Chapter 21 Luke
TWENTY-ONE
LUKE
I need to learn Spanish.
Because yes, it’s hot as fuck, and I absolutely love the way the words roll off his tongue—but I need to know what he’s saying.
Especially when he says it like that. As if I’m the answer to everything.
And that thought? Yeah, that’s the one that hits me square in the chest like a goddamn freight train. Because as much as I want this—him—the idea that I feel so much already… It’s terrifying.
I could kiss him forever. That’s the truth. I’ve never felt that way before…like kissing could keep me satisfied. And that’s scary as shit.
So I pull back just a little. Just enough to breathe. To keep myself from unraveling entirely.
I smirk, cocking a brow as I brush my thumb over the corner of his mouth. “If I’d known making out with you would be this emotionally intense, I would’ve carb-loaded first.”
His brow lifts, amused but skeptical. Before he can say anything, my stomach chooses betrayal and growls—loud.
Silas’s expression flattens, one brow arching higher. “I thought I told you to eat.”
I shrug, casual, playful. “I couldn’t. There’s these annoying butterflies that keep taking up all the space in my stomach anytime I know I’m about to see you.”
Silas just stares at me for a second. Then he sighs and mutters something under his breath in Spanish that I really wish I understood. He shakes his head and stands, tugging me up by the hand like I’m something soft and easy to keep close.
“Then I guess we’re making lunch.”
He leads me into the kitchen—and okay, I’ll admit it, I’m impressed. The place is sleek, clean, and probably featured in a cooking magazine somewhere. Stainless steel everything. Matching dish towels. And a spice rack that says I know what I’m doing instead of I stole this from my mom’s pantry.
“You cook?” I ask, lifting a brow as he starts pulling things from the fridge like he’s got a plan.
“I do,” he replies, tone unbothered. “Did you think I lived on protein shakes and self-loathing?”
I grin. “That’s hot. Keep going.”
He gives me a look, then sets a bag of flour on the counter and tosses me an apron. “You’re helping.”
I blink. “Uh. Are we baking something?”
“We’re making tortillas to go with the Fajitas.”
I pause. “Wait. Like actual tortillas?”
He glances at me, already opening a drawer and pulling out a mixing bowl. “Homemade. Flour. You’re not leaving until you learn something.”
I groan but slide the apron over my head, standing beside him as he talks me through the steps—how much flour, how warm the water needs to be, what the dough should feel like between my fingers.
His voice is low and patient, as if this isn’t new to him.
His hand brushes mine now and then to adjust how I knead or press or roll.
We’re shoulder to shoulder, and there’s flour on the counter, on my arms, probably in my hair—and definitely on my cheek if the way he’s looking at me is any indication.
My stomach flips as he reaches out and brushes the flour off with his thumb. “You’ve got…a little…” His touch lingers, as his eyes soften.
And then he kisses me. Sweet and slow. There isn’t really any heat or lust, just this grounding affection that’s starting to feel dangerously addictive.
I melt. Actually melt.
I didn’t know kisses could feel like this. Like coming home or being chosen on purpose, not because I’m shiny or loud or funny, but because he sees me. The real me.
When he pulls back, I’m smiling like an idiot.
“I’m going to make you an excellent cook,” he says, brushing his thumb one more time over my cheek like he can’t help himself.
“Yeah?” I ask, still grinning. “Do the kisses help?”
“Positive reinforcement,” he says with a straight face, even as his eyes glint. “Since we both know you like that.”
I roll my eyes, but my stomach flips anyway, the warm, swoopy kind of flip that’s entirely unfair for a moment so simple. He moves to cover the dough with a towel and sets it aside.
“Needs to rest for a few minutes,” he explains. “Helps with the texture.”
“Same,” I mutter under my breath. “Can’t be expected to perform without a break.”
He gives me a look that’s part amused, part warning, but he’s fighting a smile as he reaches for a cutting board and a bowl of bell peppers.
“Here. Slice these. Long and thin. No hacking.”
“Rude to assume I was going to hack,” I say as I take the knife.
“Not an assumption. Just a strong hunch,” he says, lips twitching. “You give off... bagel-murderer energy.”
“That’s profiling,” I mutter. “Bagels are treacherous little bastards. One wrong angle and it's a trip to the ER.”
He chuckles, low and warm, like I amuse him without even trying and he enjoys this—me. Even when I’m being ridiculous.
He pulls a pack of chicken from the fridge and sets it next to a second cutting board. I start on the peppers while he moves with a quiet precision, cleaning and slicing efficiently. I could probably just watch him cook and be perfectly happy.
He doesn’t use a packet when he reaches for seasonings. He grabs actual jars—cumin, smoked paprika, garlic powder, chili flakes, oregano, salt, pepper, and a splash of lime juice.
“No taco seasoning packet?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
Silas shoots me a look like I just insulted his ancestors. “Store-bought seasoning tastes like preservatives and disappointment.”
“I don’t know, man,” I say, deadpan. “Disappointment’s kind of my brand.”
That earns a rare smirk. “I’m aware. That’s why I’m teaching you how to do better.”
He nudges a small glass bowl toward me. “Teaspoon of everything. Except the chili flakes—just a pinch. And don’t go nose-deep in the paprika. Trust me.”
“Let me guess,” I say, measuring carefully. “You did it once?”
“Twice,” he admits with a grimace. “It was a dark time.”
