I wish I could say how I feel.
You still awake?
Sweet dreams, beautiful.
I sit on the edge of the bed and read them twice.
Hecansay how he feels. He just won’t. Until he does, I can’t keep standing in a space without a name.
I set the phone down gently rather than throwing it aside. I’m not angry. I’m tired.
Helping the kids at the youth center always steadies me. Their problems are concrete, real, and immediate. They don’t circle around a single word, trying to decode it.
So I head there.
By the time I unlock the doors and the first few kids trickle in, my emotions have settled into a productive state. I throw myself into work—organizing supplies, reviewing schedules, and checking on tutoring sessions.
Shane and Will come down twice a month to coach some of the older boys in boxing. We have a strict policy about who is allowed in this program, though. When the center first opened, a couple of boys signed up for boxing lessons, only to return and show off their skills to their gang members, using them against other kids. We quickly learned to be very selective about this program’s participants. Now, only those who want to make it their career one day, have never been in trouble, and have no gang ties are allowed in. So far, our stricter policies are working well.
We invest in those who want to build something better.
That thought lingers longer than it should. You don’t invest in someone who isn’t ready to invest in return.
I lock up in the evening, feeling steadier than I did this morning. The hurt hasn’t gone away, but it isn’t running the show anymore. On the drive home, I decide I don’t want tonight to be awkward. He showed up for me. I asked him to help, and he practiced with me even when he was tired. He sent messages to communicate. Even if we are only friends, friends don’t ignore each other.
When I pull into my garage, I send a quick text.
Been busy today—bet you have too. See you soon.
No hidden meaning. No test for him to pass or fail. Just neutral ground to reaffirm our friendship boundaries.
By the time I finish setting up the stage, the club is still mostly empty. Staff move quietly in the background, glasses clinking, lights dim and warm against the dark walls. The curtains are drawn around my setup, hiding the bedroom scene until it’s time. The area is rectangular, so the bed is arranged catty-corner in the back-left corner. On the wall opposite the bed, there’s a small table with roses, a bottle of wine, and a wineglass holding a small amount of wine.
I smooth the edge of the black fabric, then turn around—and that’s when I see him.
Luke is standing near a table, arms folded across his chest, dressed exactly as I asked. Black shirt. Black jeans. Black boots. He is playing the part of Death, seducing me as I sing. The lighting hits the angles of his face just enough to make him look harder than he probably feels.
He’s been watching me. I can tell from his posture, but mostly from the glint in his eyes.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The air between us feels different tonight—tighter. Not hostile. Just aware. I step down from the stage and walk toward him, keeping my posture relaxed even as my heart races faster than I want it to.
“Hey,” I say, letting warmth into my voice. “How was your day?”
“Fine.” His answer is brief, not sharp. “Yours?”
“Busy,” I reply. “But productive.”
He studies me as if he’s looking for something beneath the surface. Maybe he is.
“What kept you busy?” he asks.
There’s something careful in the way he says it—not accusatory, but searching.
“I volunteer at a youth center downtown,” I tell him. “Inner-city kids. I was organizing donations and working with a few of them this morning.”
His expression shifts—surprise first, then something softer. “You never mentioned that.”
“There’s a lot we haven’t covered,” I say gently.
