a sister? Or was that just… Kennedy being sweet? Or—s**t, did something happen last night that I don’t remember?

My pulse kicked up, pounding in my ears now as I stared at the note.

The last thing I remembered…

I remembered her voice.

"I want to make sure you’re okay."

I remembered her hand stroking my hair. Her scent. Her warmth next to me. I remembered my own body responding in a way I couldn’t control, biting the inside of my cheek just to not reach for her.

I remembered telling her to go to bed. Because I could feel it—that familiar snapping of restraint, fraying under pressure.

But then… nothing.

Did I fall asleep?

Did I say something? Do something?

I scrubbed my hands down my face, guilt rotting a hole in my chest as I tried to recall. I remembered wanting to kiss her. I remembered imagining what it would feel like if she rolled over and kissed me first.

And now she’d left me Tylenol, water… and a note with love on it.

I wasn’t sure what was worse: the possibility that I did something stupid and didn’t remember it—or the fact that I didn’t do anything at all and I still felt like the world’s biggest piece of s**t.

With a groan, I reached for the Tylenol and popped them in my mouth, downing half the water bottle in one go. It was warm. I didn’t care.

I leaned back against the headboard, the paper still in my hand, eyes fixed on that one word again.

Love.

It was such a simple word.

But right now? It felt like a loaded gun in my lap.