I pause. “Yeah. I am.”
Her gaze flicks to Silas, then back to me. “Maybe God doesn’t make mistakes after all.”
It’s not a blessing. Not quite. But it’s not judgment either.
And for the first time since coming out, I step off their porch feeling like maybe—maybe—we’re not just a story of loss and distance. Maybe we’re a work in progress.
FORTY-TWO
SILAS
We don’t speak muchon the drive back to my place. The silence isn’t heavy—it’s comfortable, the kind that comes after you’ve both carried something difficult and set it down together. Luke’s hand rests on my thigh the whole way, thumb moving in slow, absent circles, grounding me. Every so often, he glances over, as though he’s checking I’m still breathing easy after the afternoon.
When we step into the apartment, the door clicks shut behind us, and the world narrows to just this: quiet, dim light from the living-room lamp, the faint smell of coffee from earlier, the way Luke immediately kicks off his shoes and turns to face me.
He looks lighter too. Cheeks slightly flushed from the drop in temperature, eyes bright.
I set my keys in the bowl, shrug out of my light jacket, and hang it on the hook. He watches every movement as though he’s memorizing it.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
I nod. “Better than okay. That was…a lot. But good. Really good.”
He steps closer, hands sliding up my chest to rest on my shoulders. “My mom…she saw us. Actually saw us.”
“Yeah.” I cover his hands with mine. “She did.”
We stand there for a long moment, foreheads almost touching. Then I take a breath—the one I’ve been holding since we left his parents’ house.
“Luke…I’ve been thinking.”
His brows lift slightly, playful curiosity flickering. “Dangerous territory.”
I smile despite myself. “Maybe. But hear me out.”
He nods, waiting.
I take another breath. “I don’t want this to be something we do on weekends and stolen nights anymore. I want more. I want you here—your toothbrush in my bathroom, your hoodies in my closet, your mess on my coffee table. I want to wake up to you every morning and fall asleep next to you every night. I want to build something real.”
His eyes widen, lips parting.
I hurry on, keeping my voice steady. “I’m not saying it has to happen right now. Or that it’s a requirement. We’re good—really good—and I don’t want to push. I just…I want you to know it’s what I want. If you want it, too. Whenever you’re ready. No pressure. Just…an open door.”
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move.
Then he launches himself at me.
Arms around my neck, legs wrapping my waist, he jumps as if he’s been waiting for permission his whole life. I catch him automatically, stumbling back a step until my shoulders hit the wall. He’s laughing—bright, wild, joyful—peppering my face with kisses: forehead, cheeks, nose, eyelids, mouth.
“Yes,” he says between kisses. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
I laugh too, hands gripping his thighs to hold him up. “You sure? I didn’t even finish?—”
“Shut up.” He kisses me hard, messy, grinning against my lips. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask. I’ve been trying not to ask first because I didn’t want to scare you off. But yes. A thousand times yes. I want to live with you. I want my stuff everywhere. I want my hoodies on your floor and my coffee in your mug and your stupid motivational quotes on the fridge. I want all of it.”
My chest feels too full. I turn us, press him gently against the wall so I can kiss him properly. He moans into my mouth, fingers threading through my hair, tugging just enough to make heat coil low in my belly.
When we break apart ,we’re both breathing hard.
