In Love With Him

Chapter 58

Kennedy’s POV

I sat on the edge of my bed, wrapped in an oversized hoodie, legs pulled up to my chest.

My heart had finally slowed to a normal pace, but everything else inside me was anything but calm.

I kept replaying it.

The kiss.

The way Dominic’s mouth crashed into mine.

The way my panic froze.

The way everything stopped.

I hadn’t meant for it to happen. He hadn’t either, I don’t think. But in that moment… I’d never felt safer.

And then I kissed him back.

Not because I needed air. Not out of shock. But because I wanted to.

And that realization was what terrified me most.

I pulled my legs tighter to my chest and dropped my forehead onto my knees.

What the hell are we doing?

A soft knock tapped at my door. “Sweetheart?” Helen’s voice drifted through, calm and gentle. “Dinner’s ready.”

“I’ll be down in a second,” I called back, swallowing the lump in my throat.

A few minutes later, I made my way downstairs. The smell of tacos lingered in the air—spicy and familiar, like comfort I didn’t feel.

Dad was already at the table, his jaw tight, lips pressed in a straight line. Helen smiled when she saw me and set a plate down in front of my usual chair.

The back door opened, and Dominic stepped inside. His face was neutral, his hands shoved in the pocket of his hoodie, like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just kissed me in the middle of a panic attack and flipped my world upside down.

He joined us at the table without a word, sitting across from me.

The silence was… suffocating.

Dad glanced between the two of us but didn’t say anything, though I could feel his eyes on Dominic like lasers.

Helen tried her best. “So, Kennedy,” she said, smiling gently, “when are the auditions?”

I cleared my throat, grateful for the distraction. “Next Wednesday.”

“You excited?”

I nodded. “Nervous too. A lot of girls are auditioning for Mrs. Lovett. I’m not sure I’ll get it.”

Dad gave a small scoff. “You’ll get it. You’re the best singer they’ve got.”

I smiled weakly, trying not to look at Dominic, but my eyes betrayed me. He was pretending to focus on his plate, but I could tell. I knew he wanted to look at me too.

I saw his jaw twitch like he was holding something back.

Dinner went on mostly in silence. The tension lingered, thick and unspoken. Dad didn’t take his eyes off Dominic for more than a few seconds at a time. Dominic didn’t dare glance up at me. I was just as bad—too afraid that even a glance would give everything away.

Eventually, Helen started gathering plates, and we all helped clean up.

I quietly excused myself and went upstairs, not bothering to say goodnight. When I got to my room, I leaned against the closed door and took a deep breath.

What had we done?

What were we doing?

And how the hell was I supposed to act normal after that?

---

Dominic’s POV

I sat at the table, barely touching the food on my plate, my jaw tight, my shoulders tense.

Paul’s silence wasn’t just silence—it was a loaded, ticking pressure cooker. He hadn’t said a single word to me since I came inside, but I could feel his gaze burning through the side of my head like a sniper waiting for a reason to pull the trigger.

All I wanted to do was look at Kennedy. Just once. Just one damn glance to make sure she was okay—to see if she felt it too. That kiss wasn’t just panic, wasn’t just some spontaneous reaction to her anxiety. There was something behind it… something real.

But if I so much as breathed in her direction, Paul looked ready to stab me with a steak knife.

So I kept my eyes down and my hands to myself, trying to act normal while my entire body was screaming with the urge to look at her, touch her, say something.

Anything.

Dinner ended in a mess of barely-there conversation and unspoken tension. We cleaned up in awkward silence, and one by one, everyone drifted off upstairs.

I waited a few beats before I followed, lingering in the kitchen like the ghost of some stupid mistake I didn’t even make. My fists curled at my sides.

I would never hurt her.

I needed the universe to hear it. To understand it.

Because apparently Paul didn’t.

I finally headed upstairs, my footsteps slow, heavy. I reached the second floor landing when I stopped.

My name.

I heard my name.

I froze. Paul and my mom’s door was cracked open, their voices low but clear.

“She’s his stepsister now, Helen,” Paul said, voice sharp and edged in frustration. “It’s not appropriate. I saw the way he was holding her face. Like he wanted to… to kiss her or something.”

I clenched my jaw, the urge to yell pulsing behind my teeth.

“She was in her bra,” Paul went on, pacing probably. “He should’ve walked away. Or called me. Not… knelt down and touched her like that.”

There was a pause, then my mother scoffed. “She was having a panic attack, Paul. What was he supposed to do, tell her to cover up and wait until you were there to handle it?”

“She could’ve gotten a shirt on—”

“She wasn’t thinking clearly!” my mom snapped. “Jesus, Paul. You weren’t here. She was barely breathing. My son did what he had to do to keep her from passing out.”

Paul was quiet.

