Chapter 14
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
The apartment’s still half dark, half drunk from last night.
There are empty bottles on the counter, a half-eaten pizza box tipped on its side, and somebody’s jacket was draped across the kitchen chair that doesn’t belong to any of us when I finally fell into bed.
As far as I know, the apartment is empty apart from the band, but I think Miles headed out with someone.
My head’s buzzing even though I haven’t slept more than a couple of hours, and it’s not just from the hangover starting to chew on me—it’s from The Lantern. The gig. The noise we made.
Our socials haven’t stopped lighting up since we walked off that stage.
Mentions, tags, shaky videos with captions like who the hell are these guys?
?? and Lantern crowd lost their minds. And yesterday, Carl, The Lantern’s manager, called again.
Said the words “next month” like he was offering us a map to a bigger world. I haven’t come down since.
The sun isn’t even up properly when my phone buzzes again. I groan, roll over, and squint at the screen.
Ollie: Outside.
That’s it. No preamble. No warning.
I’m on my feet before my brain catches up, nearly face-planting into Eli’s abandoned drum bag that’s somehow made it into my bedroom.
My boxers are the only thing I manage to grab on the way out.
My legs are shaky, my mouth tastes like beer and sleep, but my chest is pounding with something that feels way too much like joy.
When I open the door, there he is.
Ollie looks exhausted—eyes heavy, dark circles painted under them—but his smile is big, unguarded, like he couldn’t stop it if he tried. He’s got a duffel slung over one shoulder, hoodie unzipped, damp clinging to the edges of his hair.
“Hey,” he says, and just that single word makes my chest flip.
I know they had a killer game last night. I watched the highlights at three this morning when I couldn’t sleep, scrolling through clips of him driving the ball down the court, commanding the floor, throwing himself into it like he was born for it. He was everywhere. He was everything.
And now he’s here.
I don’t bother with hello. I grab his hoodie, yank him inside, and press my mouth to his like I’m trying to erase the days we’ve missed. He kisses me back instantly, hard and deep, like he needs this as badly as I do. The door slams shut behind him, forgotten.
He tastes like Gatorade and exhaustion and Ollie.
His hand cups the back of my neck firmly, pulling me closer, and I can’t stop the noise that rips out of me.
I shove him against the wall, our bodies colliding, teeth clashing.
It’s desperate, messy, with so much hunger bottled up that I swear the air itself sparks.
“Missed you,” I rasp against his mouth.
His laugh is low, rough, vibrating through me. “Two days.”
“Too long.” My hands are already on him, sliding under his hoodie, up the slick plane of his chest. He’s still warm from sleep or travel or both. Muscle under my fingers, heartbeat thundering against my palm.
“Bedroom,” I mutter, and then I’m dragging him down the hall before he can answer. My bandmates could wake up any second, and maybe that should make me hesitate, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes me hungrier.
We stumble into my room, the mattress half covered in lyric sheets and a crumpled T-shirt.
I don’t care. I push him down onto the bed, climb on top of him, and kiss him until we’re both gasping.
He grips my waist, fingers digging in, and I grind against him, the friction shooting straight through me like a live wire.
He groans into my mouth, and fuck, I’ll never get tired of that sound. It’s raw, unguarded, like I’m hearing the truth from a guy who spends his whole life holding it back.
“You’re still buzzing,” he says against my throat, voice thick.
“Lantern,” I pant. “We killed it. Last night we celebrated.”
“I wish I’d been here,” he cuts in, his breath hot against my ear. “You were incredible.”
That makes me freeze for a second, then burn hotter. “Yeah?”
His eyes catch mine, dark and sharp even in the low light. “You looked like you belonged there.”
No one’s ever said that to me before. Not like this. Not with this certainty. My chest tightens, and I kiss him harder to keep from saying something stupid.
His hoodie comes off, then his T-shirt, and I can’t get enough of touching him, running my hands over every line of him, memorizing the heat, the weight. He’s four inches taller, built to dominate the court, but here, under me, he lets me take the lead—and fuck if that doesn’t make my blood sing.
I trail kisses down his chest, my teeth grazing, my tongue following, and his breath hitches. His hand tangles in my hair, not guiding, just there, anchoring me.
“You’ve been running on fumes,” I murmur against his skin.
