Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
LUCAS
I step out of my college advisor’s office, and the door clicks softly shut behind me.
But inside me, everything feels loud.
Too loud.
Thoughts tumble over each other, voices from moments ago echoing like they’re trapped in my chest.
“I printed these ahead of time,” she’d said gently, sliding the papers into my hands.
“Scholarships for DHH students, transfer-specific financial aid, a disability advocacy program that comes with tuition support… A few have upcoming deadlines.”
I nod, even now, out here in the hallway—as if she’s still speaking and I’m still trying to keep up.
She’d been patient. Kind. Ensured I understood each form and its requirements. Walked me through it slowly, pointed out deadlines with a pink highlighter, and made notes in the margins just for me.
“Your GPA is more than high enough,” she’d said. “Honestly, it’s remarkable.”
Remarkable.
The word had nestled somewhere beneath my ribs, quiet and stunned.
She told me I’d be a strong candidate for every single school I listed.
Even Blackwood.
My dream school. Private, prestigious, and expensive enough to make me wince every time I thought about it.
I’d written the name on my list almost shyly, like saying it too loudly might make the universe laugh.
But she hadn’t laughed.
She just nodded, circled it, and said,
“You might actually receive a scholarship from them.”
Now I’m standing here, gripping the fliers she gave me like they might float away if I let go. The pages are glossy and smooth, heavy with promises I’m still afraid to believe in.
I let out a shaky breath, one that feels like it’s been waiting to escape for weeks.
Hope is loud. It crashes through the quiet I’ve built around myself like sunlight through a cracked window.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me back into the present. When I pull it out, there’s a single message lighting up the screen. It’s a message from Alex letting me know he’s here to pick me up.
A breath escapes me, unspooling something tight in my chest. I let the smallest smile tug at the corner of my lips. I shoot him a quick reply.
Things have been… good. No, more than good. Easy. Which is the strangest part.
It’s been more than a week since that night he came to my apartment—Since I told him I didn’t know how to be wanted without doubting it. And he had looked at me with nothing but softness and said he’d wait, that he’d go slow. That he wasn’t leaving.
And he hasn’t, and somehow my routine has changed.
He picks me up after class sometimes and takes me to his penthouse, a place that still makes me feel like I shouldn’t breathe too hard in case I break something.
We sit close on his giant leather couch, and I teach him sign language.
Slowly. Carefully. He’s better at it than he lets on.
Pretends to get things wrong just so I’ll reach out and correct him, my fingers curling over his, our palms brushing.
He does it to touch me. I know it. He knows I know.
And after that—
We kiss and touch like we’re drowning in each other.
Like it’s the only language we’re fluent in.
his hands are reverent, greedy, needy, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me, the way I fit against him, the way I shiver when he kisses my neck.
And I let him. Every time. Until it’s too much.
Until I feel myself wanting more than I’m ready for.
Until he says “Stay the night” without saying a word, and I say “Not yet” with my eyes.
He never pressures me. But I see it in his eyes every time I leave, that look like he wants to chase me, pull me back in, hold me there. I wonder if he knows I want that too.
Just… not yet.
Today is different, though; he’s not here to take me to his penthouse. He’s here to take me to his mother.
Two days ago, Davika called me personally. Her voice had been soft but direct, full of warmth as she said she’d love to spend time with me—just me—if I was up for it.
I remember staring at my phone long after the video call ended, the words looping like a song I didn’t quite understand. She wants to hang out with me?
Why?
What could someone like her possibly want from someone like me?
She’s elegant and untouchable—like a woman carved out of silk and sunlight.
And me? I’m still learning how to speak in spaces that were never built for me.
I had looked over at Alex, half-expecting him to laugh, to say it was a joke or a misunderstanding. But all he did was shrug with that unreadable look he always wears when he knows more than he’s letting on.
“Well,” he said, like it was obvious, “you’re her favorite now.”
Her favorite.
The words felt too big in my chest. Too good. Too undeserved.
She had been kind to me during the dinner party, yes—gentle, attentive. But I never expected anything beyond that. People like her don’t usually reach for people like me. Not for friendship. Not for anything.
Still, I said yes.
