Page 62 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

As I cross campus, the leaves are coming down faster now, skittering across the sidewalks. Football season is winding down, and the reminder follows me all the way across campus. Decisions are coming. Big ones.

Lucy is the first change to my plan that hasn’t felt like losing control.

And something tugs in my chest.

Somehow, making room for Lucy has made my life feel more complete, not less focused.

***

“I don’t know what to wear,” Lucy says, pacing her bedroom, the hem of her bathrobe swaying with every anxious step. Her red hair falls in loose waves down her back, and even now—frazzled, undecided—she’s breathtaking.

“Wear whatever makes you feel like you,” I say, crossing the room and gently settling my hands on her shoulders. “That’s always been more than enough.”

She looks up at me, amber-brown eyes moving between me and the clothes spread across her bed. “I just want to make a good first impression.”

“You already do. Every time you walk into a room.”

Her lips curve slightly. “Even if I showed up in a trash bag?”

“Especially then.”

She laughs softly, and before I can think better of it, I lean in. She meets me halfway, her hands sliding into my hair as our lips connect. The kiss is warm, sweet, and full of everything we haven’t said out loud yet.

She backs me toward the bed, and when I sit, she climbs into my lap. Her confidence surprises me, but there’s nothing rushed about the way she kisses me. Just curiosity, trust, and something steadily growing between us.

I ease her down onto the bed and prop myself up on my side, making sure she’s still with me.

“Is this okay?” I ask quietly.

Her answer is immediate. “Yes.”

My hand slides along her side, beneath the edge of her robe. She inhales sharply, her fingers tightening in my shirt as my fingers slip beneath the edge of her lace panties. Her response nearly makes me forget the dinner completely.

But I slow myself. This isn’t about taking. It’s about being present.

Still, when she whispers, “The door,” I smile against her temple and pull away just long enough to close it, clicking it shut softly before returning to her side.

She looks at me like I’m something safe. Something real.

“I’ve never done this before,” she admits quietly.

I brush my thumb along her jaw, my voice gentle. “Then we go slow.”

She nods. “Okay.”

What begins as one kiss becomes a series of careful questions and quieter answers. Every time my fingers slow against the swollen bundle of nerves pulsing at her center, Lucy draws me back. Every time I ask, she tells me what she wants.

By the time I remember the dinner, her hair is tangled, my shirt is crooked, and neither of us is breathing normally.

She looks at me then, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with a mixture of boldness and shyness.

“Can I… do that for you?” she asks, the question tentative but sincere.

“You never have to do anything because I did something for you.”

“I know,” she says. “I want to.”

I kiss her forehead. “Then we’ll talk about it when we aren’t supposed to leave in ten minutes.”