Chapter 42 Silas
FORTY-TWO
SILAS
We don’t speak much on the drive back to my place.
The silence isn’t heavy—it’s comfortable, the kind that comes after you’ve both carried something difficult and set it down together.
Luke’s hand rests on my thigh the whole way, thumb moving in slow, absent circles, grounding me.
Every so often, he glances over, as though he’s checking I’m still breathing easy after the afternoon.
When we step into the apartment, the door clicks shut behind us, and the world narrows to just this: quiet, dim light from the living-room lamp, the faint smell of coffee from earlier, the way Luke immediately kicks off his shoes and turns to face me.
He looks lighter too. Cheeks slightly flushed from the drop in temperature, eyes bright.
I set my keys in the bowl, shrug out of my light jacket, and hang it on the hook. He watches every movement as though he’s memorizing it.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
I nod. “Better than okay. That was…a lot. But good. Really good.”
He steps closer, hands sliding up my chest to rest on my shoulders. “My mom…she saw us. Actually saw us.”
“Yeah.” I cover his hands with mine. “She did.”
We stand there for a long moment, foreheads almost touching. Then I take a breath—the one I’ve been holding since we left his parents’ house.
“Luke…I’ve been thinking.”
His brows lift slightly, playful curiosity flickering. “Dangerous territory.”
I smile despite myself. “Maybe. But hear me out.”
He nods, waiting.
I take another breath. “I don’t want this to be something we do on weekends and stolen nights anymore.
I want more. I want you here—your toothbrush in my bathroom, your hoodies in my closet, your mess on my coffee table.
I want to wake up to you every morning and fall asleep next to you every night. I want to build something real.”
His eyes widen, lips parting.
I hurry on, keeping my voice steady. “I’m not saying it has to happen right now. Or that it’s a requirement. We’re good—really good—and I don’t want to push. I just…I want you to know it’s what I want. If you want it, too. Whenever you’re ready. No pressure. Just…an open door.”
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move.
Then he launches himself at me.
Arms around my neck, legs wrapping my waist, he jumps as if he’s been waiting for permission his whole life. I catch him automatically, stumbling back a step until my shoulders hit the wall. He’s laughing—bright, wild, joyful—peppering my face with kisses: forehead, cheeks, nose, eyelids, mouth.
“Yes,” he says between kisses. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
I laugh too, hands gripping his thighs to hold him up. “You sure? I didn’t even finish—”
“Shut up.” He kisses me hard, messy, grinning against my lips.
“I’ve been waiting for you to ask. I’ve been trying not to ask first because I didn’t want to scare you off.
But yes. A thousand times yes. I want to live with you.
I want my stuff everywhere. I want my hoodies on your floor and my coffee in your mug and your stupid motivational quotes on the fridge. I want all of it.”
My chest feels too full. I turn us, press him gently against the wall so I can kiss him properly. He moans into my mouth, fingers threading through my hair, tugging just enough to make heat coil low in my belly.
When we break apart ,we’re both breathing hard.
“Bedroom?” he asks, voice wrecked.
“Living room’s closer.”
His grin turns wicked. “Even better.”
I turn with him in my arms facing the living room and let him slide down my body until his feet touch the floor, but he doesn’t step away.
Instead, he drops to his knees right there—smooth, graceful, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
His hands work my belt open with practiced ease, button, zipper, tugging jeans and boxers down in one slow drag.
I’m already hard, aching, the cool air a sharp contrast to the heat of his gaze when he looks up at me.
“Fuck,” he breathes, reverent. “Look at you.”
His fingers wrap around the base—firm, possessive—stroking once, slow, thumb circling the head to spread the bead of pre-cum. I card my fingers through his hair, not guiding, just holding on.
“Luke—”
“Shh.” He looks up at me through his lashes, eyes dark and hungry. “Let me show you how much I like the idea.”
My breath catches.
Then his mouth closes over me—hot, wet, perfect—and I forget how to speak.
He takes me slow at first—long, deliberate pulls, tongue swirling around the head on every upstroke, humming low in his throat so the vibration shoots straight down my spine. His free hand slides up under my shirt, fingers splaying across my stomach, possessive and grounding.
“Fuck—hermoso—”
He pulls off just long enough to murmur, “Love when you call me that.” Then he dives back in, deeper this time, throat relaxing to take me all the way to the back. One hand cups my balls, rolling gently; the other grips my thigh for leverage.
I’m shaking already, hips rocking shallowly because I can’t help it. He lets me—encourages it—eyes flicking up to watch my face like he’s memorizing every reaction.
“So good,” I rasp. “So fucking good for me.”
He moans around me, the sound vibrating down my spine. His nails drag softly across my abs, sending a shiver of pleasure through me.
I’m close—too close—too fast. “Luke—I’m gonna—”
He pulls off with a wet pop, hand stroking fast and slick. “Come for me. I want to taste you.”
That’s all it takes. I shatter with a choked groan, spilling over his fist and across his tongue. He takes it all—swallowing, licking, milking every last pulse until I’m trembling, knees weak.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, shiny. He licks them clean, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on mine.
I haul him up by the front of his hoodie, crash our mouths together. He tastes like me, like us, and it’s perfect. I spin us, back him against the wall, hands already shoving his sweatpants down.
“My turn,” I growl against his throat.
He laughs—breathless, delighted. “We could go to the bedroom.”
“Later,” I say, dropping to my knees.
