Chapter 22 Silas
TWENTY-TWO
SILAS
By the time the movie ends—not that either of us were really watching it—Luke’s head is on my shoulder, and his breathing has gone soft and steady.
He’s out cold.
I glance down. His lashes are fanned over flushed cheeks, lips parted slightly, his whole body warm and heavy against mine. One arm is looped around my ribs as if he trusts me enough to hold on in his sleep.
God help me, that trust unravels something in my chest.
I shift carefully, slow enough not to wake him. His body stirs a little when I slide out from beneath him, but he doesn’t open his eyes. Just mumbles something that sounds like my name and reaches for me again.
I press a hand to his hair. “I’ve got you.”
He settles instantly. I stand, roll out my neck, and glance toward the hall. I didn’t plan for this. Didn’t plan for him to stay.
But he’s here. And I’m not sending him out into the night or shoving him into an Uber when he clearly needs the rest. So I do the only thing I can.
I scoop him into my arms.
He hums, half-conscious. “M’not light,” he mutters.
“Could’ve fooled me,” I say, voice low as I carry him down the hall to my room.
He doesn’t respond. Just nuzzles into my chest.
I ease him down onto the bed, one arm still draped over my shoulder, like even asleep, he’s reluctant to let go. Carefully, I undo the button on his jeans, sliding them off, followed by his shirt. I stop at his boxers. I’m not about to push the line between soft comfort and something else.
Once he’s settled, I tug the blanket over him, brushing a bit of hair off his forehead.
His eyes flutter. Barely open.
“You leaving?” he asks, voice hoarse.
“No,” I say quietly. “I’m right here.”
I push off my sweats and climb in behind him, pulling him into my arms without hesitation. His body fits against mine as if we’ve done this a hundred times before—his back to my chest, my arm wrapping around his waist to anchor him there.
He sighs. Deep. Content.
“Warm,” he murmurs.
“Go back to sleep,” I whisper, pressing a soft kiss to the curve of his shoulder.
He does.
I lie awake for a while longer, staring at the wall, one hand smoothing slowly over the dip of his waist. Every breath he takes settles deeper into me, as though I’ve been waiting to exhale since the day we met.
And now—like this—I finally can.
I wake up before the sun’s fully risen, like I always do. Years of training and coaching don’t exactly lend themselves to sleeping in.
The apartment is quiet, the sky outside still tinged blue-gray. And in my bed—soft, warm, and curled into me like I’m a damn body pillow—is Luke.
He’s facing me, breath soft against my throat, his leg thrown over my hip. His curls are a wild mess, and his lashes flutter just slightly before he sighs in his sleep and shifts even closer.
Then his lips brush my neck.
It’s not purposeful—at first. Just a sleepy nuzzle. But when his hand flexes against my side, his thumb dragging under the hem of my shirt, I know he’s more awake than he’s pretending.
Another kiss. This one intentional.
“Luke,” I murmur.
He grumbles. “Five more minutes.”
“You’re kissing my neck.”
“Exactly.” He presses another lazy kiss against my collarbone. “Let me enjoy it before the cruel world forces me into a vertical position.”
I huff a laugh, tilting my head back against the pillow. “You hate mornings.”
“They’re evil,” he agrees. “But you’re warm, and you smell good, and your heartbeat under my hand is annoyingly comforting, so I’m suffering through.”
I glance down at him. His eyes are still mostly shut, but there’s a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He’s not fully awake. Not really.
“Okay, five more minutes, you gremlin,” I whisper.
“Mm. You like it.”
I do.
Luke’s hand slides from my chest, down my stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of my boxers. Not low enough to be blatant—but low enough to be deliberate.
My breath catches.
“Luke…”
He hums innocently against my throat. “Thought you said five more minutes.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Too late,” he says, kissing my jaw now. “Your mistake for cuddling me while I’m shirtless.”
My hand shoots out, catching his wrist. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
His lashes finally lift, eyes bleary but wicked. “You’re so dramatic,” he mumbles, voice raspy with sleep. “Want me to go slow, old man? Make sure your heart doesn’t give out?”
I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “You’re not even fully awake.”
“I’m awake enough to know you’re hard.”
He grinds forward just enough to prove his point, and I hiss between my teeth.
“Christ, Luke—”
He grins. “Close, but I believe the nickname you’re looking for is Hermoso, Daddy.”
I flip us fast—too fast for him to brace—and pin him to the mattress, one hand planted beside his head, the other still gripping his wrist.
“You’re seriously trying to start something at six-thirty in the morning?” I growl.
His grin widens. “You say that like you’re not into it.”
His eyes sparkle. “I like morning wood. It’s motivational.”
I shake my head, but I’m already leaning closer. His body fits under mine too well. His mouth looks too good. And I’m so far gone it’s pathetic.
“You make it really fucking hard to be the responsible one,” I mutter.
“You like it,” he whispers, arching just enough to remind me how reckless I could be for him.
“After breakfast,” I growl, mouth brushing his throat. “I’m not fucking you on an empty stomach.”
He laughs, breathless and delighted. “Is that a promise?”
I press a kiss to his pulse. “No. It’s a warning.”