Then she continued, her voice softer, almost sad. “Dominic’s not perfect. I know that. He’s not the best at showing affection properly, and you know why. His father used him as a punching bag. Kyle? His big brother? Slept with anything that moved. I tried my best, but I was working three jobs, Paul. I was exhausted. I failed him in a lot of ways. But don’t you dare sit there and act like he’s his father.”

Paul sighed. “Helen, I know. I understand. But that’s what makes me worried.”

“Then show him different,” she snapped. “You say you care. Then be the father figure he’s never had. Don’t sit there and punish him for not knowing how to be something no one ever taught him. And if you’re so worried about Kennedy, then maybe stop comparing him to the man who beat the humanity out of him. He loves Kennedy, she's his little sister now and he just wants her to be safe.”

I couldn’t listen anymore.

I backed away from their door before I heard something I didn’t want to. My pulse was hammering in my ears, a strange mixture of anger, guilt, and something else—something deeper, more painful.

I turned and ran the rest of the way up the stairs to my room, slamming the door behind me.

I collapsed onto my bed, staring at the ceiling, my hands trembling.

I would never hurt her.

And I hated that I had to keep proving that. To them.

To myself.

I sat on the edge of my bed, head in my hands, fingers dug into my scalp like they could somehow root out the rage brewing beneath the surface. My walls weren’t enough tonight. Everything was cracking.

I was so goddamn sick of it.

Sick of being compared to him. To Mark. To the monster that used to beat the breath out of me and Mom like we were made of paper. Every time I lose my temper—even just raise my voice—I see it. In their eyes. That flicker of fear. That second of doubt.

Like I’m going to snap.

Like I’m him.

And yeah, maybe I’ve been in fights. Maybe I’ve got a record for throwing punches before using words. But I’m not him. I never wanted to be him.

I couldn’t even breathe without someone assuming the worst of me.

I didn't hear the knock at first. It was soft, almost hesitant.

I looked up, and there she was. Kennedy.

She stood in the doorway of the shared bathroom between our rooms, wearing one of those oversized sleep shirts and looking unsure. Her curls framed her face, catching the hallway light like a halo.

Her voice was soft. “Hey... are you alright?”

I swallowed hard, forcing the lump down my throat. I couldn’t look at her.

I shook my head. “Just tired.”

She stepped into my room slowly, like she was afraid I’d push her away. I didn’t. I couldn’t.

She sat beside me on the bed, her warmth brushing against my arm. The silence stretched, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable. If anything, it felt... safe.

And that’s when it broke.

Something inside me cracked open.

“I never told anyone this,” I started, voice low and uneven. “Not even my mom. But I need to say it... and I don’t know why it’s you, but it is.”

Kennedy didn’t speak. She just listened. Like she always does.

“You know why I got kicked out of Stanford?” I asked, even though I already knew she didn’t.

I could feel her watching me. I took a deep breath, let it out slowly.

“There was this girl,” I said. “We weren’t dating or anything—just... close. Friends. Kind of a friends-with-benefits thing. She was sweet. Smart. Shy, though. Had this innocence to her that reminded me of you.”

Kennedy stayed quiet, but I felt her body tense.

“She had a professor. Guy was always hovering, asking her out, making weird comments. She never reported him. Said it’d just make things worse.”

I clenched my jaw.

“One night we were supposed to meet up, but she didn’t show. Didn’t answer texts. So I went to her dorm.” My voice cracked slightly. “She opened the door... and she just fell apart. Crying. Shaking.”

I paused, forcing myself to keep going.

“She told me he raped her.”

Kennedy inhaled sharply beside me.

“She said he threatened her. Told her if she said anything, he’d fail her, get her blacklisted. Said he’d tell the dean she was the one who offered him s*x for grades. And he’d be believed, because he was a donor and had tenure. And because...” My voice dropped, bitter. “She was just some broke girl with no connections.”

I looked down at my fists, remembering how they felt when they smashed against that bastard’s face.

“I snapped. I don’t remember walking to his office, but I got there. I don’t remember the first hit. I just remember... blood. On my hands. On the floor. On him. They had to pull me off.”

Kennedy was still as stone beside me, but I could feel her heartbreak like a pulse.

“When I told the school what happened, they swept it under the rug. Said he was a respected man. Said exposing it would hurt the college.” My laugh was bitter. “They told me if I didn’t agree to finish my courses online and keep my mouth shut, they’d spin it and say I was the one who raped her. That he tried to stop me and I beat him.”

I let the silence hang, every word another stone dragging my chest deeper under the weight.

“They said people would believe it... because of my ‘background.’ All the fights. All the women I slept with. My dad. My anger. My fuckin’ name."

I finally looked at her, expecting judgment.

But it wasn’t there.

Instead, Kennedy reached for my hand. She held it like it was the most natural thing in the world and leaned into me, resting her head on my shoulder.

Neither of us said a word.

And for the first time in a long time... I didn’t feel like I had to explain who I wasn’t.

I just felt seen.

Wanted.

And somehow—despite it all—maybe even forgiven.