“Twopumps of hazelnut and espresso. Don’t forget the espresso,” he mumbles without opening his eyes.
“Okay. Espresso. Got it. I’ll be back in a bit.” I lean down to kiss the top of his head. Then I stand up and head toward the door, grabbing one of the key cards on the way out.
Despite the map on my phone literally telling me where I need to go, I still can’t help but ask the guy at the front desk for directions just to make sure I don’t get lost. Not that it would be hard following the edge of a square, since it’s apparently right on the other side of this building, but with my luck, anything’s possible.
Traffic isn’t nearly as slow as I expected, with cars still zooming through the streets in this part of town like it’s not a Sunday morning. The air around me is strangely energized, and I have the uncanny feeling of being ten years old again, out on a field trip in the middle of a school day while everyone else is going about their routines. The way it prickles my skin isn’t wholly unpleasant, but I can’t trust it. I’m waiting for the panic attack that’ll surely ruin the moment as soon as it kicks in my brain that I’malonein downtown Detroit.
Thankfully, it’s a very short walk, and I make it to Starbucks in one piece. But I’m shocked to see how crowded it is as I get in line. It takes about fifteen minutes to get our drinks (Luke’s drink, really) before I can finally make my way back toward the hotel.
I study the milky brown liquid swirling around the clear plastic cup of Luke’s drink and wonder how something like this would taste. It looks like a sugary milk concoction that can’t possibly pass as coffee. Even if it does have a shot of espresso in it.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I can’t help but take a sip. Instantly, I frown and shake my head as my taste buds are assaulted. Nope.Waytoo much for me. It’s not that it tastesbad, per se. It’s just…not good. I’ll stick with my plain coffee and cream, thank you very much.
Unsurprisingly, Luke is back to sleeping when I get upstairs. However, I’m instantly stopped in my tracks, breathless at the sight of him on the bed.
Luke is lying on his back with one arm draped above his head on the pillow, his face turned to the window, and the covers are in disarray, pulled down and barely covering his naked body—just enough to be modest. His torso is exposed, those delicious little sparrows on full display. And the way the sun is beating through the window right now is throwing a bar of beautiful golden light across him on the bed. It’s like looking at a painting.
I’m gripped with a disastrous need to get a picture of this moment, if I can even do it justice. Setting the drinks down on the table, I pull out my phone and turn on the camera, but the moment I do, Luke stretches on the bed, ruining the perfect shot.
“No, wait!” I cry, holding out my hand dejectedly.
Luke freezes, looking up at me with confusion and a modicum of concern, and all at once, I feel silly. I don’t want to admit whatI was trying to do. It’s one thing sneaking a picture while he’s not aware of it, but another to be caught in the act. Is that even allowed? Or is it just creepy? It feels borderline creepy.
“Never mind,” I say instead, shaking my head.
“What is it?” Luke rubs at his face.
“It’s nothing. Forget it.”
“Ethan.” Luke sighs, giving me a stern look. “What is it?”
I bite my lower lip, gingerly holding up the phone in my hand. “It was just the lighting…and the way you were lying. I was gonna get a picture.”
Luke seems surprised but not upset as he lets out a little chuckle, glancing down at himself on the bed. He looks out the window before settling back down onto the pillows, smiling. “Okay. Is this right?” he asks, trying to put himself back in the same position he’d moved from.
I stare at him blankly for a minute, my brain slowly processing what just happened before snapping back to my senses. He’s waiting for me to continue.
Luke’s a willing model, taking direction with grace and ease as I make minor adjustments. After I feel confident that the shot is perfect—maybe even better than before—I snap the photo.
Luke immediately demands to see it, grabbing his glasses from the side table, and I pick up our coffees on the way to the bed. Sitting down next to him, I pass him his drink and the phone, and his jaw immediately drops with an unmistakable look of surprise.
“Holy fucking shit, Ethan.” He grins. “Holyshit. I didn’t know you were a photographer.”
“I’m really not,” I say sheepishly, rubbing the back of my neck. “I just like taking pictures.”
“Excuse me.” Luke scoffs. He starts pinching and zooming in and out on the photo, studying every detail down to the letter.“This isbeautiful. The composition? The lighting? The pose?Fuck. Can I post this, actually?”
“What?” My eyebrows shoot up with the request.
“On Instagram. It’s areallygood picture.”
“Oh, I… Uh. I mean, I guess? You really like it that much?”
“This isart.” Luke smiles, his eyes bright, and my cheeks warm with the compliment.
Luke sends the picture to himself, then quickly taps away on his own phone, saving and uploading the photo before I’ve even registered he’s doing it. He then turns the screen to me and shows me the image at the top of his Instagram feed under the handle @lukewarmincolor. I take the phone from his hands and click on his profile, the account picture catching my eye. He’s striking a dramatic pose in the middle of Times Square with a rainbow folding fan over his head.
But my jaw drops as I notice the follower count beside it.
