He washes me, rinses me, dries me off, and dresses me. I insist on brushing my own teeth, feeling a little better now that I’m clean, and he’s here. In whatever capacity, he’s here. Luc makes me some toast and changes my bedsheets while I eat. I can’t handle much. I’m not really hungry, but I eat one whole slice with butter, and Luc finishes the rest.
When he tucks me into bed, he murmurs against my forehead that he’s sorry again. I’m too tired to tell him this isn’t his fault. This is just how I am. I tend to feel it all or nothing.
I’m not sure where he thinks he’s going when he stands to leave me, but I hang on to his hand and pull him into bed with me.
“My clothes–” he starts.
“Just take them off, you can borrow some of mine in the morning,” I say. “Don’t worry, I’m too tired to get hard, so you won’t be bothered.”
His quiet huff of laughter is sad. But he strips down to his boxer briefs and socks and climbs into bed behind me, pulling me securely against his chest.
The next time I wake up, it’s light out. I have a moment of panic that Luc showing up last night was a dream, but there’s a deep indent in the pillow next to me, and I feel almost rested. I haven’t felt that since the last time I slept with him next to me, the night before the paparazzi mobbed our car.
I hear movement in the kitchen, dishes clinking, and low murmured voices. The smell of coffee wafts in with the understanding that Luc is in the kitchen with my mother. Just weeks ago, we were talking about introducing each other to our respective families and going public with our relationship. Now he’s probably in there discussing my well-being.
After brushing my teeth and pulling a hoodie over my shirt and boxers, I pad into the kitchen. I pause, staring at the comfortable, weirdly domestic scene in front of me. Luc, wearing a pair of my sweatpants and a t-shirt that’s baggy on me but almost obscenely tight across his chest, is also wearing one of my mother’s aprons, the one that looks like a big-breasted woman in a bikini. He sets a plate with what looks like an omelet in front of her, and she thanks him. Without looking up, he sets a coffee cup that says,I’m A Fucking Rockstar, That’s Why, in front of the seat next to my mom and fills it, adding the perfect amount of cream and sugar. Warily, I enter the kitchen and take a wide berth around the island, but it’s not wide enough.
Luc hooks an arm around my waist and pulls me against his chest, rubbing his nose in the back of my hair. “Much better,” he mumbles, and I don’t know if he means that he feels better because he could hug me this morning, or if it’s because my hair smells better.
My mom tries to hide her grin but fails. I roll my eyes at her.
“So…you two have met then.” I hate feeling so awkward about it when I was so looking forward to them meeting. “This wasn’t really how it was supposed to happen.”
“Things rarely happen the way they’re supposed to,” my mom says, pushing a lock of hair off my forehead.
Luc slides a massive omelet onto a plate and cuts a small portion off one end, putting it on a separate plate and sliding it to me wordlessly. I pick up the fork, thankful he didn’t give me too much. My stomach won’t tolerate much.
“So, Luc, how long are you able to stay? You mentioned you play in Atlanta next week?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll need to be home Friday to pack and get on the plane, but I could stick around until then if I’m not in the way. I can get a hotel or–”
“Absolutely not,” I say, interrupting him. “You’re lucky you weren’t spotted getting here last night.” He wasn’t. Blake would have called. He has all kinds of alerts set up so I don’t have to look at my phone and fall down a rabbit hole of hate and vitriol. “You should probably not leave unless you have to, and when you leave–”
“Jesse. If I were worried about them seeing me, I wouldn’t have come. I’m not doing that to you anymore.”
“Don’t suck up to me,” I tell him lightly. “Whether you’re ready to come out or not, I don’t think this is the right time. The paps and even the mainstream news are feral right now. It’s not safe.” I want to tell him to discuss it with our PR team, but I don’t want to subject him to a bunch of rules just so he can be withme. “We also don’t even know what’s going to happen. With us, I mean. We haven’t discussed it yet.”
Luc wipes his face with his napkin and nods. “You’re right, we haven’t. So let’s discuss.”
TWENTY-SIX
JESSE
“Finish that,” Luc says, gesturing to my still mostly uneaten omelet. “I’m going to have a quick shower and borrow some clothes if that’s okay.” I nod. His lips quirk. “You wouldn’t happen to have any more of my hoodies lying around, would you?”
I narrow my eyes at him. If he thinks he’s getting all his clothes back, he'd better think twice. “Top left-hand drawer,” I admit.Wait until he sees what else I keep in that drawer.
“Thanks.” Luc kisses the top of my head before loading his plate into the dishwasher and reaching for the pan.
“I’ll do that,” I say, sending him off to the shower. I can’t decide if I need space to think before we talk about things, or if I’m not ready at all. I watch him walk away, the muscular globes of his round ass and thick thighs testing the limits of my sweatpants.
My mother’s silence catches up to me, and I tentatively flick my gaze to her. She pointedly looks down at her cup of coffee, rolling her lips in.
“I can see why you like him so much,” she finally says.
We both crack, laughing for the first time in weeks.
“In all seriousness, baby, I like him for you.”
