Chapter 35 Luke
THIRTY-FIVE
LUKE
The music swells as I step back into the main bar, louder now after the quiet hum of the back hallway. The lights are a little too bright, the crowd a little too close, but I follow the sound of laughter toward the dartboard tucked in the back corner.
Colton spots me first. “Hey! Where’d you run off to? I was about to start placing bets on whether you Irish-exited.”
I roll my eyes and snag the beer from his hand like it’s mine. “Relax, QB. I wasn’t gonna bail on my own med school celebration. I just needed some air.”
Daniel glances up from his perch on the edge of the pool table, one hand wrapped around a bottle of hard cider. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say.
Micah, raises a brow. “Wait—did you hook up with someone in the bathroom?”
“Jesus, no.” I laugh, sipping the beer before leaning against the wall next to Max to watch Ty take his shot and step aside for Will. “You all have the horniest imaginations.”
Will chimes in from the dart line, holding his throw. “That’s rich coming from you, Maddox.”
“Hey, I’m a changed man,” I say, pressing a hand over my heart. “Med school-bound. Practically a saint.”
Daniel snorts. “Uh huh. Tell that to the cute blond twink you were making eyes at last weekend at Riot.”
“He wasn’t even my type,” I say, deadpan. Then add, “Too wholesome.”
That earns a round of laughter. Quinn chuckles softly from his spot beside Daniel, and I swear they both try a little too hard not to touch.
It’s subtle—the way Quinn leans just slightly closer when Daniel speaks, the way Daniel’s foot taps against Quinn’s.
I don’t call it out. I recognize the signs of a secret not ready to be shared.
We all carry them, in one way or another.
I let the rhythm of the group settle around me—Eli arguing about darts strategy with Max, Colton retelling a story that gets more ridiculous every time he drinks, Will offering running commentary as though he’s announcing the Olympic games.
It’s comfortable. Familiar. But there’s a buzz beneath my skin that doesn’t quite go away.
Because I saw him.
Because he’s here.
Because I followed him and he didn’t send me away.
I sip my beer slowly, watching the game, letting myself drift just a little. My body’s here with them—my friend group, my people—but part of me is still back in that break room with Silas. Sitting on a couch with ripped vinyl, breathing in old regrets and newer truths.
He looked good. Tired, but good. That quiet, coiled energy still wound tight beneath his skin. But something in his eyes had shifted. Less haunted. Less lost.
I didn’t go back there for closure. I don’t think I needed it.
I just…wanted to see if he’d smile.
And he did.
I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know if there even is a next. But I know this—he does still care, and that’s something.
“Earth to Maddox,” Eli says, waving a hand in front of my face.
“Huh?”
“You’re up,” he says, motioning toward the dartboard.
“Right. Prepare to be dazzled.”
I push off the wall, grab the darts, and line up my shot. The darts hit the board with a solid thunk. Just left of the bullseye.
“That’s how you do it,” Will cheers from behind me, raising his glass.
Micah whistles low. “Somebody’s still got it.”
I smirk as I step back from the board and hand the darts off to Quinn, who looks mildly terrified to go next. Daniel claps him on the shoulder in encouragement. “Just aim and pray, bro.”
Quinn gives him a dry look but steps up anyway.
I lean back against the edge of the table top, watching the way everyone settles. The night is loud and easy and familiar. Except...it’s not. Not really.
Because across the bar, Silas moves behind the counter again—towel slung over one shoulder, sleeves pushed up, hands deft as ever.
The lights catch his cheekbone, his forearm, those tattoos running all over his arms, the smooth line of his jaw.
He doesn’t look over this time, but I can feel him. I always could.
Micah notices me staring. “So,” he says casually, “how was your little reunion in the back?”
Everyone quiets. Even Quinn freezes mid-throw.
“Did you seriously just call me out like that?” I laugh, then glance around at all of them—my people, my friends who’ve seen me gutted and stupid and still helped me hold the pieces together.
Micah shrugs, unrepentant. “What? We all saw the heart-eyes when you came back.”
Ty snorts into his beer. “Pretty sure you were glowing.”
“I was not glowing,” I protest, but the smirk pulling at my mouth doesn’t help my case.
Quinn tosses his next dart and mutters, “You kind of were, dude, and I don’t know the history there.”
Daniel leans forward, arms on the table, gaze soft. “You okay, though? Like… really?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. I think I am.”
Colton raises an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like the kind of ‘I’m okay’ that ends in tequila and bad decisions.”
“That’s just Tuesday for Luke,” Will mutters.
“Rude,” I say, flipping him off. “But fair.”
Eli leans in next. “Seriously, though. Did you talk to him? Like actually talk?”
