Page 103 of His Secret Obsession

“Your humility astounds me.”

He laughs at that, properly.

“You understand what I’m saying though, right?” I ask. If we have sex now, with nothing between us, no hatred or lies or conflict, then there’ll be nothing stopping me from jumping him several times a day.

I can see if now. If we start today, then in two weeks I’ll be sitting in a creaky, old hall, staring at my examination paper, and the only thing that’ll come to me is the memory of Lucas bending me over the kitchen bench and fucking me hard.

But there’s something else that’s stopping me, something I can’t say aloud. If we get intimate, it means I’m going to have to take a long look at the “friend” label. I’ve told myself for ages that I can’t be with Lucas. I had a whole laundry list of reasons why.

But now, I’m having trouble remembering what they were.

“I know,” Lucas murmurs. “I know. I can wait a little longer.”

He takes his hand off my crotch, and I fight the urge to make a disappointed noise, even though it’s what I wanted. I unwrap my legs from around him.

“We can still kiss though, can’t we?” he asks against my lips.

“Yes.” His lips touch mine. “But only chaste kisses.”

“Okay.” He kisses the corner of my mouth. Then the tip of my nose. Then my forehead.

And then, with a slow exhale, he pulls away. His eyes flick to the groceries on the bench. “We should put those away.”

*

SWOTVAC drips by like a leaky tap, every day painfully slow. On the upside, Lucas and I get a routine going. We drink coffee in the morning and chat, then head back to our respective rooms to study for a few hours. We get in a short morning walk, return for lunch, then complete practice questions until dinner.

One afternoon, Lucas convinces me to do an at-home workout with him. He tells me that when a person exercises, they’re able to pay more attention and learn and remember more, which sounds like something I’d heard in one of my lectures. So, I agree, and painful crunches and planks aside, it’s nice to watch Lucas work out. He wears his usual exercising gear: shorts and a singlet, and I don’t even have to pretend I’m not staring.

But then we start the push ups. My limbs are already jelly, and in the time it takes me to complete one, he’s done five.

To my dismay, he starts talking. “Come on, Charlie,” he says, voice low and breathy, and I fall flat on my face.

“Get up,” he says, still doing the stupid push-ups. “I’m almost finished.”

“Are you speaking like that on purpose?” I ask, struggling to get up on my hands and feet.

“Like what?” he says through an exhale. “If you keep going, you’ll finish the workout.” A sigh. “I’m almost there.”

Jesus.

“You’re… you know. You’re moaning.”

“I’m not moaning.” It’s definitely a moan. He lowers himself so he’s parallel to the floor, his face tight and his triceps bulging, and all I can do is stare, mouth parted.

I’ve seen porn that’s less erotic than him doing this right now.

“Charlie,” he begins.

I snap to attention and place all my focus on finishing another horrible push-up. I do not think about the way he said my name, or the way all my blood rushes to my dick.

One week, two days to go.

*

One afternoon, after spending so long at my desk that English no longer makes sense, I think of Lucas in his room and decide to stretch my legs and pay him a visit.

I open his door and knock on the frame to get his attention.

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