Chapter 8 #2
If he truly wants me, he won’t need me to corner him into saying so. I set the phone on my nightstand. The screen stays lit for a moment before it fades to black. I don’t turn it off this time. I don’t block him out. I just let the silence settle between us.
If he sends anything else, I’ll read it. If he doesn’t… that tells me something, too.
I lie back against my pillows and press a cool, wet washcloth over my eyes, not because I’m crying, but because everything feels too warm and too tight in my chest.
He wants me, but wanting isn’t the same as claiming. Until he’s ready to claim me, I have to protect my heart.
I don’t sleep well. Not because I’m crying. Not because I’m dramatic. But because my mind won’t quiet. Every time I drift off, I see that single word again.
You.
It should have been enough, but it wasn’t. I won’t settle for less than I deserve.
When my alarm goes off at six, I’m already awake. The house is still and gray in the early light, and for a moment I consider rolling back over and letting the day wait.
But lying there only gives my thoughts more room to roam.
So I get up and rifle through my drawers, the soft scrape of wood and the cool touch of fabric grounding me as I search for the shirt and shorts I want to wear for my early-morning run.
The anticipation of movement—of air against my skin and the steady thud of my feet—feels like a small promise of relief, something I can control when everything else feels uncertain.
Running has always been the one thing that clears my head without asking any questions. I lace up my shoes, tie my hair back, and step outside before I can change my mind.
The air is cool, and the first mile feels stiff, with my legs heavy from too little sleep. By the second mile, my breathing evens out, and my thoughts organize themselves instead of crashing into one another.
Luke didn’t say we were just friends because he doesn’t care about it.
He said it because he’s afraid. That doesn’t make it hurt any less, but it makes it clearer. I don’t doubt he feels something for me. I’ve never doubted that. What I doubt is whether he’ll ever feel brave enough to stand by it.
And I refuse to be anyone’s almost.
By the time I’m five miles in, the pain in my chest has settled into something steadier. Not gone. Just quieter. More manageable. If he wants me, truly wants me, he’ll say so. If he doesn’t, I’ll survive. I’ve survived worse than uncertainty.
I push harder in the final stretch, not to punish myself but to remind myself what strength feels like. Sweat stings my eyes, and my lungs strain with the effort, but the rhythm grounds me.
When I turn onto my street, my gaze automatically lifts toward my driveway. His truck isn’t there. Relief and disappointment hit at the same time. I’m not sure which wins.
Inside, I shower, letting the hot water loosen the tightness in my shoulders, then get dressed. My phone sits on the nightstand where I left it. I power it on and see the messages he sent after I went quiet.
But I don’t deserve you.
I wish I could say how I feel.
You still awake?
Sweet dreams, beautiful.
I sit on the edge of the bed and read them twice.
He can say how he feels. He just won’t. Until he does, I can’t keep standing in a space without a name.
I set the phone down gently rather than throwing it aside. I’m not angry. I’m tired.
Helping the kids at the youth center always steadies me. Their problems are concrete, real, and immediate. They don’t circle around a single word, trying to decode it.
So I head there.
By the time I unlock the doors and the first few kids trickle in, my emotions have settled into a productive state. I throw myself into work—organizing supplies, reviewing schedules, and checking on tutoring sessions.
Shane and Will come down twice a month to coach some of the older boys in boxing.
We have a strict policy about who is allowed in this program, though.
When the center first opened, a couple of boys signed up for boxing lessons, only to return and show off their skills to their gang members, using them against other kids.
We quickly learned to be very selective about this program’s participants.
Now, only those who want to make it their career one day, have never been in trouble, and have no gang ties are allowed in.
So far, our stricter policies are working well.
We invest in those who want to build something better.
That thought lingers longer than it should. You don’t invest in someone who isn’t ready to invest in return.
I lock up in the evening, feeling steadier than I did this morning.
The hurt hasn’t gone away, but it isn’t running the show anymore.
On the drive home, I decide I don’t want tonight to be awkward.
He showed up for me. I asked him to help, and he practiced with me even when he was tired.
He sent messages to communicate. Even if we are only friends, friends don’t ignore each other.
When I pull into my garage, I send a quick text.
Been busy today—bet you have too. See you soon.
No hidden meaning. No test for him to pass or fail. Just neutral ground to reaffirm our friendship boundaries.
By the time I finish setting up the stage, the club is still mostly empty.
Staff move quietly in the background, glasses clinking, lights dim and warm against the dark walls.
The curtains are drawn around my setup, hiding the bedroom scene until it’s time.
The area is rectangular, so the bed is arranged catty-corner in the back-left corner.
On the wall opposite the bed, there’s a small table with roses, a bottle of wine, and a wineglass holding a small amount of wine.
I smooth the edge of the black fabric, then turn around—and that’s when I see him.
Luke is standing near a table, arms folded across his chest, dressed exactly as I asked. Black shirt. Black jeans. Black boots. He is playing the part of Death, seducing me as I sing. The lighting hits the angles of his face just enough to make him look harder than he probably feels.
He’s been watching me. I can tell from his posture, but mostly from the glint in his eyes.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The air between us feels different tonight—tighter. Not hostile. Just aware. I step down from the stage and walk toward him, keeping my posture relaxed even as my heart races faster than I want it to.
“Hey,” I say, letting warmth into my voice. “How was your day?”
“Fine.” His answer is brief, not sharp. “Yours?”
“Busy,” I reply. “But productive.”
He studies me as if he’s looking for something beneath the surface. Maybe he is.
“What kept you busy?” he asks.
There’s something careful in the way he says it—not accusatory, but searching.
“I volunteer at a youth center downtown,” I tell him. “Inner-city kids. I was organizing donations and working with a few of them this morning.”
His expression shifts—surprise first, then something softer. “You never mentioned that.”
“There’s a lot we haven’t covered,” I say gently.
It isn’t meant to sting. It’s simply true.
He quietly absorbs that.
I don’t explain everything about the center—not the funding battles, not the background checks, not the way we tightened policies after a couple of boys used what they learned in the ring to settle street scores. Not tonight. Tonight isn’t about opening every door.
“It matters to me,” I say simply.
“I can see that,” he says.
The tension that followed us from last night hasn’t disappeared, but it’s no longer crackling. It’s sitting between us like an unanswered question.
He glances down at my dress. “Is that what you’re wearing tonight?”
I almost smile. Almost. “No, I’ve got a change backstage.”
His jaw tightens slightly. Not anger. Not quite discomfort, either. Awareness. I shift the energy before it drifts back into that tight space.
“Want to grab dinner before things get busy?” I ask. “We’ve got time. I can show you around backstage when we get back.”
The invitation hangs there.
I’m not chasing him. I’m not withdrawing either. I’m standing still, letting him decide whether he’s stepping toward me or staying where he is.
Last night, he held back.
Tonight, I’m watching to see if he still will.