Page 73 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

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Before I can overthink it, the question slips out. “Do your friends not like me?”

Dylan stiffens instantly, his arms strengthening around me. “Why would you think that?”

I hesitate, knowing that once I ask, I can’t pretend the answer doesn’t matter.

“No reason,” I lie. “I just don’t want to make things harder for you.”

The lie feels unfair the moment I say it, but I am not ready to hand him a conflict with his teammates while the victory is still fresh.

Dylan shifts so he can see me. “You don’t make things harder,” he says. “I’m choosing how I spend my time.”

I know I’m giving him the smaller fear because it’s easier to solve.

And yet there’s a separate fear tucked beneath the surface, whispering that maybe I’m not an addition at all. Maybe I’m something he’ll eventually outgrow.

“I’m glad to hear that,” I say, my voice wavering slightly as he presses a soft kiss to the tip of my nose. Even though we haven’t crossed every line together, I already feel like a part of me belongs to him in a way I can’t take back. That realization is scary. Because giving someone your heart is one thing, but knowing they’re already holding it is something else entirely.

“I’ve been trying not to say this too soon,” Dylan says. “But I love you. I need you to know that.”

The words settle between us, larger and quieter than every version I have read on a page.

“I love you, too, Dylan.”

His warm hand settles at my hip, slow and reverent, as if he’s memorizing me rather than rushing ahead.

I close my eyes as his lips brush my neck. The fear, the doubt, the constant noise in my head—all of it softens. Right now, the future doesn’t feel so loud. It’s just us. Just Dylan and me.

We stay like that for a while, wrapped around each other, neither of us rushing to fill the quiet. When emotion finally crests, it’s not overwhelming. It’s steady and present. A single tear slips free, surprising me as much as it does him.

Dylan notices immediately. He always does. His thumb brushes it away with infinite care.

“Hey,” he says. “What’s wrong, Luce?”

I shake my head slightly, still catching my breath. “Nothing bad,” I admit. “I just… like being here with you.”

He smiles, his face soft in the glow of the TV, blue eyes bright with something that looks a lot like relief. “I like having you here, too.”

“I’m nervous,” I confess, the word barely audible.

“Nervous about what?” he asks gently, his forehead resting against mine.

About losing myself.

About losing you.

About loving something I can’t control.

The words line up neatly in my head, but they refuse to cross my lips. Because once they’re spoken, they become real.

And I don’t want to plant doubt in a moment that still feels soft and new.

So, I swallow the bigger truth and offer him something safer.

“What if your mom doesn’t like me?”

“She already does,” he says.