Chapter Fifteen Optics #3
The tension eased. The ache dulled. His breathing went shallow and fast, body doing what it had always done when offered this kind of intimacy—taking, answering, filling the quiet with sensation instead of thought. He spit into his hand and stroked slowly, almost hypnotized by his screen.
And then—
Something twisted.
Not the want; that stayed.
But the meaning.
His eyes traced the image again, slower this time, and the warmth drained out of it. What had felt like closeness a moment ago now felt transactional. Like a substitute. Like something sent to smooth over a silence Lucas hadn’t known how to bridge.
Eli stilled.
His hand dropped to his thigh.
“Oh, fuck off,” he muttered, to himself, to the phone, to the version of Lucas who thought this was a kindness.
Shame rolled in sharp and fast. Not because of the desire—but because of how easily he’d let it stand in for something else. How quickly he’d reached for the familiar instead of admitting how much the rest of it hurt.
He stood abruptly, pacing once, then twice, like the room was too small for him. The phone was still in his hand. The image still there.
He didn’t hesitate this time.
He threw it.
The phone hit the wall with a crack that echoed too loudly in the quiet flat, slid down, and landed face-up on the floor, screen now sporting a crack, but stubbornly lit.
Eli pressed his palms into his eyes and breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, slow and deliberate.
Get a grip.
The phone started ringing.
He froze.
The sound cut straight through him, sharp and insistent. He stared at it from across the room like it might accuse him if he picked it up.
It stopped.
Started again.
He crossed the room and scooped it up, answering without checking.
“What,” he said flatly.
“Jesus, you sound like you’re about to commit a crime,” Maeve said. “Should I ring the Gardaí or make tea?”
Eli huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. “Now’s not great, Maeve.”
“I gathered,” she replied. “That’s why I’m calling.”
He sat back down, towel bunched in his fist, staring at the cracked screen. “What’s wrong?”
She paused. Just long enough to matter.
“I see what’s been happening with our boy online,” Maeve said. “And you’ve stopped answering me.”
Eli closed his eyes. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know,” she said easily. “But you did. So, I figured something was up.”
Silence settled between them, not awkward—weighted.
“He’s not an easy person to get to know,” Eli said finally.
Maeve sighed. “No. He’s not.”
There was no judgement in it. Just weary understanding.
“He’s not trying to hurt you,” she added. “I need you to hear that.”
Eli swallowed. “Feels a lot like it anyway.”
“Aye,” she said. “That’s the problem. He’s very good at convincing himself that if he’s not being cruel on purpose, then it’ll all shake out grand.”
“That’s… generous of him.”
Maeve snorted. “Tell me about it. I’ve been cleaning up after that logic since he was seven.”
Eli leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “He thinks he can just wait this out.”
“I know,” Maeve said quietly. “Season ends. Noise dies down. Everything magically gets simpler.”
“And I’m meant to be what,” Eli asked. “Patient?”
Maeve didn’t answer right away.
When she did, her voice was steady. “You’re meant to be honest with yourself. That’s it. I’m not ringing to tell you what to do—or to tell you he’s the villain here.”
“That’s not what it feels like,” Eli said.
“No,” she agreed. “But it is what it is. He’s being an eejit. Not a monster.”
Eli rubbed at his face. “That doesn’t make it easier.”
“No,” Maeve said. “It just means you don’t have to hate him to protect yourself.”
The words landed soft and sharp all at once.
“You don’t owe him silence,” she continued. “And you don’t owe him patience just because he’s scared of the consequences.”
Eli exhaled slowly. “I don’t want to be hidden.”
Maeve’s voice gentled. “And you shouldn’t have to be.”
A beat.
“I’m not picking sides,” she added. “I can see this for what it is—two people wanting the same thing at different speeds and calling it careful.”
Eli smiled faintly. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Listen,” Maeve said. “He’s not malicious. But that doesn’t mean he’s being fair. And you’re allowed to be hurt without turning that hurt into something ugly.”
Eli glanced down at the cracked phone in his hand. At the ghost of the image that still burned behind his eyes.
“I don’t want to be someone he keeps in a pocket,” he said quietly.
Maeve didn’t hesitate. “Then don’t be.”
Silence stretched again.
“Get some rest,” she said. “And don’t make any decisions tonight. That includes punishing yourself.”
He huffed. “You’re very bossy for someone not picking sides.”
She laughed. “I’m not bossy, just right.”
They hung up.
Eli set the phone down gently this time.
He stayed where he was, towel slipping, the flat quiet around him, the desire ebbing into something duller and sadder.
He didn’t delete the photo.
But he didn’t look at it again.
Instead, he lay back on the couch and stared at the ceiling, finally letting the thought settle without pushing it away:
He wasn’t asking for a grand gesture.
He was asking not to feel like an afterthought.
And no amount of want—no matter how sharp—was going to fix that on its own.