Chapter 36 Luke
THIRTY-SIX
LUKE
We don’t talk much on the walk to his place.
I didn’t go to brunch with the idea of going back to his place with him, it just happened.
The café’s only a ten-minute stroll from his apartment building.
I recognize the cracked sidewalk, the chipped paint on the railing, the faint smell of garlic lingering in the hallway, as if one of his neighbors cooked with it recently.
Nothing’s changed. That realization hits me harder than I expected.
He unlocks the door with the same key he’s had forever, and the moment we step inside, it’s like time folds in on itself.
The living room is exactly as I remember: the same worn leather couch where we used to make out until we were breathless, the same coffee table with the faint ring from my smoothie habit, the same crooked stack of playbooks on the shelf, next to his history text books.
Even the air feels familiar—clean soap, old books, the ghost of his cologne.
My eyes catch on the armchair in the corner.
My hoodie is still there.
The gray one with the faded university logo, the one I left on the back of the chair the morning he sent the text. It’s folded neatly, as though he’s been taking care of it. Like he couldn’t bring himself to move it.
I laugh—soft, surprised, a little choked up.
“You kept it,” I say, crossing the room to pick it up. The fabric is soft, worn in all the right places. “Jesus, Silas. You’re such a sentimental bastard.”
He closes the door behind us, leans against it, watching me with that quiet intensity that always made my knees weak.
“Didn’t have the heart to move it,” he admits, voice low. “Every time I tried, it felt like erasing you.”
I pull the hoodie to my chest, inhale. It still smells faintly like me—like the cologne I wore back then at least.
“You’re ridiculous,” I tease, tossing it back onto the chair. “And your apartment is disgustingly spotless. You’ve been stress-cleaning for a year, haven’t you?”
He huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe a little.”
I step closer, close enough that our shoes touch. “You’re adorable when you’re feeling guilty.”
Holding his eye contact, I slip my shoes off, and toe them onto the mat he has for them. Some things never change. Silas watches the small motion as if it means something bigger. His throat works when he swallows.
“You still take them off at the door,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Even now.”
“Habit,” I reply, shrugging one shoulder. “You trained me well, Coach.”
The old title lands soft between us—no sting, just memory. His mouth twitches, not quite a smile.
I reach out, fingers brushing the front of his shirt, feeling the steady thump of his heart underneath. “You gonna keep standing there staring, or are you gonna kiss me like you’ve been thinking about it since the café?”
He doesn’t answer with words.
He closes the last inch of space, cups my face with both hands—gentle, careful, as though I might vanish if he grips too hard—and kisses me.
It’s slow at first. Careful. The kind of kiss that says I’m sorry and I missed you and thank you for coming back all at once.
His lips are warm, familiar, tasting faintly of coffee and the mint he chewed on the walk over.
I sigh into it, hands sliding up to fist in his shirt, pulling him closer until our bodies line up.
The kiss deepens gradually. Tongues touch, retreat, touch again. He makes a low sound in the back of his throat when I nip his bottom lip—half groan, half surrender—and his hands slide down to my waist, thumbs stroking the strip of skin where my shirt has ridden up.
He breaks the kiss like it hurts him to do it, breath catching against my lips.
“Wait,” he murmurs, his forehead pressing to mine. “This isn’t why I invited you back to my place.”
I blink, still a little dizzy from how soft and full that kiss felt. “No?”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his hands still resting at my hips. “I meant it when I said I wanted a second chance. I don’t want this to be a quick slide back into something physical just because it’s easy.”
I study him, eyes tracing the line of his jaw, the furrow in his brow.
“Easy?” I echo, tilting my head. “Silas…nothing about you has ever been easy.”
His mouth twitches at that.
“I’m not saying we don’t get there,” he says. “Just…not yet. Not like this.”
I let that sit for a second. Let it settle in the space between us.
Then I lean in, mouth brushing his again in the faintest, laziest kiss I can manage. “I didn’t come here just for sex.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Well,” I admit, “maybe like…twenty-five percent for sex. But mostly just to see if you still looked at me the way you used to.”
“And?”
“And you do,” I say softly. “But now I think you actually see me too.”
“So what now?” I ask.
Silas smiles, slow and warm, tugging me gently toward the couch. “Now we spend the day talking and catching up, watch a couple movies, you make fun of my picks, and we keep remembering how to do this the right way.”