And then it’s my turn to show him exactly how much I want this—want him—want forever.
We don’t make it to the bedroom for a long, long time.
The apartment is quiet in that new, lived-in way—boxes mostly gone, Luke’s books on the shelves next to mine, his favorite mug already in the drying rack, and a pair of his sneakers kicked haphazardly by the door.
It still catches me off guard sometimes: how quickly a space can shift from mine to ours.
I’m at the stove, stirring the sauce, the rich smell of garlic and tomatoes filling the kitchen.
Luke’s on the living room floor, surrounded by the last of his unpacking chaos, cross-legged and humming under his breath as he sorts paperbacks.
Every few seconds, I glance over—his hair falling into his eyes, the way he bites his lip when he’s concentrating—and something in my chest expands, warm and almost painful.
He catches me looking. That slow, knowing grin spreads across his face.
“You okay over there?” he asks, voice light but laced with something softer.
I turn the burner down, wipe my hands on the dish towel, and cross to him. Drop to one knee so we’re eye-level. “Yeah. Just… watching you exist in our living room. In our apartment. Unpacking like it’s normal.”
His grin softens into something more vulnerable. “It is normal now.”
I reach out, brushing my thumb along his jaw. “That’s what’s getting to me. In the best way.”
He leans into my touch, eyes searching mine. “Talk to me.”
I exhale, let the truth come without armor.
“I keep waiting for it to feel wrong. Like I don’t deserve this—don’t deserve you here, every day, every mess, every quiet morning.
I spent so long convinced I’d ruined us that a part of me still expects the floor to drop out.
That you’ll wake up one day and realize I’m too old, too broken, too…
much of everything you shouldn’t have to carry. ”
Luke’s hand finds mine, fingers threading tight.
“You’re not too anything. You’re Silas. Steady.
Kind. The man who learned how to let someone in after years of keeping everyone out.
The man who asked me to move in because you want me here—not because you’re scared to lose me again, but because you can’t imagine not having me. ”
My throat tightens. “I can’t.”
He shifts closer until our foreheads touch. “Then stop waiting for the other shoe. There isn’t one. I’m not going anywhere.”
I cup his face with both hands, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. “Tell me something small. Something I don’t know yet.”
He thinks for a second, then whispers, “I’m scared I’ll disappoint you. That med school will swallow me and I’ll become distant, or stressed, or not the version of me you fell in love with. That you’ll look at me one day and realize I’m not enough anymore.”
I shake my head, voice low. “You could never be not enough. I’m scared I’ll get too comfortable—too safe—and stop showing up the way you deserve. That I’ll forget how lucky I am and take this for granted.”
He laughs softly—shaky, relieved. “We’re both terrified of the same thing. Losing this.”
“Yeah.” I kiss him then—slow, deep, unhurried.
His mouth opens under mine, warm and eager, and we sink into it like we have nowhere else to be.
My hands slide under his shirt, palms flat against the warm skin of his back.
His fingers thread through my hair, tugging just enough to make heat coil low.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing harder.
“Bedroom?” he asks, voice rough.
“Floor’s closer.”
His grin is wicked, eyes glittering with his amusement. “Even better.”
He tugs me down with him until we’re tangled on the rug—half on an open box of books, half on the carpet. Clothes come off slow, reverent: his shirt first, then mine, jeans shoved aside, boxers last. Skin meets skin and we both groan at the contact.
I roll us so he’s beneath me, kiss my way down his throat, his chest, the sensitive spot just below his collarbone that always makes him shiver. His hands roam my back, nails dragging lightly, urging me on.
“Silas…” My name is a plea on his lips.
I take him in hand—slow strokes, thumb circling the head until he’s leaking, hips rocking up into my grip. Then I lower my mouth, tongue flicking out to taste him. He arches, fingers tightening in my hair.
“So good,” he gasps. “Fuck—Daddy—”
The word lights me up. I take him deeper, slow and deliberate, savoring every sound he makes, every tremor in his thighs. He’s beautiful like this—open, trusting, completely mine.
When he’s close—hips stuttering, breath ragged—I pull off, crawl back up his body, kiss him deep so he can taste himself on my tongue.
“I want you inside me,” he whispers against my lips.
I reach for the lube we keep in the side-table drawer now—convenient, permanent—and slick my fingers. He spreads for me, legs falling open, eyes locked on mine as I work him open—slow, careful, praising him the whole time.
“So beautiful… taking me so well… my perfect boy…”
When he’s ready—loose, trembling, begging—I line up and push in slow. We both groan at the stretch, the heat, the rightness of it. I hold still for a second, forehead pressed to his, breathing him in.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“Love you too,” he breathes back. “Move.”
I do—slow rolls at first, deep and deliberate, building to something harder, hungrier. His nails rake down my back; my hand wraps around him, stroking in time with my thrusts.
We come almost together—he first, clenching around me, crying out my name; me seconds later, burying deep, shuddering through it with his name on my lips.
Afterward, we stay tangled on the rug, sweat cooling, breaths slowing. His head on my chest, my fingers carding through his damp hair.
“You know what I just realized?” he murmurs.
“Hmm?”
“I’m not waiting for it to fall apart anymore. I’m just… here. With you. And it feels safe.”
I kiss the top of his head. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”
He tilts his head back to look at me. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
He smiles—small, real, unshakable.
And for the first time in forever, forever doesn’t feel like a risk.
It feels like home.