Page 85 of Made for Mayhem

The kitchen looked like a storm had come through and changed its mind halfway.

Cabinets lay splintered on the floor. Tile shards glittered across every surface. A fine haze of dust hung in the air, softening the edges of the destruction. And right in the middle of it sat Daisy, cross-legged on the floor, a letter trembling in her hands.

I’d let her wreck the place.

Every instinct I had screamed to step in, to fix it—but she didn’t need fixing. She needed the chaos. The swing. The noise. The motion. She’d needed something she could hit that wouldn’t hit back. After the hand she’d been dealt—losing her sister, losing her job, losing the life she thought she’d built—it was a miracle she was still upright at all.

Now, watching her read the letter, I could see the anger draining out of her one word at a time.

By the time she reached the end, her shoulders shook with tears she’d been holding back since the moment she arrived. She folded the paper, pressed it to her chest, and closed her eyes like she could keep the world from falling apart if she held tight enough.

Something in me split open.

The radio changed songs, rock music faded into something slower, steadier—piano first, then a familiar ache that settled deep in my ribs. I nudged the volume up on Love Will Keep Us Alive, letting the song fill the wrecked kitchen, the dust, the quiet grief sitting on the floor.

When I stepped closer, Daisy blinked up at me through tears and drywall dust. “What are you doing?”

“Testing a theory,” I said, holding out my hand.

Her voice was rough as she wiped at her cheeks with the sleeve of her hoodie, smearing dust instead of clearing it away. “And what’s that?”

I wiggled my fingers. “We dance.”

A breathy huff escaped her—half laugh, half disbelief—as she slid her hand into mine. “Ty, I can’t dance right now.”

“That’s fine.” I gave a gentle tug. “Just stand.”

I pulled her close until her chest brushed mine. With our hands clasped, we weren’t quite hugging, but her presence anchored me and I hoped mine did too.

“This is dumb,” she whispered, voice fraying as her free hand settled against my chest.

“Maybe.” I wrapped my arm around her waist and tugged her nearer. “But maybe dumb is what we need.”

I felt her laugh more than I heard it, a soft tremor against my ribs. Little by little, she began to move with me. The stiffness eased from her shoulders as I guided us in a slow two-step, broken tile crunching under our shoes like a metronome.

Her fingers brushed my neck. “You’re covered in dust,” she murmured.

“Then we’re a matched pair.”

With a long exhale, she deflated, her forehead falling against my chest.

Holding her felt natural. Like I’d been built for it. Like if she leaned hard enough, I’d find a way to hold it all.

“You asked me last week why I didn’t ask for your number that night.”

Her breath caught, but she didn’t lift her head.

“I wanted to.” My throat tightened around the truth. “Fuck, I wanted to. But I didn’t have anything to give you.”

Her fingers curled in my shirt.

“My life was empty back then,” I went on. “I’d just retired. I didn’t know who the hell I was without hockey. No plan. No home that felt like mine. And you were this bright, impossible thing. All light and laughter. Like a dream I didn’t deserve to touch twice.”

She squeezed my hand, still silent.

“I told myself it was better that way,” I admitted. “That you’d go live your big, messy, beautiful life, and I’d get my shit together. But I never stopped wondering where you ended up. Or if you found someone who made you laugh like I did.”

Without thinking, I brushed stray hair from her face and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Barely there. Pure instinct. But the second I did it, my pulse kicked hard.