In Love With Him

Chapter 27

Dominic’s POV

Pain.

That was the first thing I felt—an explosion in my skull like someone took a sledgehammer to my forehead and then rolled over me with a Mack truck for good measure. Five times.

I groaned, shifting slightly on the couch, and instantly regretted it. Pain crackled through my neck and spine like live wires, and my stomach rolled like it might come up with last night’s drinks.

I pried one eye open and immediately slammed it shut again. The sunlight was too damn loud.

Then it hit me.

Not just the hangover. Not just the stiffness. Her.

Flashes of last night rushed through my mind in jagged, gut-punching detail—coming home wasted, the kitchen light, Kennedy standing there, the scent of her—sweet, clean, like coconut and vanilla. The way her lips looked in the low light. The way she looked at me when she told me about Liam.

And then… f**k.

“Fuuuuuck,” I groaned again, dragging my hands over my face and pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes like I could force the memory out. Willing it to be a dream.

But I couldn’t.

It wasn’t a dream. I remembered everything now.

I kissed her. No, more than kissed.

I tasted her.

My heart twisted painfully, but it wasn’t the kind of pain that had anything to do with a hangover.

Her lips had been soft—so goddamn soft. I’d meant to say something comforting, something stupid and brotherly like ‘you’ll get him next time’. But then she looked up at me with those big eyes, full of uncertainty and something else—something I hadn’t been able to name at the time—and my brain just... short-circuited.

My mouth moved before I could stop it. I kissed her.

And she kissed me back.

She let me.

When my tongue traced her lips, I expected her to push me away, maybe slap me across the face and call me a pervert. Hell, I should’ve pushed myself away. But she didn’t. Instead she opened her mouth for me. Invited me in like I belonged there.

And god… she tasted perfect.

So f*****g sweet it made my stomach twist.

I rolled my head into the throw pillow and groaned into it like it could muffle the screaming chaos in my mind.

What the f**k was I thinking?

What was I going to do now? What was I supposed to say?

Any second now, she’d be coming down those stairs. Would she pretend nothing happened? Would she act normal—like we were just the same old dysfunctional family unit with step-sibling dynamics and unspoken tension?

Or would she look at me differently?

Would she expect me to bring it up?

God, what if she hated me for it?

I sat up slowly, gripping my throbbing head. My throat was dry. My stomach churned. I needed answers—but first, I needed two Tylenol and the longest, coldest shower of my life.

Get your s**t together, Dom.

I forced myself off the couch, my legs weak beneath me as I stumbled into the kitchen. The empty glass on the counter stared back at me like an accusation.

So did the memory of her lips.

She let me kiss her.

She kissed me back.

And somehow… that made it worse.

Because now I wanted more.

And I didn’t know if I could ever stop.

I leaned on the kitchen counter, palms pressed flat against the cold granite, praying the ground would split open and swallow me whole. Honestly, it would’ve been a mercy. My head throbbed like someone was jackhammering my skull from the inside out. My stomach twisted like it was pissed at me for last night’s decisions. And my mind—

My mind was just a swirling hurricane of her.

Then I heard it. That voice. Soft. Steady. Somehow always pulling me out of my own chaos.

“Dom… you okay?”

I looked up too fast.

The room spun, my gut lurched, and I inhaled sharply, fighting the rising bile in my throat. My vision blurred for a second before finally settling. When it did, there she was—Kennedy—standing across the kitchen in an oversized hoodie and shorts, her dark hair pulled up in a messy knot, looking at me with concern…and something else. Amusement? Pity?

I didn’t know.

I couldn’t think.

I didn’t trust myself to speak. Instead, I gave her a slow nod. A mistake.

Pain shot through my brain like lightning.

She walked over to me without hesitation and gently guided me toward one of the stools by the island. Her hand grazed my arm, grounding me. She moved with this quiet, graceful confidence that made it hard to look away. It was effortless, the way she floated through the space—boiling water, grinding beans, starting a pot of coffee. Like she’d done it every morning of her life.

I just sat there and watched.

Helpless. Pathetic. Hungover. And haunted by the ghost of last night’s kiss.

The coffee machine beeped and she turned, holding the pot in one hand and a mug in the other.

“Milk and sugar?” she asked casually.

My brain lagged a beat behind.

I just stared at her, then blinked and nodded slowly.

She gave me a soft smile. That smile.

The one that made my stomach twist in ways I couldn’t explain.

She moved to the fridge, grabbed the milk and butter, then tossed two slices of bread into the toaster. The smell of coffee was sharp and bitter and strong—exactly what I needed. When the toast popped, she buttered them lightly and turned back toward me.

She placed the plate and coffee in front of me without a word. Then she grabbed the Tylenol from the cabinet and set two pills down gently next to my mug. Like she’d done this before. Like she knew exactly what I needed before I even did.

I stared at the pills for a second.

Then I took them.

A long sip of coffee. A bite of toast. The world shifted slightly back into place.

She poured herself a cup and leaned against the opposite counter, holding the mug between her hands like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

“You were pretty hammered last night,” she said. Her tone was casual, but her eyes didn’t meet mine. “Do you always drink that much?”

I cleared my throat. It felt raw.

“No. Not really.”

She nodded like she expected that answer. Or maybe she expected a different one.

Silence settled between us like fog. Thick. Suffocating. My toast tasted like regret.

And then I broke.

“Kennedy…” I said slowly. Carefully. “I’m sorry. About last night. I shouldn’t have… I was drunk. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”

She froze just a little. The hand holding her coffee twitched.

She opened her mouth—like she was searching for words—but I didn’t give her the chance.

I kept going.

“It was a stupid mistake.”

That’s when I saw it.

That flicker across her face. That moment. That second of hurt.

Like I’d slapped her. Like the words physically landed.

She blinked quickly and forced a nod. “Yeah. A… mistake.” She swallowed, then avoided my eyes. “Um… I’m gonna check on Marty and Finn.” She placed her mug on the counter without drinking it. “But, uh… finish your toast. The coffee will help.”

There was a tightness in her voice I hadn’t heard before.

And maybe it was the hangover, or maybe it was guilt, or maybe it was both—but for a moment, I thought I saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes. And then she was gone—out of the kitchen like it was on fire.

I stood, ready to chase her, to grab her arm and tell her I didn’t mean it like that—that she wasn’t a mistake, not even close. That last night meant something.

But as soon as I moved, pain shot through my head like a baseball bat.

I groaned and leaned against the counter, pressing my hand to my temple.

“f*****g Christ.”

On top of feeling like I was on death’s door, I felt worse than I ever had in my life.

I made her think she was just a mistake.

And I wasn’t sure I could ever take that back.