Chapter 42
DARE
I never thought I’d get another first time with him, but this feels close. We’re starting over, and finally doing it right.
“Okay, but in my defense,” I said, breath hitching as Tru slid his hand under my shirt for the second time in twelve miles, “your mouth should’ve been illegal while I was operating heavy machinery.”
For six years, I couldn’t touch him. Now I couldn’t stop.
Tru grinned devilishly in the passenger seat. His seatbelt hung limp beside him, one knee tucked under like he was trying to sit cross-legged in a sports car. “You’re the one who pulled over this time.”
“You were gagging on your smoothie and moaning about it,” I shot back. “What was I supposed to think?”
“That it was a really good smoothie,” he said, all innocence, then bit his lip in a way that told me he knew exactly what he was doing.
I pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Your name should be Trouble, not Truen.”
He leaned in until his mouth brushed my ear. “You love it.”
I had yanked the wheel onto the next exit so fast we both jolted after the sound he made. Ten minutes later, we were parked at a rest stop off I-85, windows fogged, limbs tangled, and I had no idea whose jacket I was sitting on, but I wasn’t about to move.
Tru laughed into my neck, straddling me awkwardly with one shoe still on and his jeans shoved down just enough to be a problem. “This is a terrible idea,” he said between kisses. “We’re absolutely ending up on some kind of watchlist.”
“Worth it,” I muttered, dragging my hands down his back. “God, you smell the same.”
That made him pause, his eyes catching mine like a tether. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You too.”
The words wrapped around my heart, too honest for how unserious the moment was. But it was the truth. I was still catching up to the fact that he was really here. That we were us again.
Tru kissed me again, slower this time, and I swear I could’ve lived there—in that car, in that moment, in the curve of his mouth and the press of his chest. His palms splayed on my skin, memorizing me by touch.
I tugged his lower lip between my teeth. “How many times do you think we can get away with this before someone drives by with a dashcam?”
He laughed against my mouth. “Only one way to find out.”
We made out as if it were the first time. No history, no heartbreak, no years lost. Just two idiots drunk on reunion and running out of reasons to stop.
Clothes shifted. Groans fogged the windows. His breath caught when I ground up beneath him, when I kissed the spot just below his jaw that used to drive him wild.
We fumbled like amateurs—knees, elbows, seatbelts, and at least one tragic honk of the horn. The seat recliner gave out all at once, and we went crashing backward in a heap, gasping, then laughing so hard I could barely breathe.
“Oh my God,” Tru wheezed. “This is the least sexy sex we’ve ever had.”
“Speak for yourself,” I said, yanking him back down. “I’m turned on as hell.”
He rolled his eyes, then kissed me like he meant to shut me up for good.
His mouth was hot and relentless, his hips rolling until I couldn’t tell whose breath hitched first. I grabbed for his waist and found skin instead.
Every touch was smooth, warm, and familiar.
He was a heartbeat in motion, all hunger and heat and the kind of desperation that came from too many years of wanting.
“Tru,” I groaned, the word catching halfway between a prayer and a plea.
He grinned against my lips. “Still does it for you?”
He reached down, fumbling between us until my cock slid through his slicked hand, pressed between us, hard and aching.
He shifted, lining himself up, and then pushed down in one slow, perfect slide that made both of us gasp.
His body clenched around me, tight and hot, and my vision went white around the edges.
“Fuck,” I hissed, fingers digging into his hips. “You feel—God, you feel insane.”
Tru braced his hands on my chest, rocking in short, greedy movements. His breath came ragged, face flushed, sweat shining on his throat. Every time he dropped down, the car creaked, our rhythm punctuated by the slap of skin and the occasional squeak of leather. It was ridiculous. It was perfect.
He leaned down, kissing me through it, messy and open-mouthed. Our teeth clacked once, we laughed, then groaned again because it was too good to stop. I rolled my hips up to meet him, pushing deeper until he gasped my name like a secret.
When I came, it hit hard, every mile between us burned away in one blinding rush. He followed, shuddering against me, his forehead pressed to mine, both of us shaking and laughing through it.
We lay there afterward, sweaty and out of breath, tangled in the crumpled seat, half-dressed and wholly wrecked.
Tru panted against my throat. “We can’t keep pulling over like this. We’ll never get home.”
I kissed his hair, grinning. “Home’s wherever you are.”
He looked up, eyes soft and a little wet.
“I mean it,” I said, brushing my thumb along his cheek. “You’re everything.”
He smiled, like maybe he finally believed me.
We got back on the highway eventually—hair mussed, clothes askew, and our dignity nowhere in sight.
An hour later, Tru pointed at a passing trucker grinning down at us through his windshield. “You think he saw us?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “And I think he’s rooting for us.”
Tru laughed so hard he almost spilled his new smoothie.
He slipped his hand in mine, and for the first time in forever, it felt like the world was on our side.
The next few weeks blurred in that warm, unreal way good things sometimes do. Summer wrapped itself around us like it didn’t want to let go—late-night drives, lazy mornings tangled in sheets, and a scary movie or two where Tru clung to my side, hiding his eyes as if we were twelve again.
We stayed up too late. We kissed in every doorway. We talked about everything and nothing, conversations that stitched the past back together without either of us meaning to.
But time, rude as ever, didn’t stop just because we finally got our shit together.
August rolled in. The air got thicker. Orientation emails started piling up. And before we knew it, we were packing up his sketchbooks and my cleats and driving back to campus like two idiots trying not to grin about the fact that we were… us.