I glance toward the bar. Silas is there, focused on pouring something amber into a glass. But his shoulders are tenser now. Like maybe he still feels me watching.
“Yeah,” I say. “I talked to him. We didn’t say much, but… it mattered.”
Micah raises his eyebrows. “Closure?”
“I don’t know if that’s what it was,” I admit. “He said sorry. I told him I didn’t need it. And I meant it. I’m good. He’s the one still carrying it.”
Max leans back in his seat. “You gonna see him again?”
I sip my drink. “Not unless he wants to.”
A beat of silence. Then Daniel nudges me with his shoulder. “You’re not gonna chase?”
I shake my head. “Not this time.”
Ty whistles low. “Growth. Look at our boy.”
“I’m very proud of you,” Daniel deadpans. “For having the restraint I absolutely would not.”
Everyone laughs.
Colton lifts his glass. “To Luke—strong enough to stay standing, even when the past shows up in tight jeans and a brooding stare.”
“Seriously,” Micah mutters. “The man’s unreasonably hot.” Colton smacks him, and he laughs, pulling him in for a kiss.
I snort. “Yeah, I noticed.”
We clink glasses and keep talking, but a few minutes later, I catch Silas glancing over again. This time, he holds my gaze.
And it’s not full of regret or pain. It’s quiet. Curious. Maybe even hopeful.
I tip my head in a small nod. Nothing more.
He nods back.
That’s it. That’s the whole thing. But man, does it feel like I’ve been gifted the whole world in a single night.
The blender is way too loud.
I wince and lean my head against the fridge while it finishes destroying my banana-kale-protein hopes and dreams. Saturday mornings are supposed to be sacred—gym, smoothie, bad TV, and maybe a nap before whatever plan my friends rope me into by noon.
But this morning?
My head’s pounding, my neck’s sore from whatever position I passed out in, and I’m still replaying everything from last night on a loop.
The bar. Silas.
And the way I might have said something about getting coffee sometime. I don’t even know if I meant it.
…Okay, I totally meant it.
The blender finally shuts off. I pour the smoothie, take a sip, and immediately regret putting kale in anything ever. There are decisions you make sober that should not be revisited hungover.
My phone buzzes on the counter, screen lighting up with a name I haven’t seen in my messages in almost a year.
Silas: Did you mean it when you said you’d get coffee sometime?
I freeze.
No hey. No awkward lead-in. Just…straight to it.
I stare at it long enough for the screen to go dark again, then tap it back on, rereading the message as if it might change the second time.
My heart does this weird fluttery thing in my chest—half thrill, half panic. Because yeah, I meant it. I just didn’t think he’d actually ask.
I thumb a quick reply before I can second guess myself.
Me: Yeah. I did.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Disappear.
Come back.
Disappear again.
Then finally:
Silas: Today? There’s a place near the park on Seventh. Quiet, good coffee, bacon and eggs, no judgment if you show up in sunglasses.
I let out a laugh and lean my hip against the counter. I glance at the clock on the microwave, 9:06 am. Bacon, eggs, and coffee sounds way better than this smoothie.
Me: Sold. 10 too early?
Silas: 10 is perfect.
I stare at the thread for a long moment, then set my phone down slowly, the buzz of it still humming under my skin.
I dump the smoothie down the sink without a shred of guilt and rinse the blender like it personally offended me.
No way I’m showing up to see Silas with kale breath. Absolutely not.
I bolt down the hallway to my room and yank open drawers as though I'm on a timed game show. Where the hell is my good hoodie? Not the beat-up one with the faded Star Wars logo—my actual, respectable hoodie that says I’m casual but not falling apart emotionally anymore.
“Dude?” Ty’s groggy voice calls from the hallway. “Are we under attack?”
“Emergency coffee date,” I call back, nearly face-planting into the closet.
Ty appears in the doorway, shirtless and blinking. “Is that a thing?”
“It is now.” I pull on jeans, hopping one-legged as I dig around for socks. “Also, do I look better with my hair messy or pushed back?”
Ty scratches his head. “Is this, like… real date energy or fake date energy?”
I freeze. “I have no idea.”
He stares at me for a beat. “It’s Silas, isn’t it?”
I groan. “How do you even—”
“You only act this crazy when it’s him.”
Fair.
Will emerges from their room next, shirt inside out, yawning so hard his jaw cracks. “Is this a fashion crisis or a mental breakdown?”
“Both,” Ty and I say in unison.
Will squints. “Are we doing brunch?”
“I’m doing brunch,” I clarify, pointing at myself and spinning in a slow circle. “With someone. At a place. In, like, forty minutes.”
Ty unlocks his phone and checks the time. “You’re gonna be late.”