Chapter 33
Dominic
When the away game rolls around, my life is back to its usual brand of fucked.
Strangers in public. Lovers in private. That’s the rhythm we’ve fallen into again, like the week apart, and the mess in the middle, was just a glitch the universe threw in to see if it could shake us loose.
On campus, we’re exactly who everyone thinks we are.
I’m Lakehaven’s golden boy, straight as a fucking ruler, throwing practice passes and laughing too loud at jokes I don’t find funny.
He’s the serious TA, with his neat shirts, and his folders, and his cross.
We pass each other in hallways, and lecture halls, and on the quad, and we pretend nothing exists between us, except maybe a professional nod.
But his office has seen more sin in the last week than most bedrooms have in a lifetime.
The cottage is off-limits, because my mother is still in town—floating in and out of places she shouldn’t be. She showed up at practice again two days ago, sunglasses on, Kyra sitting beside her looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.
I felt the weight of her gaze every time I dropped back in the pocket.
When your mother trains you to kill, you don’t ever really forget what her attention feels like.
That’s why I’m keeping Brendon off that property; I can’t have the two halves of my life overlap under that roof.
The idea of her scent mixing with his within those four walls makes my skin crawl.
So, we’ve been using his tiny office instead.
The first time after everything, he tried to keep it professional. He had his laptop open, my coursework pulled up, and a list of things we needed to cover before the away game, so my grades didn’t tank again.
I shut the door behind me, turned the lock, and at the sound, he looked up with that wide-eyed, cornered-deer expression I’ve learned means his brain is thinking about running, while his body is already halfway to kneeling.
It went downhill from there. Academically speaking.
Now, there’s a subtle tension in him every time I show up at the door with my backpack and my fake polite smile.
He’ll let me in, shut the door, and for five whole minutes we actually talk about contracts, torts, and case law.
Then I’ll lean back in the shitty chair that complains every time I shift, stretch my legs out, and his eyes will flick down to my mouth—like they’ve been waiting all day for an excuse.
By the time we’re done, his face is red, my shirt is untucked, and there’s at least one new smudge on the wall from where his back hit it too hard. If anyone ever turns the lights off and shines a blacklight around in there, his office is going to glow like a crime scene. Which… fair.
The night before the away game, the tension is so intense that practice doesn’t take the edge off.
Keller rides me hard, bitching about film and footwork and staying calm in the pocket, and I take it, because I have to.
The whole time, my brain is half on the field, and half on the fact that in twenty-four hours, I’ll be on a bus heading two towns over, and the only thing I want to do before I leave is touch Brendon until my palms remember his shape.
By midnight, I’m done pretending I can sleep.
The apartment complex is quiet at this hour.
The security light over the entrance flickers when I pass under it, buzzing like a dying fly.
I take the stairs two at a time, because the elevator in this building sounds like it’s been trying to fall for a decade.
My hood is up, hands shoved in my pockets, head down, in case any other late-night wanderers decide they suddenly want a selfie with the campus quarterback.
Brendon lives on the third floor, at the end of the hall.
I know exactly how many steps it takes to get to his door, which is closed now.
My heart starts beating harder, which is stupid, because I’ve been here a hundred times.
I knock once, knuckles tapping softly, then do it again when there’s no immediate response.
There’s a beat of silence, then the sound of movement. Something thumps, there’s a muffled curse, then the lock clicks and the door opens a crack. He peers out, hair mussed, T-shirt wrinkled. Jericho’s black head appears near his ankle, his yellow eyes judging from the gap.
“Dom,” Brendon whispers, blinking up at me. “What time is it?”
“Midnight,” I say. “Put pants on. We’re going somewhere.”
He just squints. “I’m already wearing pants.”
I glance down, and he’s in gray joggers that hang low on his hips and a shirt that says:
EAT SLEEP STUDY REPEAT.
“Real pants,” I clarify. “Shoes. Hoodie. We’re going out.”
He stares at me, looking like he’s trying to decide if I’m a dream or a break-in, then his brows draw together and sleepy brat mode starts kicking in.
“I have class in the morning,” he mutters. “And essays to grade. And also it’s midnight, you psycho.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And I’m leaving tomorrow. So get dressed.”
I can see the argument forming in his eyes. Responsibility. Sleep. Schedules. The way he always puts everything ahead of himself. I lean my shoulder against the doorframe and give him a look.
