Chapter 35 Luke #2
I look at him like he’s kicked a puppy. “Don’t put that energy into the universe.”
“Then stop spinning like a panic tornado and go,” Will says from the other room. When I reappear, he tosses a granola bar at me. “Take this. You’ll need something to hold you over until the coffee.”
I catch it and offer a grateful nod. “You guys are the best dysfunctional life coaches ever.”
“Go,” Ty says, waving me toward the door. “Wait! Don’t forget deodorant.”
I skid back to the bathroom.
“Brush your teeth!” Will calls after me. “You always forget when you’re excited!”
“I DO NOT—”
I totally do.
By the time I’m dressed, groomed, and out the door, I’ve broken a sweat and reapplied my cologne and deodorant. But somehow, I’m exactly on time.
I spot Silas through the window. He’s at a booth near the back, a menu in his grip, brow furrowed as if he’s trying to look busy and not like he’s scanning the door every ten seconds.
My heart feels like it’s going to launch out of my mouth and hand itself over to him on a silver platter.
Yeah, we aren’t doing that. We are healed. We don’t need a man.
I push into the café, drawing in a steadying breath as the bell overhead chimes. But we might want one, that little traitorous voice whispers.
Silas looks up, eyes locking with mine. There’s a flicker—relief, maybe nerves. Something that twists in my chest in a way I’m definitely not ready to unpack.
I slide into the booth across from him, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he echoes, setting the menu down as though it was just a prop anyway.
Silence stretches a little too long. I glance around for a distraction, then point to his coffee mug. “That mine?”
He huffs a soft laugh. “Nope. Yours is still on the way. But I did order you something.”
I raise a brow. “Tequila?”
“It’s ten a.m., Luke.”
“Is that a no?”
That gets a real smile out of him—small and crooked, just like I remember. “You’re exactly the same.”
The words shouldn’t roll over me the way they do, but they wrap around something tender inside me. Something that used to feel like too much.
“Yeah,” I say, quieter now. “Took me a while to figure out that was actually a good thing.”
He doesn’t say anything, just watches me. I look down at the table for a second, then back up.
“There was this point,” I start, fingers tracing the seam of the napkin. “Right after the hospital… when I thought maybe I was too much. Like, too loud, too flirty, too dramatic. Like I’d scared you away by just being me.”
“Luke—”
“I know,” I cut in gently. “I know now that’s not what happened. But back then? I spiraled. Tried to tone myself down. Tried to chase approval I didn’t even really want from people I didn’t even like.”
I take a breath, let it out slow.
“But then something weird happened. I started spending time with my friends who saw me—like the real, glitter-smeared, extra-as-hell me—and didn’t flinch. Or run. Or tell me to be less.”
His gaze softens. I press on.
“I learned how to sit with myself. To like who I was when no one else was looking. I stopped trying to be someone my parents could brag about. Stopped thinking I had to prove I wasn’t broken just because someone walked away.”
I lift my eyes to his, steady now.
“And the thing is? If you hadn’t broken my heart, I don’t think I would’ve ever figured that out.”
“You never were too much, Luke,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “Not for a second.”
I smile, and it’s real. “Yeah,” I say. “I know that now.”
The server arrives with my coffee and a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast, breaking the moment. I thank her, then glance back at him.
“Okay,” I say, grabbing my fork. “So now that I’ve trauma-dumped over breakfast—tell me how your life’s been, Silas.”
He snorts. “You always did have perfect timing.”
“And flawless delivery,” I add, lifting my mug in mock cheers.
Silas takes a sip of his coffee, gaze dropping for a second as though he’s sorting through what to say. He runs his thumb along the edge of the mug, then finally lifts his eyes back to mine.
“I started therapy.”
I blink, surprised, but not in a bad way. “Seriously?”
He nods once. “It was required at first. After everything… the university insisted I talk to someone. I didn’t think it would stick.”
“But it did.”
He exhales a short breath, almost a laugh.
“Yeah. Turns out I needed it more than I thought. Not just because of what happened with Xavier… or you. But because I’d built my whole life around the idea that control would keep people safe.
