His voice still echoes in my head, wrecked and blissed out, whispering“you’re so hot”like it was a confession.
That look in his eyes… like I was something holy.
A crooked smile tugs at my lips. The memory hits me fast, sharp, like a match strike in the dark.
The car slows as we turn onto his street — narrow, quiet, steeped in familiarity.
I check my watch. 8:38 PM. Good. He’s probably still awake.
James pulls to a stop outside.
I pull out my phone and send him a quick text:I’m here, come downstairs.
He sees it almost instantly. But doesn’t reply.
Then, minutes later, I see him.
He steps out into the night like he doesn’t even know it’s holding its breath for him. Streetlight spills down over him, warm and soft, gilding the edges of his silhouette like something out of a dream. He’s wearing a beanie, and I hate it instantly because it hides the curls I ache to run my fingers through.
Still, he’s beautiful.
He always is, even when he doesn’t try, especially when he doesn’t try.
“Go take a smoke break,” I say to Mike, my eyes never leaving Lucas.
Mike nods and steps out wordlessly. A moment later, he opens the door for Lucas with the same crisp formality he uses for me.
The second Lucas slips into the seat beside me, the air shifts.
He turns to me, eyes sharp and unreadable in the dim light of the car. Something like defiance lives in his expression, not anger, not exactly, but close enough to draw chaos if I reach for it wrong.
Then he lifts a hand, showing me an envelope.
“What is this?” he asks. His voice is low, barely above a whisper, but it slices clean through the silence.
I glance at the envelope.
But my attention catches somewhere else entirely.
His fingers.
Slender. Smooth. His nails are painted with natural pink that gleams subtly under the car’s ambient light. They look like they belong in a painting. The shade glows against his skin, soft but striking and delicate.
And fuck, it’s distracting.
By the time I drag my eyes back to his face, he’s watching me — lips parted, like he’s about to speak. But he doesn’t.
He freezes.
Because he sees it.
He sees how I’m looking at him.
The intensity in my gaze hits him mid-breath, and his mouth closes slowly. His throat bobs with a swallow.
“I had it set up for you,” I say quietly. “Because I want you to have a degree. A future you choose.”
He blinks, chest rising with a shallow breath.
