I knock twice, light and playful, then lean my forehead against the doorframe while I wait. My heart’s doing that stupid fluttery thing again—like it’s forgotten how to behave around him. Pathetic. Adorable. Whatever.
The door opens before I can knock a third time.
Silas is barefoot, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair still damp from a shower. He looks at me like I’ve been gone for years instead of twelve hours, and something in my chest unclenches.
“Hey,hermoso,” he says, voice low and warm, already reaching for the bag.
I hold it just out of reach, tilting my head. “What, no ‘welcome home, baby’? No dramatic dip-and-kiss? I’m wounded.”
His mouth twitches. “You want the dip-and-kiss, you gotta earn it.”
I step inside, kicking the door shut behind me, and finally hand over the food. “Fine. But only because I’m starving, and these tacos aren’t gonna eat themselves.”
I toe off my shoes as he sets the bag on the coffee table, then turns back to me—slow and deliberate. His eyes drag down my body as though he’s cataloging every detail of my look: dark jeans, fitted black Henley, the thin silver chain around my neck that he gave me when we were dating before and I never took off.
“You look good,” he says quietly. “Really good.”
I grin, stepping into his space until our chests almost touch. “You’re not so bad yourself, old man. Smell nice, too. Did you shower just for me?”
“Maybe.” His hands settle on my hips—light, testing. “Missed you.”
“Been like ten hours.”
“Felt longer.”
I roll my eyes, but my smile gives me away. “Sap.”
“Brat.”
We stand there for a second, breathing the same air, foreheads almost touching. Then he kisses me—slow, deep, like he’s been thinking about it all day. I melt into it, hands sliding up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt.
When we break apart, I’m already half-hard and annoyed about it.
“Food first,” I say, voice a little rough. “Or I’m gonna let you fuck me on the coffee table and the tacos will get cold.”
He groans low in his throat, but steps back. “Evil.”
“Strategic.”
We end up on the couch—takeout spread between us, legs tangled, the TV on low as background noise. I tuck one foot under my thigh and dig into a taco while he watches me like I’m the main course.
Halfway through my second one, I catch him staring.
“What?” I ask around a mouthful of carne asada.
“Just… this.” He gestures vaguely at the scene: food, us, the quiet apartment. “Feels real.”
I swallow, wipe my mouth with a napkin, and set the taco down. “It is real.”
He nods slowly. “I know. I just—” He exhales, sets his own food aside. “I need to know what we’re doing here, Luke. Really doing. Because I’m all in. I’ve been all in sincethe second you walked into that bar. But I need to hear it from you. Is this… boyfriend? Future? Or are we just… seeing where it goes?”
I study him for a long second. He looks vulnerable in a way he rarely lets anyone see—shoulders tense, eyes searching mine like he’s bracing for the wrong answer.
I shift closer, knee pressing against his thigh.
“I’m not ‘seeing where it goes,’” I say quietly. “I’m twenty-three years old. I’ve spent the last year figuring out who I am without you, and I like that guy. A lot. But I like the version of me that’s with you even more. The one who gets to be a brat and a mess and still feel safe. The one who gets to come home to you.”
His throat works. “Yeah?”
