He nods once. The movement is subtle, but his eyes never leave mine. There’s no flicker, no break. Just his steady gaze locked on me like gravity, like a choice.
My breath catches.
“Good,” I say, voice thick. “Sit on the bed and wait for me. I’m going to take a shower.”
I walk away before the fire between us turns into something I can’t control.
***
The water scalds my skin, steam curling around me in waves, but it does nothing to burn the want out of me.
Because he’s out there. In my room. Wearing my clothes like they were made for him. Standing barefoot by my bed with that sleepy, dazed look in his eyes like he just woke up from a dream I wasn’t in, but God, how I want to be. How I wish to be all he dreams about.
My dick is hard. Throbbing. Aching with a frustration so deep it feels like it lives in my bones. I brace my hands against the tiled wall, bow my head under the spray, breathing like I just ran a mile.
But that look in his eyes haunts me—that soft, unguarded want.
He looked at me like he needed something. Like he didn’t know how to ask for it, but he didn’t have to. I felt it. Felt it in the way his fingers tugged at the hem of my tank top, in the way his gaze lingered a little too long on my chest before darting away. Like he wanted to be touched. Seen.
I don’t know why he’s like this all of a sudden, why he’s not pulling away, why he said no when I asked if he wanted to go home. But fuck, I want to touch him so badly I can barely think straight. I want to show him what it means to be wanted. To be worshiped. To be felt. I want to put my mouth on every inch of him, make him tremble beneath my hands, make him come undone so slowly, so thoroughly, he forgets every person who’s ever made him feel small or invisible.
I press my forehead to the tile, water pouring down my back.
Still hard, I force my body to calm, whispering a curse under my breath. Eventually, it fades enough for me to breathe again. I wrap a towel around my waist, change into my sweatpants, and dry my hair quickly with one hand.
Then I step back into the bedroom.
He is sitting by the edge of my bed, a calm look on his face as he hugs his knees, his head rests gently atop them, and his arms are wrapped tight like he’s holding himself together.
I move towards him with gentle steps, my eyes never leaving his. When I stop in front of him, I reach down and tilt his chin up with two fingers. His face lifts, and for a moment, we just breathe. Just look.
His eyes are wide, brown, soft, but burning. Not with fear. Not with uncertainty but with something that feels like a need that’s raw, unsaid, and unmistakably mutual.
His cheeks are flushed, pink crawling up his throat, and his eyes… they won’t stop flicking between my face and my chest like he’s trying to look and not look at the same time.
“I’m negative,” he blurts. “I haven’t—I’ve never—”
He stops, eyes wide like the words jumped out without his permission. His hands shoot up, and he slaps them over his mouth, face turning crimson with horror.
And God, he looks beautiful.
I can’t help it. My lips tug up in a small smile, quiet, almost reverent. I’ve never seen anyone so unintentionally endearing. So unguarded and honest.
And it hits me, like a punch to the chest.
He trusts me.
With his body. With his truth. With the kind of fragile things most people bury so deep, no one ever sees them.
I reach for his hands, gently pulling them away from his mouth. His eyes narrow like he’s mad at himself, but they don’t leave mine, not for a second.
Then I lean down slightly, cradling his beautiful face. His skin is warm under my palms, soft and real.
“Lucas,” I whisper. His name falls from my lips like a prayer. Like something I’ve been trying to say for years.
We don’t speak. We don’t need to.
Because in this quiet, fragile space between us, we know.