I step out of the gates and spot Alex’s car parked where it always is.
The windows are tinted, but I can see the outline of him in the driver’s seat. He’s always so still, like he’s carved out of something solid. Unmovable.
My fingers curl tighter around the straps of my backpack as I walk toward him, my heart thudding a little faster with each step.
When I pull the door open and slide into the passenger seat, his scent hits me immediately. Familiar and overwhelming all at once. He turns to face me, those glacier-blue eyes already fixed on mine. Always so intense. Like he sees straight through me.
I swallow. My throat feels dry.
“Hi,” I say softly, my voice barely there. I hate how breathless I sound, but I can’t help it. I still haven’t gotten used to the way he looks at me.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just leans closer. One of his hands reaches over, wraps around mine gently, and the other slides up to the back of my neck. The heat of his palm sinks into my skin, grounding me.
Then he pulls me in and kisses me.
It’s not rushed, not hungry, but it leaves me breathless anyway. Slow. Deep. His lips move against mine like he’s memorizing the shape of them again. Like he’s reminding me who I belong to.
My body reacts before my brain catches up—heat rippling through me, my eyes fluttering shut, my hand reaching to hold onto the front of his shirt, just to anchor myself. I melt into it, into him.
I kiss him back, every inch of me aching for him, wanting him to know just how much his kisses and touches unravel me. When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His forehead brushes mine, our breaths mingling in the small space left between us.
“I missed you,” he says, his voice low and rough in a way that sends sparks dancing through my stomach.
I let out a soft, nervous chuckle, too flustered to meet his gaze even with our faces so close.
“You saw me yesterday,” I mumble, my voice still small, but smiling now.
He tilts his head slightly, lips brushing the corner of mine again.
“I know,” he whispers. “Still missed you.”
My heart trips.
How does he say things like that so easily, so confidently, while I feel like I’m unraveling in his hands every time he looks at me?
I barely realize I’m still holding the flyers until he speaks.
“What are the flyers for?”
His voice is calm, but it cuts through the quiet like a blade.
I pull away from him, eyes dropping before I even realize it. My chest tightens, breath snagging in my throat.
The flyers are still clutched in my hand—smooth, creased edges digging into my palm like they’re trying to remind me they exist. The disability based scholarship and aid applications. The financial support for DHH students.
And suddenly, I hate that I didn’t put them in my bag sooner.
I don’t know why it hits me so hard, but it does. A flush of shame crawls up the back of my neck like I’ve just been exposed, like I’ve been caught doing something shameful.
Like I’ve been seen in a way I wasn’t ready for.
“Nothing,” I mumble, too fast, too soft. My fingers move in a clumsy rush to shove the papers into my bag, like that will erase the moment.
He doesn’t say anything right away. I can feel his eyes on me, steady and unreadable. The weight of it only makes my movements more desperate, my heartbeat louder in my ears.
I don’t know why I’m embarrassed. I shouldn’t be.
Maybe it’s the word aid.
Or maybe… It’s the fact that I’m applying for scholarships meant for people who can’t afford college, for people like me, while he lives in a fucking penthouse with marble floors and private elevators, drives expensive cars, and pours his coffee into mugs that probably cost more than my rent.
I’ve never really shamed myself for being poor before.
Not in this way. Not like this.
But suddenly, I do.
Because the man I like—the man who’s kissed me like I’m something holy—he’s filthy rich. And me? I’m just trying to figure out if I can even afford to dream.
I want to disappear. I want to take every part of this soft, trembling shame and shove it somewhere deep where he can’t see it.
But it’s too late.
And God, I hate this feeling. I hate the way I suddenly feel small. And most of all, I hate that a part of me believes I’ll never really belong in his world.
“Stop whatever thoughts that are running through your head right now,” Alex says, and there’s an edge in his voice that cuts through the silence like a blade.
I glance up, and find him staring at me with one of those looks—serious, intense, like he can see straight through the cracks I try to keep hidden.
“Why do you overthink everything?” he asks, voice low but sharp.
I glare at him, more out of instinct than real anger, but of course, he doesn’t back down. He never does. Instead, he just sighs and leans a little closer.
“Are you this stubborn with everyone, or just me?”