I shift onto my side, brushing hair from his forehead as he blinks up at me, still warm and half-drunk on sleep and whatever spell we’ve been spinning around each other since last night.
He stretches, groans, and then nuzzles into my chest with a smirk that’s entirely too satisfied for this early in the morning.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I mutter.
“Like what?” he murmurs, mouth grazing my collarbone. “Like I’m in love?”
I freeze.
But he laughs—light and teasing—and kisses my jaw like it’s nothing. As though he didn’t just detonate my heart with a throwaway line. I clear my throat, needing air. Needing food. Needing anything that keeps me from dragging him under me again and forgetting the rest of the day exists.
“Come on,” I say, climbing out of bed. My feet hit the cold floor, but I’m already grabbing a pair of sweatpants and tugging them on. “Lesson number two.”
Luke props himself up on his elbows, the sheet barely covering his hips. “Lesson two?”
I turn and hold out my hand. “Cooking. Real breakfast. You’re not leaving until you know how to make something besides cereal.”
He grins and slides his fingers into mine, letting me pull him up, all warm limbs and sleepy eyes. “Is it too late to fake being bad at cooking if it gets me breakfast in bed?”
“Extremely.”
We make it to the kitchen barefoot. I hand him a sweatshirt—one of mine from the back of my couch—and he shrugs it on without thinking. It drowns him, and I can’t stop staring.
“So…” he says, dragging out the word as I start pulling ingredients from the fridge, “what are we making?”
“Omelets.”
“Omelets,” he repeats, suspicious. “You’re sure this isn’t just an elaborate plan to get me to eat vegetables?”
“It’s a plan to keep you alive,” I say, grabbing the eggs and motioning for him to get the cutting board. “You’re doing the chopping.”
He groans but obeys. “I hope you know I’m trusting you with my life here. I don’t even function until ten.”
“You kissed me awake. That’s fully functioning in my book.”
He smirks. “Yeah, well, your book’s got some steamy chapters, Daddy.”
I reach for the pan, bumping his hip lightly with mine. “You do know you’re distracting as hell, right?”
Luke hums like it’s a compliment and starts chopping, while I crack the eggs, whisking them with milk and a pinch of salt. I talk him through the rest of the prep as he cuts up the veggies.
“I didn’t know breakfast came with a science lecture,” he mutters.
“Cooking is about instinct,” I say, sliding next to him as he adds chopped spinach to the mix. I take the bowl of veggies he’s cut up and move over to the stove. “And seasoning is from the heart.”
“So you said yesterday,” Luke murmurs, stepping in close behind me. His arms slip around my waist, his chin resting lightly on my shoulder. “You must have a lot of heart, Coach.”
I still, the spatula pausing mid-stir.
His cheek presses between my shoulder blades—warm, solid, content. The sleeves of my sweater brush against my stomach where he’s wrapped around me, way too long on him. I don’t need to see him to know he looks ridiculous and perfect at the same time.
“You trying to butter me up so I go easy on you?” I ask, voice low.
“Nope,” he says, muffled against my back. “Just appreciating the chef.”
I exhale, forcing my focus back to the pan before I burn the omelet.
“And the food?”
He squeezes slightly. “Also good. But mostly the chef.”
“Definitely distracting as hell,” I mutter.
“Mm,” he hums, smug. “You say that like it’s not a compliment.”
“It’s absolutely a compliment,” I admit. “Just… an inconvenient one.”
His arms tighten a little more, and then his hands start to roam.
Curious palms sliding under the hem of my shirt over my abs, fingers slipping under the band of my sweats until his fingers are dragging along my boxers. Warm, slow sweeps that make my breath hitch and my cock harden again.
“You’re gonna start something,” I warn, voice low.
He noses the space between my shoulder blades. “I already did.”
I tighten my hold on the spatula again, trying to focus, but his hands are everywhere now—palming my hips, fingertips skimming along my waistband, teasing the sensitive skin just above it.
“Luke,” I say, half-growl, half-plea.
He doesn’t stop. Just hums against my back like he’s innocent, like he’s not currently making it impossible for me to remember that there’s a burner still on beneath the pan.
He cups me through the fabric of my sweats and my eyes drop shut, my full attention on the way his fingers wrap around me and stroke softly. I arch into his touch with a groan, the food completely forgotten.
Then the smell of burning egg hits my nose.
“Shit,” I mutter, turning the burner off and moving the pan to a cold burner. “You burned breakfast.”
He scoffs and presses a kiss between my shoulder blades. “You're the cook, you burned breakfast.”
I narrow my eyes as I twist in his hold. He grins up at me, completely unapologetic, sweater slipping off one shoulder, eyes bright with mischief.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re insufferable?”
He hums. “All the time.”
“Well, they’re right.”
“And you’re hard again,” he says cheerfully, sliding his hand between us and patting the front of my sweats with a wink.
I exhale through my nose. “Go sit on the couch before you cause a fire.”
He bites his lip, his eyes sparkling. “You gonna spank me for ruining your omelet?”
“Luke.”
He backs up, hands raised, laughing all the way to the living room. “Worth it.”
I dump the ruined food and crack new eggs into the bowl, shaking my head. This brat is going to kill me, and I’ll probably thank him for it.