“He wants you, though,” I finish. “Still does. That hasn’t changed.”
His exhale is shaky, but I see the relief in it. The flicker of hope he tries so hard to hide.
I offer a small, real smile. “So if you’re asking if there could be a second chance… yeah. Maybe. But I’m not doing the old story again. No secrets. No disappearing acts. No loving someone in silence because it feels safer that way.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he says instantly, as though the words have been waiting in his throat.
I nod. “Good. Because I want the real thing this time.”
Then I lean back, grab a strip of bacon, and take a bite.
“Also,” I add, “you’re buying breakfast this time. I’m a broke college kid with four more years in front of me.”
He laughs, shaking his head to agree. And just like that—maybe—we can find a happy ending.
THIRTY-SIX
LUKE
We don’t talk muchon the walk to his place. I didn’t go to brunch with the idea of going back to his place with him, it just happened. The café’s only a ten-minute stroll from his apartment building. I recognize the cracked sidewalk, the chipped paint on the railing, the faint smell of garlic lingering in the hallway, as if one of his neighbors cooked with it recently. Nothing’s changed. That realization hits me harder than I expected.
He unlocks the door with the same key he’s had forever, and the moment we step inside, it’s like time folds in on itself.
The living room is exactly as I remember: the same worn leather couch where we used to make out until we were breathless, the same coffee table with the faint ring from my smoothie habit, the same crooked stack of playbooks on the shelf, next to his history text books. Even the air feels familiar—clean soap, old books, the ghost of his cologne.
My eyes catch on the armchair in the corner.
My hoodie is still there.
The gray one with the faded university logo, the one I left on the back of the chair the morning he sent the text. It’s folded neatly, as though he’s been taking care of it. Like he couldn’t bring himself to move it.
I laugh—soft, surprised, a little choked up.
“You kept it,” I say, crossing the room to pick it up. The fabric is soft, worn in all the right places. “Jesus, Silas. You’re such a sentimental bastard.”
He closes the door behind us, leans against it, watching me with that quiet intensity that always made my knees weak.
“Didn’t have the heart to move it,” he admits, voice low. “Every time I tried, it felt like erasing you.”
I pull the hoodie to my chest, inhale. It still smells faintly like me—like the cologne I wore back then at least.
“You’re ridiculous,” I tease, tossing it back onto the chair. “And your apartment is disgustingly spotless. You’ve been stress-cleaning for a year, haven’t you?”
He huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe a little.”
I step closer, close enough that our shoes touch. “You’re adorable when you’re feeling guilty.”
Holding his eye contact, I slip my shoes off, and toe them onto the mat he has for them. Some things never change. Silas watches the small motion as if it means something bigger. His throat works when he swallows.
“You still take them off at the door,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Even now.”
“Habit,” I reply, shrugging one shoulder. “You trained me well, Coach.”
The old title lands soft between us—no sting, just memory. His mouth twitches, not quite a smile.
I reach out, fingers brushing the front of his shirt, feeling the steady thump of his heart underneath. “You gonna keep standing there staring, or are you gonna kiss me like you’ve been thinking about it since the café?”
He doesn’t answer with words.