That if I just held tight enough, nothing would fall apart again. ”
His voice is steady, but I can feel the weight in every word.
“But control wasn’t what I needed,” he says. “It was purpose. Something outside of punishment and prevention. Something that wasn’t just about fear.”
I lean forward, chin in my hand, watching him with a smile.
“Silas Gray without control,” I say, mock-serious. “Are you sure you’re not a body snatcher?”
He laughs—actually laughs—and it’s warm and rough and hits me somewhere deep.
“I didn’t say I’m good at it,” he counters. “I still like order. Still need routine. But I’m not holding on so tight anymore. I’m learning when to let go.”
“So…” I trail off, dragging a piece of bacon through syrup. “What’s next? Coach turned bartender turned…?”
He shrugs, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “Still figuring that out. But I finished the certification for sports psych. Started shadowing some people. Might open up something part-time with the school.”
“That’s amazing,” I say, meaning it. “You’d be really damn good at that.”
His eyes flick up to mine again, lingering. “You think?”
“Of course,” I say, nudging his foot under the table. “Anything you put your mind to, you do well. Overachiever energy. It’s practically written in your aura.”
That earns me another soft laugh. “You still believe in auras?”
“I’m open-minded,” I say with a smirk, then sip my coffee. “Also, I’ve had enough concussions to justify believing in just about anything.”
He shakes his head, fond. “You really haven’t changed.”
“I mean, I hope I have,” I say, grinning. “I like to think I’m a little wiser now. A little less reckless.”
Silas’s eyes drift across my face like he’s memorizing the updated version. “Still gorgeous, though.”
I raise a brow. “You flirting with me, Coach?”
“Not a coach anymore,” he murmurs.
I lean forward, chin propped on my hand. “So you are flirting.”
He flushes a little but holds my gaze. “Maybe.”
“Well,” I say, dragging out the word, “in that case, I’ll allow it.”
That makes him smile—but then something shifts. His fingers drum once against his mug, then still. His expression softens, lips parting like he’s working through a dozen things before settling on the truth.
“Luke,” he says, low and steady. “I miss you.”
I blink. My heart stutters, but I mask it with a grin. “I’m right here, aren’t I?”
“Not like this,” he says, voice just above a whisper. “I miss you in my life. The texts. The chaos. The way you made everything brighter, even when I didn’t deserve it.”
I swallow hard, throat suddenly dry.
Silas exhales slowly, as though it costs him something just to say it. “Do you think there… could there be a second chance? Is there something I can do to fix what I broke?”
And just like that, everything inside me goes still. I stare at him, this version of Silas that can wreck me just by existing. But he’s softer now. Less guarded.
And I’m not that shattered kid anymore either.
“I don’t need you to fix anything,” I say, voice quiet but sure. “You broke my heart, yeah. But I put it back together—my way. And I like how it beats now.”
Silas flinches, just barely, as if he wasn’t expecting honesty that sharp.
“But,” I add, nudging my plate aside so I can rest my elbows on the table and lean in, “you’re part of my story, Silas. The messy middle. The ache and the after. You’re also the reason I figured out who I am when no one else is watching.”
I take a breath, watching his eyes track every word.
“And that version of me? He doesn’t need you.”
Silas’s jaw tenses, but he doesn’t look away. He’s ready to accept rejection.
“He wants you, though,” I finish. “Still does. That hasn’t changed.”
His exhale is shaky, but I see the relief in it. The flicker of hope he tries so hard to hide.
I offer a small, real smile. “So if you’re asking if there could be a second chance… yeah. Maybe. But I’m not doing the old story again. No secrets. No disappearing acts. No loving someone in silence because it feels safer that way.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he says instantly, as though the words have been waiting in his throat.
I nod. “Good. Because I want the real thing this time.”
Then I lean back, grab a strip of bacon, and take a bite.
“Also,” I add, “you’re buying breakfast this time. I’m a broke college kid with four more years in front of me.”
He laughs, shaking his head to agree. And just like that—maybe—we can find a happy ending.