Page 98 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

Like the moment deserves space.

I tilt my head, brushing my lips against her temple.

She presses her face into my chest for a moment, breathing me in like she’s borrowing courage. When she looks up again, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes clear and steady.

For a second, everything in me stills—not from surprise alone, but from the weight of what she’s offering. Trust. Choice. Intention. This isn’t a moment happening to her. It’s something she’s stepping into.

“Yes,” she says, without hesitation.

I sit up, drawing her with me, grounding myself in the feel of her hands on my arms, the steady rise and fall of her breath.

“Okay,” I say carefully. “I just want you to know that we can stop. Anytime.”

She nods. “I know.”

“I, uh…” I clear my throat, a nervous smile tugging at my mouth. “I brought condoms.”

Her laugh is immediate, bright, easing the tension between us. “You did?”

“I like being prepared,” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck.

She smiles at me like that’s exactly who she expected me to be, her hands sliding over my arms. And in that moment, the nerves settle—not because I’m suddenly fearless, but because this feels mutual. Chosen. Right.

Whatever happens next, I know one thing without question. I don’t want to rush this.

And I don’t want it to be anything other than us, figuring it out together.

Her laughter fades into something softer.

“You’re always so thoughtful,” she says.

Her hands move slowly over my chest, purposeful rather than exploratory, like she’s memorizing the feel of me.

She kisses me then, and there’s nothing desperate or rushed in it. Just steady. The world narrows to the space between us, the quiet pulse of connection that feels almost reverent.

When we part, I rest my forehead against hers, pressing a kiss there, holding the moment a second longer than necessary.

I slip from the bed, my heart racing for reasons that have nothing to do with urgency. I retrieve what I need from my suitcase, lock the bedroom door, and turn back.

Lucy is already waiting.

She pulls the oversized shirt over her head with unhurried confidence, her movements unhurried and intentional. She meets my gaze without flinching, without doubt, and that confidence hits me harder than anything else could.

I return to the bed and draw her close. The world and all of its worries fade as I tug her closer, needing her in ways I’ve never needed anyone else.

As I prepare, I keep my movements careful, unhurried. When I look back at her, she’s watching me with open affection in her eyes, along with nerves she is no longer trying to hide.

“I love you,” she says quietly.

“I love you, too.”

I hover over her, close but not pressing, giving her space even as she invites me nearer. Her fingers thread through my hair, keeping me present.

The moment doesn’t answer any of the questions waiting beyond graduation. It doesn’t tell us where football will take me or what Lucy will choose for herself. But it does make one thing clear: neither of us is standing outside the other’s future anymore.

It’s about trusting each other enough to take one meaningful step together.

The rest unfolds slowly, with whispered questions, quiet answers, and no need to pretend either of us knows exactly what comes next.