By the time the new semester snapped into focus, reality hit hard and loud.
The food hall was a war zone of noise. Metal chairs scraped, voices ricocheted off concrete walls, and someone’s Spotify blared from their backpack like they were DJ’ing lunch detention. I hated it. All of it. Every sound crawled under my skin and made me wish I’d eaten alone in the car instead.
Tru and I were marooned at a too-big table in the corner, resembling two unpopular camp counselors supervising chaos. I had nothing but limp fries, a bottle of water I wasn’t drinking, and the crushing realization that being out didn’t mean freedom; it meant exposure.
Tru scrolled his phone like he was above the fray, tray already spotless, napkin folded into submission. Probably cataloging the mess in front of him to mock later.
I shifted, elbows on the table, back off, on again. My knee bounced. “This sucks,” I muttered, picking at a fry and not tasting a thing.
He didn’t even look up. Didn’t blink.
I stared a moment too long. I could still taste his mouth from that morning, still feel the drag of his breath against my neck as he rode me slowly in our bed. We’d kissed like we were starving. And now we sat here like strangers in cafeteria purgatory.
“This must’ve been what you felt like in middle school,” I said, because apparently my brain hated me. “When you sat all alone.”
His eyes flicked up and narrowed. A sharp, cold, clean hit right between the ribs. Right. Because I’d ditched him back then. God, I was an asshole.
The chair bit into my back. I wanted to apologize, but the words stuck. I didn’t know how to do this yet—how to be open, be honest, be someone worthy of sitting next to him.
Before I could fix it, a tray slammed down beside Tru.
“Hey, move your backpack, dude.”
Another guy dropped into the seat next to me, boxing me in. “Hope you girls don’t mind sharing,” he said with a grin. Someone threw a tater tot. The soccer team arrived in a blur of sweat, noise, and swagger, and suddenly our quiet corner was swallowed whole.
My chest tightened. Instinctively, I braced for impact—for a slur, a shove, a joke that wasn’t one. One word, and I’d have to decide between pretending it didn’t hurt or breaking someone’s nose.
But nothing came.
“Hey, lovebirds,” someone called through a mouthful of pizza. “When I said you two should get married, you know I was joking, right?”
Laughter exploded across the table.
My pulse spiked, but Tru just smiled, slow, smug, like he’d known this would happen. Like he trusted them. Trusted this place, trusted me.
I didn’t think lunch would be the scariest part of coming out, but here we were, elbows deep in fries and fragile masculinity.
And I was still catching up when Damon—the keeper with the headband—leaned in and said, “Should’ve known Carter couldn’t turn down a dare.”
My mouth fell open. “Oh my God. That was awful.”
Tru hummed, folding his arms and leaning back like a king. “Admit it,” he said. “You liked that one.”
I shook my head, but the heat in my face betrayed me. He knew. He always knew.
The noise around us shifted, softening from a threat to a background hum. My shoulders eased. For the first time since sitting down, I realized I wasn’t waiting for a punchline aimed at me. No one cared. No one stared. Just a table full of guys inhaling carbs and letting us be.
I was sitting with my boyfriend. In public. With my knees pressed to his under the table. It’d only taken me seven years to find the courage.
I used to think being seen would ruin me. Now, all I wanted was for someone to look and know. Know that he was mine.
The fear didn’t vanish, not all at once. It still coiled under my skin, old muscle memory twitching for defense. But it loosened, bit by bit, as laughter filled the air and nothing bad happened. Tru caught my eye, that smug, soft pride glinting there, and I knew he saw it—that invisible exhale.
Maybe this was what safety felt like.
We stepped out into the late afternoon. Tru walked ahead a few steps, hands stuffed in his hoodie, and I trailed behind, trying to figure out why I still felt like my heart was sprinting.
He glanced back, smirking. “You were weirdly quiet in there.”
“I was being normal,” I said, catching up. “You want weird? I can hum love songs at the table next time. Maybe bring flowers.”
“Pretty sure Damon would cry if you did.”
“Damon would beg to be serenaded.”
His mouth twitched, but he didn’t look at me. I could still feel his attention, though, warm and steady, like a hand at my back. He knew I was still processing.
We rounded the dorms into a quiet alcove with a forgotten picnic bench. Tru sat first, and I followed, grateful for the pause. The air was still, the hum of lawnmowers distant. My chest finally started to unclench.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
I nodded, eyes on the sky. “I didn’t expect them to… be like that.”
“You mean not throw food at us or set you on fire?”
“Low bar,” I said.
“But it mattered,” he pressed.
“Yeah,” I admitted, voice low. “Of course it did.”
He leaned back, arms sprawled across the bench like he owned it. Tru was completely comfortable in his skin, something I envied. “You didn’t look scared in there.”
“I was terrified.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
I huffed a laugh. “You’ve always been braver than me.”
“Maybe,” he said, eyes narrowing playfully. “But you’re catching up. You looked proud today.”
That threw me. “Proud?”
“Yeah. Like you finally saw yourself the way I see you.”
His words landed with more impact than he probably meant. I looked away, swallowing hard. I wanted to believe him so badly it hurt.
Tru brushed his fingers against mine. “Hey,” he murmured. “You don’t have to say anything. Just let me be proud of you for a second.”
So I did. I threaded our fingers together, leaned into his shoulder, and let the quiet stretch around us, soft, golden, and safe.
And for the first time in years, the noise in my head finally quieted. I didn’t feel like I was losing anything.
I felt like I’d finally made it home.