Page 143 of The Backup Plan

We come in soft moans and muted grunts. In stuttered kisses and clasped hands. In clenched muscles and arched backs.

“Lucas,” I moan as I meet his lips. Tears sting my eyes and my heart swells in a way I’ve never experienced before.

“I know,” he says back. Another kiss. “I know.”

He gently collapses on top of me and presses his lips to the underside of my jaw. I love the warmth of his breath on my skin there and the feel of his weight on top of me.

It’s comforting. It’s real.

I run my fingers through his hair over and over almost as if I can smooth the grief out of him with my hands.

“I love you too,” he says.

My fingers falter, and chills chase over my skin. My heart beats a little faster . . . and a smile spreads onto my lips.

I know this won’t take his pain away—sex, my love, our friendship.

But I’ve given him something I don’t think he would have allowed himself to have. Unconditional love.

The kind of love that stays when the lights turn off, the crowd looks away, and everything else leaves.

And together, I hope that can be what he needs.

What we both need. Because I know, without a doubt, that this man is someone I want to be a part of my future.

Emery

We’re lying side by side, fingers loosely linked, and staring at the ceiling.

The room is quiet as we sink into our thoughts. It’s neither awkward nor empty. Just full of what we said. Full of what we didn’t say.

The day.

The aftermath.

And trying to figure out where we go from here.

Lucas’s chest rises and falls evenly beside me, and every now and then his thumb brushes against mine like he needs to reassure himself that I’m still here.

I love you.

The words echo in my head, incredible and terrifying all at once.

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this—since someone said it like it wasn’t conditional. Like it wasn’t a bargaining chip or placeholder or something they’d take back later when it wasn’t inconvenient.

And of course, it happens now.

Of course, it happens wrapped around the worst possible circumstances.

I’m still processing all of it when Lucas exhales slowly.

“Can I tell you something without you trying to fix it or explain to me why I’m wrong?” he asks.

I don’t look at him. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll say the wrong thing. Or the right thing at the wrong time.

“I’m a good listener,” I say.

“I know it won’t make sense to you, but this sport . . . it’s not just what I do. It’s how I know who I am.”