“Well, if it took you over ten years, the superiors within the gay agenda alliance shouldn’t be promoting you to field agent anytime soon.”
“No, see, that’s all part of the strategy. We can’t have too many people coming out all at once. Too suspicious. Thelong game is what we’re going for. Steady, realized over time, naturally, so no one recognizes the manipulation behind the scenes.”
“Right, so it’s your influence that’s brought this on.”
“Now you’re getting it. I am one hundred percent responsible for this newfound attraction, it has nothing to do with your wiring whatsoever.”
“I’ll let you believe that for now, but if I do bring this up with Oliver, I’m letting him take the credit.”
“Does that mean you’re going to listen to reason and tell him how you feel?”
“Undecided. I still don’t know how I want to approach this. But I will say you’ve given me a lot to think about.”
Chapter 23
Oliver
Ever since that strange run-in in the hallway last week, Luke seemed off. Not in an obvious way, not all the time, but something sat beneath the surface. He hesitated around me, like he kept second-guessing himself. I noticed it in the way conversations stalled on his end, how pauses stretched a beat too long.
These subtle shifts in demeanor, tone, posture, even breath were the kinds of details I’d learned to notice while living with Vincent. While Luke’s behavior didn’t trigger the fear I’d known with Vincent, the sense that he was holding something back tugged at me, making me wonder if I’d done something wrong. But my habit of assuming the worst in moments of ambiguity belonged to me, not to him. Luke didn’t deserve to carry the baggage of my past. So I did what experience had taught me to do. I waited and observed him, trying to dissect meaning in every move.
My observations were rewarded this morning with Luke reaching up into the highest cabinet for a roll of paper towels, his arm extending overhead, shirt riding up to reveal the indentations of the dimples at the base of his back.
I’d first glimpsed them on our camping trip. I’d stared at them, feeling an absurd sort of injustice. Not only was he one of the best people alive, but also visually exquisite in the mostspecific and tempting of ways. Of fucking course he had Apollo dimples. Because why wouldn’t he? Dimples were one of my personal weaknesses, and he carried them in his smile, in the curve of his back, and in the strength of his chin. I wasn’t a conceited person, but I swore his entire being had been assembled for the express purpose of tormenting me with things I was powerless but to want, and forbidden to desire.
I tried not to stare, I did, but I stood there anyway, ensnared by the sight. My fingers itched with the urge to touch him there.
Blinking hard, I swatted the thought away. I turned toward the sink, mug in hand, intending to rinse it out. But in the precise moment I leaned forward, something in me, whether my traitorous body or my heedless heart, overrode caution, and my fingertips grazed the bare skin above Luke’s waistband.
He froze, breath catching. Beneath my fingertips, his muscle gave a faint twitch, an involuntary reaction or perhaps held-in shiver. More curiously, his body leaned against my touch. Almost like he wanted it.
Was this what his weirdness was about? Did he... was there something here? No, it couldn’t be.You’re imagining things, projecting your longing into a moment where it doesn’t belong. We’ve been over this a thousand times. Luke is not yours to envision like that. You have to stop thinking he wants you back.
Before reason could intercept the urge, I traced the pad of my index finger along the small of his back.
A soft exhale emerged—his soft exhale—well on its way to becoming a gasp. His back arched and head fell backwards.
My hand hovered, trembling with the instinct to back away and the ache to stay. Every sensible part of me screamed to move, to laugh it off, to claim some convenient excuse, but my body disobeyed, rooted in place from want and confusion.
As he turned to face me, sense finally caught up with my actions. I stepped back, dropping my gaze, unwilling to see hisexpression. “I... sorry,” I rushed to say, shame rushing in to mop up the space wonder had just vacated.
Luke’s hand closed around my shoulder. “Ollie,” he said his voice saturated in a different kind of softness from his usual compassionate gentleness. This came out heavy with... nope, didn’t matter what I thought I detected, my blasted ears were tricking me into hearing what I wanted to. Still, I lifted my eyes to his.
“I like when you touch me. Please don’t be sorry for it. Don’t take it back.” His fingers caressed my collarbone before dropping to his side.
How was I supposed to interpret that? It seemed impossible to hope that after all these months it meant something more, something deeper, but it sure seemed to live in a different category than even Luke-branded affection. He never spoke to Ezra this way. I wanted to ask him what he meant, if he spoke from a strictly platonic sense or if he meant it in a different way. I wanted reassurance and clarity and permission all at once. But pressing him for definitions felt unfair. If he hadn’t meant it romantically, my asking would only box him into expectations he didn’t belong in. Just like my inconvenient feelings, I swallowed the questions; I would choke on them before I insisted Luke conform to some black-and-white, societal concept of desire.
“I like it when you touch me too,” I whispered. “I like that I’m safe in your arms. I’ve always been safe with you.”
They were truths that broke me, because I knew he wouldn’t hear them the way I meant them, but they healed me too, because with Luke, I never had to worry if he would suddenly become dangerous.
Running his fingers through my hair, he said, “I’m glad.”
I couldn’t respond with anything other than a nod. Speaking risked asking for more than he was ready to give.
“I should...” Luke gestured toward the counter, where his travel mug sat empty and his breakfast untouched.
“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah. Of course.”