“So have you,” he says, voice rough.
He’s right. I’m hungover, underslept, stretched thin. But with him beneath me, flushed and panting, none of that matters. All I feel is this—us—electric and alive.
I shift lower, dragging my lips over the lines of his stomach, tasting salt and skin, teasing him until he lets out a curse that shudders through his whole body.
He fists my hair after I peel away his clothes—not harsh, but insistent, like he can’t decide if he wants me to finish what I started or pull me back up where he needs me most.
He chooses the latter, tugging me up with a rough sound, his mouth catching mine before I can even breathe.
The kiss is frantic, teeth scraping, tongues sliding, every part of him pressed hot against me.
The rhythm builds between us without thought, hips grinding, the sensation sharp enough to rip the air out of my lungs.
He mutters my name against my lips, a sound so raw it makes my chest clench. My hands roam everywhere—over his chest, down his sides, into the curve of his hips, until they land on his dick and mine. He’s all heat and muscle, every line of him tensed like he’s trying to hold something back.
I don’t want him to hold back. I want the storm.
The heat coils tighter and tighter as I hold us together, my grip firm and almost frantic as I jack us off.
Every nerve feels strung out, electric. His hand slides down my spine, anchoring me, keeping me pressed against him as we move together, faster, harder, chasing the edge.
His breath is hot in my ear, harsh, ragged, and when I press my forehead to his, I see it there too—in his eyes, dark and blazing—that he’s right here with me.
The friction spikes, unbearable, and then it breaks.
Release tears through me, blinding, unstoppable, my whole body bowing into his as I somehow keep going, using my cum to ease the way.
He groans, low and guttural, as he follows, shuddering against me, clutching me so tightly it almost hurts.
Our names tumble out, half formed and desperate, gasped like they’re the only words we’ve got left.
I collapse onto him, chest heaving, forehead pressed against his shoulder, sweat slicking our skin. My pulse is still racing, but his hand finds the back of my neck. The touch is gentle as he strokes his thumb once, grounding me even in the wreckage.
We lie together, tangled and trembling, the air thick with heat and the sharp edge of coming our brains out. My heartbeat finally slows, syncing with his. He turns his head and presses a kiss into my damp hair, and for a second, I feel like I could stay in this exact place forever.
There’s no basketball, no music, no teammates, no bandmates. Just us, raw and wrecked and grinning into the silence of a Sunday morning.
“You,” he says softly, almost to himself.
“Me,” I answer, and kiss the corner of his mouth because I can’t not.
The room smells like sweat and sex and celebration, and the only thing buzzing louder than my head is my heart.
We don’t move for a while, sprawled across my sheets like two guys who’ve just run marathons in different arenas.
Sweat and cum slicks between us, but I don’t give a shit.
I press my face against his shoulder and breathe him in.
Salt, fabric softener, the faint tang of eucalyptus from those wipes he always seems to have on hand.
His chest rises and falls beneath me in heavy pulls, like he’s trying to steady himself after a game.
“Your roommates home?” he asks after a beat, his voice rasped down to something low and private.
“Couple of hours ago they were still passed out cold,” I say, lips brushing his skin. “Pretty sure Drew made out with a girl on the kitchen counter. Eli filmed it. Normal Saturday.”
That earns me a quiet huff of laughter. His hand stays at the back of my neck, like he’s forgotten how to let go. “You guys looked… big Friday night,” he says. “Like more than a college band. It seems like I’m not the only one to think so.”
I pull back just enough to see his face. He’s serious, not just tossing me a compliment. His eyes, still heavy-lidded, pin me in place. “You saw the videos?”
“Once or twice,” he admits, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Clips on YouTube. Somebody filmed the whole set.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, dropping my forehead to his chest. “The whole thing is wild.”
“It’s good,” he cuts in. “You—” He stops and seems to chew on the words. “You looked and sounded incredible… like you belonged there.”
The same thing he said a few minutes ago, but now it sinks deeper.
I swallow, hard, my throat tight. Compliments don’t usually mess me up like this, but coming from him?
Ollie, who’s got the whole damn world staring at him every time he steps onto the court?
It feels like a medal I didn’t know I wanted.
“You looked like you belonged last night too,” I throw back, trying to balance the scale.
He snorts. “We won by twenty. That helps.”