He grins—slow, wicked, the kind that still makes my stomach flip after all this time. “Carry you. Always.”
Before I can sass back, he scoops me up in one smooth motion—bridal style, as if I weigh nothing—and stands. I yelp, then dissolve into laughter, arms looping around his neck.
“Show-off.”
“Only for my boy,” he murmurs, kissing my forehead as he heads toward the bedroom.
I rest my head on his shoulder, still smiling like an idiot. The apartment is quiet except for our breathing and the faint hum of the fridge.
This night feels like the sweetest, easiest promise we could ever keep.
THIRTY-NINE
SILAS
It’s beennine days since Luke walked back into my life at that bar—nine days of stolen hours, late-night texts that turn into early-morning calls, and more sex than I thought two people could reasonably manage without needing IV fluids.
We’re careful about it. No rushing. No hiding. We talk—really talk—about the past, about what we want, about how neither of us is willing to let this slip away again. Every time he leaves my apartment, I feel the absence like a bruise, but it’s a good bruise. The kind that reminds you the body is healing.
Tonight, he’s sprawled across my couch in sweatpants and one of my old hoodies, feet in my lap while I half-heartedly scroll through takeout options on my phone. The TV is on low—some crime documentary neither of us is paying attention to. His toes wiggle against my thigh every few minutes, a lazy little reminder that he’s here, that this is real.
He’s been quieter than usual for the last ten minutes, his foot rubbing absent circles on my knee. I know that look. He’s working up to something.
I set my phone down. “What’s on your mind,hermoso?”
He glances up, caught. Then he grins—small, a little sheepish, the kind that still makes my chest ache.
“So… the guys do game night every Saturday,” he starts, casual like he’s talking about the weather. “Pizza, video games, cards, too much beer, Ty losing spectacularly at Uno and blaming everyone but himself. It’s stupid and loud and perfect.”
I nod slowly, already sensing where this is going. “Sounds like them.”
“Yeah.” He sits up a little, pulling his legs under him so he’s facing me fully. “They’ve been asking about you. Not in a weird way. Just… ‘How’s Silas?’ ‘You still seeing him?’ ‘When are we gonna see the old man again?’ That kind of thing.”
My stomach does a slow, uncomfortable flip.
Luke reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together. “I told them we’re good. Really good. And they’re happy about it. Like, genuinely. Even Micah said—and I quote—‘If Coach makes him smile like that again, I’ll buy the first round.’”
I huff a quiet laugh despite the nerves. “Micah said that?”
“Swear to God. Colton nodded like it was gospel.”
I stare at our joined hands, thumb brushing over his knuckles. “They’re your people, Luke. I don’t want to… intrude. Or make it weird.”
“You’re not intruding.” His voice is firm, gentle. “You’re part of this now. Part of me. And they know that. They want to see you. Not Coach Gray—the guy who used to make them run suicides until they puked. Just Silas. The one who makes me stupidly happy.”
I meet his eyes. They’re steady, warm, completely unguarded.
“You really think they’re okay with this? With us?”
“I know they are,” he says softly. “Ty already made a joke about calling you ‘Coach Stepdad.’ Will rolled his eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck. But they’re excited. They want you there.”
I exhale through my nose, the knot in my chest loosening just a fraction. “When?”
“Next Saturday. My place. Low-key. Just the usual crew—Ty, Will, Colton, Micah, Daniel, Quinn, Todd, Eli, Max, Logan, and Nathan…the whole circus.”
I recognize most of the names. The football guys I coached. Max from training staff. Eli’s impossible cheerfulness. Daniel’s loud energy.
I sigh and nod my head.
