Something in his expression shifts. The grin stays, but it softens around the edges. As though he knows exactly what I’m doing and why it matters.
“Water’s fine,” he says.
I grab two bottles from the fridge and return, handing him one. Our fingers brush—barely—but it’s enough to set something humming low in my chest.
He drops onto the couch, lounging like it’s his own, as though we haven’t both been avoiding this for days. But I notice the tightness in his shoulders. The way his leg bounces once before he stills it, it’s as if he’s bracing for something.
I sit beside him—not too close, not too far. Why did no one ever warn me that love can twist you up like a pretzel and you’d want to stay that way?
He cracks the bottle, takes a sip, and eyes me over the rim. “So… this the part where you read me the emotional riot act about drunk messaging?”
“No,” I say quietly. “This is the part where we stop pretending that this is nothing.”
That gets his attention. His eyes sharpen. The teasing drops just a fraction.
“Luke.” I say. “We can flirt later. Right now, I need to know if we’re doing this—for real. Because I don’t half-ass things. And I sure as hell don’t take risks like this lightly.”
He swallows, throat moving. “Definethis.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, water bottle hanging from one hand. “Whatever’s happening between us. The pull. The way I can’t stop thinking about you. The way you look at me as if you’d let me keep you.”
Silence.
Then, finally, he says, “I ran like a kid from my feelings.”
“I know.”
“I panicked.”
I nod. “I know that, too.”
His voice is quiet. “You’re older. You’re steady. You know what you want. I’ve spent most of my life convincing myself I don’t want anything, so I can’t be disappointed when I don’t get it.”
I turn my head, meeting his eyes. “Youcanwant something, Luke. You can wantme.We can figure this thing out together.”
He exhales, ragged, like he’s been holding it in for days. “What if I fuck it up?”
“You probably will,” I admit, soft. “But so will I.”
His laugh is broken. Real. And I reach for him then—just his hand—fingers curling around his knuckles.
“We try anyway.”
Luke’s thumb brushes over my knuckles, almost absent-minded. He’s still quiet. Still watching me as if I might disappear if he looks away.
“You’re… really fucking patient,” he murmurs, a hint of disbelief in his voice. “You ever get tired of waiting on people who don’t know what they want?”
I huff a soft laugh. “Every day.”
His mouth twitches, like he wasn’t expecting me to say that.
“But,” I add, “when someone’s worth it, I don’t mind waiting a little longer.”
His gaze flicks up. And it’s clear now—less guarded. He leans in slowly, testing me.
His free hand settles on my thigh, sliding higher—not overt, not obscene, but definitely a shift in energy. “You know,” he says, voice low, “there are other ways to say we’re doing this.”
“Luke.”