“You want me to beg, baby boy?” I ask, voice dropping to the register that always makes his dick twitch.
His throat works. “No,” he says quickly.
“Then go put some fucking shoes on,” I say. “I’ll wait.”
“You’re bossy,” he grumbles, but he steps back and opens the door fully, letting me in.
Jericho threads himself around my ankles, and I bend to scratch behind his ears once, while he purrs like a small engine.
Brendon shuffles toward his bedroom, muttering under his breath. I lean against the wall and watch him go, clothes rumpled, shoulders tense.
“What’s with the kidnapping?” he calls from the bedroom, voice muffled as drawers open and close.
“It’s not kidnapping if you want to go,” I say.
“Who says I want to go?” he shoots back.
I smirk. “Your feet. They’re already moving.”
There’s a soft sputter that sounds suspiciously like him trying not to laugh, and when he comes back out a few minutes later, he’s in jeans, a black hoodie, and sneakers. With his hair pushed back, he looks more awake, but there’s still a crease on one cheek from the pillow.
He crosses his arms, trying for stern. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise,” I say.
He gives me a flat look. “Last time someone told a horror-loving millennial it was a surprise, we got Scream.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And? You love that one.”
“I have a black cat,” he says. “I can’t also be the idiot who says ‘sure, let’s go into the woods at night.’”
“Good thing I didn’t say woods,” I lie.
He narrows his eyes. “Dominic.”
“Get your keys,” I say, grinning. “And your phone. And lock the door. I’m not breaking in again tonight.”
“That implies you’re breaking in again at all,” he mutters, but he grabs his stuff off the little console table anyway. He glances up at me, softness flickering in his eyes, then shakes his head and moves past me to the door.
We make our way down the stairs, shoulders brushing occasionally in the narrow stairwell. He yawns halfway down, covering it with the back of his hand, then scowls at me like it’s my fault he’s tired.
To be fair…
Outside, the air is cool and damp, and the parking lot is mostly full, a few cars scattered under the harsh glare of security lights. Brendon stops dead when he sees I’m walking toward my Ducati.
“No,” he says immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“Yes,” I say, heading straight for the bike.
“I’m not getting on that,” he insists, horror creeping into his voice. “That thing is a death trap. There’s no seatbelt. There’s no doors. There’s nothing between me and the road except your large body.”
“It’s safer than my childhood,” I say dryly, swinging my leg over and settling into the seat. “Come on. I’ve got a helmet for you.”
He splutters. “That’s not reassuring.”
I look over my shoulder at him, raising a brow. “You trust me or not?”
His mouth opens to say no—I can see it—then the word gets stuck somewhere between his chest and his lips. He exhales instead, the sound half annoyance, half surrender.
“You’re an asshole,” he mutters, stalking over. “If I die, I’m haunting you.”
“Promise?” I ask, smirking.
“Dominic,” he warns.
“Relax, Little Sin,” I say. “I’ve been riding since before you figured out how to kiss without bumping noses. I’m not going to wreck with you on the back.”
He flushes, which is unfairly cute. I hand him the spare helmet, and he scowls at it before he takes it and jams it onto his head with more force than necessary.
“It smells like you,” he complains, voice muffled.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
He flips me off, anything else muffled by the visor.
I put my helmet on, start the engine, and the Ducati roars to life, the vibration running up through my legs into my chest. I feel him hesitate behind me, then his arms wrap around my waist, tentative at first, then tighter as the reality of what he’s doing sinks in.
“Hold on,” I say, glancing back once more.
“If you go fast, I’ll throw up on you,” he warns, voice loud enough to be heard over the engine.
“If you throw up on me, I’ll spank you,” I shoot back.
“That’s not a deterrent, and you know it,” he snaps.
I grin and ease the bike out of the spot, onto the road.
The ride out of town is exactly the kind of therapy my brain usually uses instead of talking.
Streets blur past under the cone of the headlight.
The wind slaps at my hoodie, cool air filling my lungs.
Brendon’s grip tightens and slackens in cycles around my waist, body pressed flush against my back.
Every time I lean into a turn, he instinctively moves with me, thighs clenching around the seat, chest molded to my spine.
By the time I slow and pull off onto a narrow dirt lane, his hands are no longer death-gripping my hoodie; they’re firm, but not panicked.