I flop down next to him with a grin. “Guess I’ll stay... but only if you promise no weird indie documentaries about sad old wars.”
“No promises,” he says, pulling me close again, his arm sliding around my shoulders as though it belongs there.
I nestle into his side, already comfortable, already remembering how perfectly I fit against him.
The couch cushions dip under our combined weight, and for a second, it’s just quiet—his heartbeat steady under my ear, the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen, sunlight slanting through the blinds in lazy stripes across the floor.
Then he adds, low and teasing, “But if you hate the documentary, you can always distract me.”
I tilt my head up, catching the glint in his eye. My voice comes out playful, testing the waters. “Yes, Daddy.”
The words slip out easy, half-joking, half-serious. His whole body goes still beside me.
I grin, quick and bright, pulling back just enough to see his face. “Oh—too soon?”
Silas exhales roughly, as if the air’s been punched out of him. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, but there’s something softer underneath—relief, maybe, or recognition.
“I was trying to be good,” he says, voice gravel-rough. Then he leans in and kisses me again.
This one isn’t careful.
It’s hungry.
His mouth crashes into mine like he’s been starving for it, one hand cupping the back of my neck to hold me exactly where he wants me, the other sliding under my shirt to press flat against my lower back.
I make a small, needy sound into his mouth—can’t help it—and he groans in response, deepening the kiss until it’s all teeth and tongue and desperate little gasps.
We shift, trying to get closer. There’s still too much space between us even though we’re pressed together.
My hands fist in his shirt, yanking it up; his fingers dig into my hips, urging me to straddle his lap.
I do—without breaking the kiss—settling over him, knees bracketing his thighs.
Our cocks brush through denim, and I whimper at the friction; he bucks up once, involuntary, chasing more.
Clothes start coming off in frantic little tugs.
My hoodie gets rucked up and over my head; his shirt follows a second later.
His belt clinks as I fumble with it; he helps, impatient, then shoves his jeans down just enough.
My jeans are next—half-unbuttoned, shoved to mid-thigh along with my boxers.
Skin meets skin, and we both moan at the contact.
I rock down against him, grinding slow and filthy, feeling him hard and leaking against my stomach.
His hands roam—my back, my ass, my thighs—like he’s trying to map every inch he’s missed.
I’m doing the same, fingers tracing the familiar lines of his chest, the scar on his pec, the dip of his collarbone.
We’re both breathing hard, mouths barely separating long enough to drag in air.
Then I pull back just enough—barely an inch—forehead pressed to his. “Wait,” I pant. “We… we need to go slow.”
He freezes, eyes searching mine. “Too much?”
“No.” I swallow, cheeks heating. “I just… I haven’t, uh… done anything. Since you. Since us.”
The admission hangs there, vulnerable and bare between us.
Silas stares at me for a long beat, something raw flickering across his face—surprise, awe, guilt, tenderness all at once.
Then he exhales, shaky. “Me either.”
My heart stutters. “Really?”
He nods once, thumb brushing my cheek. “Not since that last night. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to.”
The words land heavy and sweet, and I soak them in. I lean in, kiss him softer this time—slow, lingering, like we’re sealing something with a kiss.
“Okay,” I whisper against his lips. “Slow, then.”
He nods, hands gentling on my hips. “Slow.”
But slow doesn’t mean we stop.
We kiss again—deeper, hungrier, but with intention now. His fingers slide up my spine, mapping every vertebra; mine card through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. We rock together lazily, cocks sliding slick against each other, building heat without rushing.
Clothes finish coming off in pieces—jeans kicked away, boxers tugged down and discarded somewhere on the floor. Naked now, skin-to-skin, we move to the bedroom like we’re magnetized—stumbling, laughing breathlessly when we bump the doorframe, never quite breaking contact.
He lays me out on the bed as though I’m something precious, eyes dark and reverent. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Always have been.”
I pull him down, legs wrapping around his waist. “Show me.”
He does—slow kisses down my throat, my chest, my stomach. Hands everywhere, worshipping. When he finally slicks his fingers and presses inside me—careful, patient, whispering praise the whole time—I arch up, moaning his name.
“So good for me,” he breathes against my skin, lips brushing the shell of my ear as his fingers curl inside me one last time. “Taking me so well. My perfect boy.”