Chapter 20 Silas
TWENTY
SILAS
I vacuumed.
Which wouldn’t be notable, except I also wiped down the countertops. Straightened the stack of coasters on the coffee table. Changed out the hand towel in the bathroom. Lit a candle that’s supposed to smell like cedar-wood and sage, but mostly, it just smells like trying too hard.
My bed is made. My socks are in drawers instead of in the sock bin I normally use. And I’ve paced the living room so many times the carpet’s probably thinking about filing a complaint.
It’s not like this is a date.
It’s not like I asked him to come over for anything. We’re just going to talk. Sit down. Clear the air. Set expectations.
That’s what this is.
Or so I tell myself, again, dragging a hand over the back of my neck.
My phone buzzes on the table—just a message from Harris about next week’s practice schedule. Not Luke. Not yet. The knot in my chest tightens anyway.
I’ve faced losing games. Faced injuries. Hell, I’ve faced Xavier’s parents in a sterile hallway when there was nothing left to say.
But this—waiting for Luke to show up, to walk through that door and possibly undo every boundary I’ve fought to keep in place—this might be worse. Because I want him here.
I want him more than I should. Not just his body, not just his attitude, or the way he says yes, Sir or Daddy as though they are a challenge and a promise all in one.
I want the rest of him. The tangled parts. The soft ones he doesn’t show anyone. The broken ones he’s convinced make him unlovable.
And that’s the real reason I vacuumed. Because if I’m going to fuck this up, I want to at least do it with clean floors.
I glance at the clock. He should be out of the shower and eaten by now. On his way. Unless he changed his mind. Unless he’s decided we’re too complicated. Unless he realized—
The knock on the door makes my pulse jump. I cross the room with slow, steady steps, nerves making my palms feel clammy. And when I open the door—he’s there, looking slightly awkward, nibbling on his lower lip in a way that has me wanting to tug it free.
He looks like he’s fresh out of a shower, hair still damp at the hairline, cheeks slightly flushed from either nerves or the walk over.
Tight jeans. Black T-shirt. And the second he meets my eyes, his mouth tilts into a cocky little smirk that’s clearly trying to mask whatever’s happening behind his eyes.
My heart stutters forgetting how to function with him standing here in front of me. My fingers tighten on the door handle as I stare at him.
He lifts a brow. “You gonna invite me in, Coach, or just stare at me like you’re trying to commit me to memory?”
“I’m thinking about both,” I admit.
His smile slips for a second. Just a tiny little second that someone else probably wouldn’t have caught. And I know he’s feeling it too. Whatever this is.
I step aside, holding the door wide open.
“Come in,” I say, voice rough.
Luke steps over the threshold, eyes scanning the space. Then his gaze flicks back to mine, mouth tugging up at the corners.
“And shoes off,” he adds, tone lazy. “Since I know you like rule followers.”
He toes off his sneakers right by the door, like he’s done it a hundred times. I don’t say anything. Because if I open my mouth, I might say something stupid—like Stay forever.
Instead, I lock the door behind him and nod toward the living room. “Couch.”
He arches a brow. “So bossy. No drink first?”
“Don’t push it, Luke.”
He grins. “You say that like you don’t know me at all.”
I walk past him, toward the kitchen. “Water?”
“No whiskey?” he calls after me, playful.
“No alcohol,” I say, glancing back over my shoulder. “We’re both staying sober for this.”
Something in his expression shifts. The grin stays, but it softens around the edges. As though he knows exactly what I’m doing and why it matters.
“Water’s fine,” he says.
I grab two bottles from the fridge and return, handing him one. Our fingers brush—barely—but it’s enough to set something humming low in my chest.
He drops onto the couch, lounging like it’s his own, as though we haven’t both been avoiding this for days. But I notice the tightness in his shoulders. The way his leg bounces once before he stills it, it’s as if he’s bracing for something.
I sit beside him—not too close, not too far. Why did no one ever warn me that love can twist you up like a pretzel and you’d want to stay that way?
He cracks the bottle, takes a sip, and eyes me over the rim. “So… this the part where you read me the emotional riot act about drunk messaging?”
“No,” I say quietly. “This is the part where we stop pretending that this is nothing.”
That gets his attention. His eyes sharpen. The teasing drops just a fraction.
“Luke.” I say. “We can flirt later. Right now, I need to know if we’re doing this—for real. Because I don’t half-ass things. And I sure as hell don’t take risks like this lightly.”
He swallows, throat moving. “Define this.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, water bottle hanging from one hand. “Whatever’s happening between us. The pull. The way I can’t stop thinking about you. The way you look at me as if you’d let me keep you.”
Silence.
Then, finally, he says, “I ran like a kid from my feelings.”
“I know.”
“I panicked.”
I nod. “I know that, too.”
His voice is quiet. “You’re older. You’re steady. You know what you want. I’ve spent most of my life convincing myself I don’t want anything, so I can’t be disappointed when I don’t get it.”
I turn my head, meeting his eyes. “You can want something, Luke. You can want me. We can figure this thing out together.”
