Luke’s mouth twists into a timid smile, and his cheeks flush. “Well, um,” he clears his throat and turns his eyes back to the road. “I would very much like to date you. If that’s what you want.” He adds that last bit hesitantly, giving me a questioning glance.
“Oh, thank god,” I groan, sinking into my seat with relief.
Luke bursts out laughing. “Was that bothering you?”
“You have no idea.”
“Oh, I have some idea.” He chuckles. “I wasn’t sure what you were interested in or comfortable with, and I didn’t want to push too quickly or just assume….”
“We’re hopeless.”
“Yeah, but it’s kind of romantic, don’t you think?” Luke grins. “What’s a good romance without a little miscommunication?”
I smirk, but my smile falters as a thought crosses my mind. “Are you really okay with me not being out, though? Like…at work and stuff. With my friends. Does it bother you that I don’t want anyone to know right now?”
Luke smiles warmly and lifts our joined hands to his lips, delicately kissing the backs of my fingers. “I already told you I don’t mind. You know my stance on those shitheads at work, so evenIwouldn’t be comfy being open about it there. But, with your friends and anyone else you’re worried about, I don’t mindbeing discreet. As long as you’re not coming from a place of shame by being with me.”
“No, not ever.”
“Then we’re good,” Luke says, and I can tell he means it. “You should try and get some sleep. We’ve still got a few hours to go.”
I nod and sigh, leaning back in the seat and closing my eyes. Relief washes over me, and everything suddenly feels easier—lighter. I’m exhausted and still in a low mood, but the urgency and panic have passed. Luke squeezes my hand again, a silent reminder that he’s right here with me. And somehow, knowing he’ll still be here when I wake up makes it a little more manageable.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Marble and Brass
Justlikethat,I’mofficially dating Luke Shaw. Luke Shaw and I are boyfriends.Boyfriends. God, saying that still sounds so fucking good. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over it.
While we’ve spent the past few weeks settling back into our routine from before the camping trip, it’s entirely different this time. In the mornings, we chat with the guys over coffee, acting like we’re nothing more than platonic bros, and no one suspects a thing. We keep our distance while on the floor, but working so close together makes it easier for us to chat throughout the day without being suspicious.
When lunch rolls around, Luke and I sneak upstairs to the secret office and collide into a supernova of crashing bodies and hands tangled in each other's hair after depriving ourselves of the physical connection all day. It feels like a release of stardust every time Luke pushes me against the wall or decrepit furniture, and the messy clutter of the disused space somehow becomes more disorganized after our aggressive makeout sessions.
It’s hands down my favorite part of the day, even though we keep it above clothes. But the scandal of knowing that we’re only a floor away from people who would lose their fucking minds if they saw us adds a bit of spice to the whole thing, and the restraint of being unable to touch him until then drives the urgency higher.
Though when we come down from the initial rush of that touch-starved craze, we do actually sit and eat lunch.
It didn’t take me long to notice that the only thing Luke ever seems to bring is a PB&J, and I have to wonder if that’s by choice or simply because he lacks better options. When I catch him eyeing my various home-cooked meals with the dejection of a kicked puppy sitting in the rain, I start packing more of my food to give him the extra when I’m ‘full’ without making a fuss about it. Slowly, it becomes a thing where I make more than enough for the two of us until Luke eventually catches on to my subterfuge and stops bringing the sad little sandwiches.
I think he enjoys my cooking. He doesn’t even have to say anything. I can see it in the way he closes his eyes as he savors the smell, and the soft sigh he releases after taking a bite. When he’s finished, he smiles like he’s experienced something truly beautiful. The flush of pride I feel every time he reacts that way is worth every bit of hard work that goes into preparing these meals, and it certainly doesn’t hurt when he kisses me boneless as an added thank you.
Luke comes with me to the gym after work at least three times a week, and I get to see what goes into maintaining that god-like physique of his. I didn’t think watching him work out would be as hot as it is, but something about him getting sweaty in his tight shorts and tank top makes it incredibly difficult to focus on my own routine. I already tripped once while running on the treadmills, nearly flying off the back because I was too busystaring at his ass. He practically died laughing when he found out.
More often than not, Luke finds an opportunity to push me against the cold metal lockers, giving me another workout with his tongue in my mouth, sending my heart racing. There’s a level of danger in kissing out in the open like this, especially being so close to home, but it’s hard for my brain to pay attention to the risks while I'm being kissed like our lives depend on it.
Sometimes, it feels like mine does. Like I might fade from existence if he’s not touching me. I didn’t think I could crave the touch of someone's hands as much as I do his, but when they’re absent, it’s palpable.
I can feel myself being drawn into his center of gravity like a comet yanked off course after passing too close to the sun. I’ll most certainly burn up in a blaze of glory upon entering his atmosphere, but when the alternative is living as a lifeless bit of space rock in an empty void, going out in a show of brilliant color would be worth even my own destruction.
Even when we’re not physically next to each other, Luke and I text back and forth with the same eagerness, as if we can’t go more than a few hours without occupying each other's thoughts. It’s a little juvenile, but I won’t deny how much I fucking love it. Luke’s messages range anywhere from downright vulgar to gut-wrenchingly sweet, and there’s something of a poet in him that I can only attribute to his thespian heart. I’ve caught myself grinning like an idiot at his flowery texts on multiple occasions, the words engraving themselves on my very bones, digging out the marrow, taking root.
Outwardly, to anyone paying attention, nothing has changed between Luke and me. And yet,everything’schanged.
But we’re taking it slow. His idea, not mine.
Luke insists that our time apart will make our time together more worthwhile, and he doesn’t want to rob me of the whole‘first boyfriend’ experience, complete with torturesome pining. The sentiment is cute, but if I had my way, he’d be at my house every night, curled against my chest, just like he was on our trip. I’m halfway to being a middle-aged man. I don’t need to experience the soul-crushing tension of distance to make the heart grow fonder. It’s already fond.
Besides, I own a perfectly good house far enough away from prying eyes where Luke and I could be as loud as we want, and we wouldn’t have to worry about anyone hearing us. I would very much like to havethatexperience.
