Breaking the Grid

Playing

Hey guys, I'm really sorry for the long time it's been taking me a few months to write chapters. I started this story, which I really like, with lots of ideas, but I think I've now got writer's block because I spend 45 minutes in front of my screen before writing 10 words. 😭

I think I'll finish this book soon because it deserves an ending, but I won't hesitate to maybe write a new book. Thank you all <3

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I rub a hand over my eyes again, the weight of exhaustion sinking into every bone. My body feels heavy, my mind sluggish, but a strange warmth spreads inside me when I glance at the silver band around my finger. We woke up at eight, and though I'd promised myself to be the one getting things in order for once, Blair had—of course—let me sleep in. By the time I finally pulled myself from the sheets, blurry-eyed and slow, she had already folded and packed everything neatly away.

So here we are, both in pajamas at the airport—her in an oversized hoodie that looks like it belongs to me, and me in a wrinkled top and joggers. And still, she looks like she stepped straight out of an advert: glossy hair tied back, skin glowing even without makeup, and her smile—the one she reserves for moments when I'm about to break down.

Fans are already there, scattered like a wall of voices and flashes. I squeeze her hand, but before I can blink she's the one who laces her fingers through mine, tugging me behind her with a kind of effortless authority. A few stop-and-sign moments—pens, caps, scraps of paper shoved in front of her—but she keeps apologizing to them for her "rudeness," even though it's clear she's exhausted too.

By the time we reach the car, the photographers have doubled. Flashes pop in my face, and the noise is relentless until the door slams shut behind me. The silence inside is deafening. My head drops back against the seat, the cool leather meeting my skin as if trying to soothe me.

Blair slides into the driver's seat. For a moment she doesn't start the car. She just sits there, eyes fixed on me. I can feel her gaze burning into my profile, and my heart stutters. I bite down on my lip, cheeks heating until I can't stand it anymore and glance away toward the window.

That's when I hear it—her low laugh, soft and fond, curling around me like a blanket. The engine hums to life, but before the car moves, her hand comes to rest on my thigh. My breath stills. The weight of her palm is warm, grounding, intimate in a way that makes me dizzy all over again.

"We're engaged," she murmurs, her voice carrying a hint of wonder, "and you're still shy like that, Ky..." Her thumb traces a slow circle against the fabric of my joggers. "...it's cute."

I turn toward her, unable to help the small smile tugging at my lips despite my embarrassment. And in that instant, between the soft pressure of her hand and the way her eyes glow even in the dim of the car, I realize—this is the woman I'm going to marry.

And she's still finding new ways to undo me every single day.

The car hums steadily beneath us, London passing in quick flashes of grey and green, when Blair suddenly veers off onto a narrow street I don't recognize. She brakes lightly in front of a corner café, rolls her eyes at me with that stubborn little smile, and says, "Best coffee in London, trust me."

Before I can protest, she's already unbuckled, jogging inside in her hoodie and pajama bottoms like it's the most natural thing in the world. Two minutes later, she's back—hair a little messy from the wind, cheeks flushed, balancing two cups carefully. She slides into the seat and hands me one with a proud, "Here you go, fiancée."