Our fingers brush as I pass him the bowl. He doesn’t pull away. And something about that—the way he doesn’t flinch from my touch, the way he just takes it, soft and simple—settles the chaos in my chest.
He takes the bowl and dumps the mix over the thinly sliced chicken and peppers in a hot skillet, the sizzle filling the space between us.
“Smells amazing,” I murmur.
“Seasoning’s from the heart,” he says, flipping the pan with a practiced hand. “Cooking for someone is a love language. You don’t do it for people you don’t care about.”
I glance at him, but he doesn’t look away from the stove.
God.
I could fall for him.
I already am.
We eat on the couch.
Plates balanced on our laps. Bare feet tucked under thighs. The TV’s on low, but we’re not really watching it. Just the sound of it, the background hum, as if the rest of the world has faded, and this tiny bubble—his place, his warmth, the fajitas we made together—is all that matters.
“So?” he asks, nudging my shoulder gently. “Worth the time it took to cook them?”
I glance down at my now-empty plate and back at him, heart full. “Okay, yeah. You win. Homemade tortillas are life-changing.”
He smirks. “Told you.”
I set my plate on the coffee table and shift sideways, resting my head against the back of the couch so I can look at him. He mirrors the move, knees brushing mine. He’s so handsome it makes my heart hurt.
“What else do you love?” I ask, suddenly curious. “Besides cooking. And torturing me during drills.”
“Reading,” he says without hesitation. “History. Biographies. I like knowing how people became who they are.”
I blink. “Nerd.”
He shrugs. “I can live with that.”
“Okay, your turn.”
He tilts his head. “What do you love?”
“Gummy bears.”
He blinks. “Seriously?”
“Dead serious. I could eat a whole bag in one sitting. But only the blue ones and the clear ones. The others are garbage.”
He lets out a soft laugh. “That’s gross.”
“You like chocolate, don’t you?” I accuse.
“Dark chocolate,” he confirms. “The kind that’s barely sweet. Bitter. Intense.”
“Of course you do,” I tease. “You’re like a broody romance novel hero.”
He arches an eyebrow. “I don’t brood.”
“You literally turned away from me during practice one day like you were in a dramatic telenovela.”
He chuckles, low and quiet, then reaches out to tuck a loose curl behind my ear. His touch is gentle. Familiar.
Comforting.
“I love classic films,” he offers next. “Stuff with substance. Character. Good storytelling.”
“You’d hate what’s in my Netflix queue.”
“Try me.”
I grin. “I rewatch Clueless and Bring It On at least once a year.”
“Okay, maybe not hate...” he says, lips twitching. “But don’t expect me to quote them.”
“You say that now, but one night I’m gonna catch you muttering ‘whatever’ with perfect valley girl inflection.”
He’s smiling again with a soft curve of his lips that I love.
“You’re surprising,” he says, voice quiet.
“Yeah?”
He nods, gaze steady. “And kind of addictive.”
My breath catches. Not because of the words exactly, but because of the way he says them. Like he means it. Like I’m not just some complication in his life, but something he wants to understand. To keep.
“We’re really different,” I whisper. “But this? This doesn’t feel hard.”
His hand finds mine, fingers lacing slowly.
“Some things are supposed to be easy,” he says. “Even when the rest of the world isn’t.”
His fingers are still threaded through mine. Neither of us is in a hurry to move.
“So we’ve got football in common,” I say. “And wildly different tastes in snacks.”
“Opposites attract,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly across my knuckles.
I tilt my head. “What else?”
He thinks for a second, gaze flicking toward the ceiling like he’s cataloging memories.
“Music,” he says finally. “I like vinyl. Old records. Stuff that sounds real.”
“Like what?”
“Springsteen. Aretha. Johnny Cash. Nina Simone. Depends on the day.”
I blink, surprised. “Okay, that’s hot.”
He laughs, low and warm. “And you?”
I hesitate. “I like lyrics. Sad ones, mostly. Stuff that makes you feel like your heart’s cracked open.”
He watches me closely. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“What, that I’m dramatic?”
“No,” he says softly. “That you feel everything that deeply.”
I swallow around the lump in my throat and look away, playing it off with a smirk. “Okay, Coach. I didn’t come here for therapy.”
He tugs my hand gently. “Tell me one.”
“One what?”
“One song that makes your chest ache every time you hear it.”
I exhale, then say without hesitation, “‘Liability by Lorde.”
He doesn’t laugh. Just nods, quiet and understanding. “Mine’s ‘Fast Car.’”
I blink. “Tracy Chapman?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a long pause.
“We both have sad playlist energy,” I say, grinning.
“Clearly,” he replies, dry. “We’re a match made in heartbreak.”
We fall quiet again, but it’s not awkward. It’s easy. Safe.
“I used to dream about leaving,” I say, the words slipping out before I can second guess them. “Growing up, I thought once I got away, once I was far enough from everything that hurt… I’d finally be free.”
His hand tightens around mine.
“And?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Some days I feel free. Other days… I just feel far away.”
He nods slowly, like he understands that better than I thought he would.
“I used to think control would keep me safe,” he says. “Turns out it just keeps people out.”
My chest tightens.
“So now what?”
He looks at me. Really looks at me. “Now… we let each other in. Carefully. Quietly. When it feels right.”
I nudge his shoulder with mine. “And we listen to sad playlists while making tortillas?”
“Exactly.”
And just like that, I know—I know—we’re building something here.
It’s quiet. It’s slow.
But it’s ours.