He exhales, ragged, like he’s been holding it in for days. “What if I fuck it up?”
“You probably will,” I admit, soft. “But so will I.”
His laugh is broken. Real. And I reach for him then—just his hand—fingers curling around his knuckles.
“We try anyway.”
Luke’s thumb brushes over my knuckles, almost absent-minded. He’s still quiet. Still watching me as if I might disappear if he looks away.
“You’re… really fucking patient,” he murmurs, a hint of disbelief in his voice. “You ever get tired of waiting on people who don’t know what they want?”
I huff a soft laugh. “Every day.”
His mouth twitches, like he wasn’t expecting me to say that.
“But,” I add, “when someone’s worth it, I don’t mind waiting a little longer.”
His gaze flicks up. And it’s clear now—less guarded. He leans in slowly, testing me.
His free hand settles on my thigh, sliding higher—not overt, not obscene, but definitely a shift in energy. “You know,” he says, voice low, “there are other ways to say we’re doing this.”
“Luke.”
“I’m just saying,” he continues, lips close to mine now. “You’re sitting here looking like a fucking Greek god, telling me I’m worth the risk, and you’re touching my hand like we’re sixty years old and holding court at a retirement home.”
I smile. I can’t help it. But I don’t lean in. Instead, I gently pull his hand from my leg and hold it between both of mine.
“Not until you say it.”
He blinks. “Say what?”
“That you want this. Even if it’s messy. Even if we have to be careful. Even if it’s not easy.”
He licks his lips, his eyes falling to my mouth before they drag back up to my eyes, but he doesn’t say anything.
“I need to hear you say it, Luke,” I tell him. “Because I won’t be your secret unless I know you’re choosing me.”
He swallows hard, the sound loud in the quiet room. Then he says, “I want this.” It’s barely a whisper, but it’s solid. “I want you,” he says again, louder now. “Even if we have to sneak around. Even if it’s complicated. Even if I have to fight every instinct I’ve built up to keep people out.”
I nod once, eyes locked on his. “Then we figure it out. Together.”
He lets out a shaky breath, and I feel the exact moment the tension in his body eases. He leans into me not for a kiss, but to be closer to me, his movements full of trust and warmth and every fucking thing I never want to lose again.
“You’re really not gonna kiss me now?” he mumbles into my shoulder.
“Not yet.”
“Sadist.”
I chuckle and press my mouth to his temple instead. “Rule number one: we don’t break each other.”
Luke sighs. “That’s a dumb rule.”
I smile. “Still one I’m keeping.”
“I thought rule number one was: shoes off.”
I laugh, dragging my hand up his side to pull him closer. “That’s a different set of rules.”
“You have a lot of rules,” Luke murmurs, his fingers playing with the hem of my sleeve. “I’m not sure I can keep track.”
I hum, dragging him closer, until he’s practically sprawled across my chest as I lean back into the couch.
“Then we’ll go over them,” I say, all mock-serious. “One by one.”
Luke lifts his head just enough to arch a brow. “There’s a list?”
“Oh, there’s a list,” I reply, voice low with the kind of quiet threat that makes him shiver.
He grins, lazy and unrepentant. “Color-coded? Alphabetized?”
“Bound in leather.”
His eyes go wide for a beat, and I swear I see the exact moment the bratty switch in his brain flips.
“Daddy,” he says sweetly. “Are you making me a rulebook?”
I let out a slow breath, trying not to laugh as I brush my hand down his back. “Don’t tempt me.”
“Oh, I am tempting you. That’s half the fun.”
“Half?”
He shrugs, smirking against my chest. “The other half is watching you try not to kiss me.”
I glance down at him—flushed, smug, entirely too pleased with himself—and wonder if I’ll ever stop wanting him like this.
Probably not.
But I can wait a little longer.
“Keep talking like that,” I murmur, fingers curling around the back of his neck. “And rule number two is gonna involve gag orders.”
Luke hums, dropping his head again. “Kinky.”
I smile, letting my hand settle at his spine. God help me. I’ve fallen in love with him.
I let my hand trail up the curve of his spine, fingers brushing the back of his neck before settling at his jaw.
Luke stills. I cup his face, thumbs brushing just under his cheekbones. His skin is warm. Soft. I’ll never get tired of touching him. His eyes flick up to mine.
“Silas…” he murmurs. It’s quiet, and there isn’t a hint of his brattiness infused in my name.
I tilt his chin with one finger, angling his face up to mine. And then I say it. The words I probably shouldn’t say to him, but I know he doesn’t know Spanish.
“Eres todo lo que no sabía que necesitaba.”
You are everything I didn’t know I needed.
His brows pull together, just slightly. “That… sounded hot as fuck. But I have no idea what you just said.”
I huff a laugh, leaning in until our foreheads touch.
“You don’t need to,” I say quietly. “Not yet.”
And then I kiss him.
Slow. Reverent. As though I’m learning him all over again—this version of him. The one that let down his guard and came back.
He kisses me back, letting me set the pace, as if, maybe, he’s starting to believe he’s wanted. Even when he’s not pretending he doesn’t want more.