Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
ALEXANDER
My laptop sits open on the table, but I haven’t typed a single word in the past fifteen minutes. The cursor blinks against the screen like it’s mocking me for pretending I’m focused. I’m not. I keep glancing at my phone, checking it like some desperate addict.
I know he is with my mother. She wanted the afternoon with him all to herself. Said she wants to get to know him without me hovering like some overbearing watchdog. I agreed. Or, more accurately, I didn’t say no.
I trust her. I do.
Still, waiting is its own kind of ache.
The last time I looked at the clock, it was barely past three. Now, the numbers glare back at me—5:15. Shit. I have a work Zoom call scheduled at 5:30. I close my laptop with a sigh, stand, and stretch out the stiffness from sitting for too long.
Just as I turn toward the stairs, I hear the soft ding of the elevator, and my head snaps toward the sound.
The doors slide open, and Lucas steps in.
He pauses just beyond the foyer, hands clutching the strap of his shoulder cross bag, eyes scanning the space before they land on me. He gives me a faint, unsure smile—the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but still manages to twist something inside my chest.
I close the distance between us slowly, and when I’m close enough, I gently tilt his chin up with two fingers; his brown eyes lift to mine, open and tired.
There’s something vulnerable in them, like he’s been carrying too much quiet for too long.
I search his face, my thumb brushing lightly against the curve of his jaw.
“You tired?” I ask.
He nods.
“Hungry?”
He shakes his head, looking down at his stomach as he pats it lightly.
“Your mom overfed me.”
A small laugh escapes me. “Of course she did.”
He looks up again, his eyes still soft. I can see it in the way he blinks slower than usual, the way he sways a little in place like he might fold if I don’t hold him. So I say gently,
“You need a shower. Then sleep.”
He blinks at me, caught off guard by how plainly I say it.
I glance toward the clock.
“We won’t have ASL lessons tonight,” I tell him. “I have a meeting that’s been scheduled today.”
His mouth parts in a silent oh, and I catch myself staring.
His lips are soft and full, reminding me of how much of a freaking good kisser he is.
I drag my eyes back up slowly, catching his again.
Still tired. Still open. Without another word, I take his hand, and he lets me.
I lead him upstairs, our fingers loosely tangled. There’s a kind of silence between us that isn’t heavy. Just… gentle.
He doesn’t resist when I guide him toward the bathroom, just follows quietly like he’s already halfway asleep.
And maybe it’s silly how much I enjoy being able to do this for him—just this.
Just… be here.
After a torturous 45 minutes of zoom meeting, it finally came to an end.
I close the laptop and let my head fall back against the chair, dragging a tired hand over my face. My body aches from sitting too long, from thinking too much, from missing him even though he’s only a floor above.
I climb the stairs quietly, not wanting to wake him. The bedroom lights are dim, and he’s curled up on my bed, sleeping peacefully, like he belongs here. Like he was made to be here.
I watch him for a moment longer than I probably should.
Then I turn, heading down to the home gym.
One hour later, my shirt is soaked through, clinging to my back, and my arms feel like they’re buzzing—half from the workout, half from something else I’m not naming yet. I drag the shirt off, toss it aside, and throw a towel around my neck as I head upstairs.
And there he is.
Standing near the bed, still soft with sleep, drinking from the bottle of water I left for him earlier.
His curls are a beautiful mess, falling over his forehead.
He’s wearing one of my tank tops, it hangs on his frame like it belongs there, and the sweatpants I bought him earlier this week are slung low on his hips, clearly untied.
He’s barefoot, quiet, and blinking at me with those sleepy, glassy eyes.
He looks like he was made to be here. Like the room’s too empty without him in it.
His eyes drift over me, tracing the sweat trailing down my chest, then flicking away quickly like he didn’t mean to look. But he did. I saw it.
I let out a breath. “Didn’t expect you to wake up this fast.”
He lowers the bottle slowly.
“My phone rang.” He pauses, rubbing a hand along his arm. “It was Tyler. Asked if I’m coming home tonight.”
Home.
That word lingers and hangs between us.
I take a step closer, my eyes on him.
“Do you want to go home?” I ask, my voice quieter now. It’s not just a question. It’s a line in the sand.
He doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze drops. His fingers curl tighter around the hem of the tank top he’s wearing, and for a second he just… breathes.
Then, finally, he lifts his head and looks at me.
He shakes his head.
“No,” he says softly.
That one word lands like a match in my chest. Quiet. Certain. And the relief that hits me is so fierce I have to bite it down before it shows too much.
“And you told him you won’t be home?”
He nods once. The movement is subtle, but his eyes never leave mine. There’s no flicker, no break. Just his steady gaze locked on me like gravity, like a choice.
My breath catches.
“Good,” I say, voice thick. “Sit on the bed and wait for me. I’m going to take a shower.”
I walk away before the fire between us turns into something I can’t control.
***
The water scalds my skin, steam curling around me in waves, but it does nothing to burn the want out of me.
Because he’s out there. In my room. Wearing my clothes like they were made for him. Standing barefoot by my bed with that sleepy, dazed look in his eyes like he just woke up from a dream I wasn’t in, but God, how I want to be. How I wish to be all he dreams about.
My dick is hard. Throbbing. Aching with a frustration so deep it feels like it lives in my bones. I brace my hands against the tiled wall, bow my head under the spray, breathing like I just ran a mile.
But that look in his eyes haunts me—that soft, unguarded want.
He looked at me like he needed something. Like he didn’t know how to ask for it, but he didn’t have to. I felt it. Felt it in the way his fingers tugged at the hem of my tank top, in the way his gaze lingered a little too long on my chest before darting away. Like he wanted to be touched. Seen.
I don’t know why he’s like this all of a sudden, why he’s not pulling away, why he said no when I asked if he wanted to go home.
But fuck, I want to touch him so badly I can barely think straight.
I want to show him what it means to be wanted.
To be worshiped. To be felt. I want to put my mouth on every inch of him, make him tremble beneath my hands, make him come undone so slowly, so thoroughly, he forgets every person who’s ever made him feel small or invisible.
I press my forehead to the tile, water pouring down my back.
Still hard, I force my body to calm, whispering a curse under my breath. Eventually, it fades enough for me to breathe again. I wrap a towel around my waist, change into my sweatpants, and dry my hair quickly with one hand.
Then I step back into the bedroom.
He is sitting by the edge of my bed, a calm look on his face as he hugs his knees, his head rests gently atop them, and his arms are wrapped tight like he’s holding himself together.
I move towards him with gentle steps, my eyes never leaving his. When I stop in front of him, I reach down and tilt his chin up with two fingers. His face lifts, and for a moment, we just breathe. Just look.
His eyes are wide, brown, soft, but burning. Not with fear. Not with uncertainty but with something that feels like a need that’s raw, unsaid, and unmistakably mutual.
His cheeks are flushed, pink crawling up his throat, and his eyes… they won’t stop flicking between my face and my chest like he’s trying to look and not look at the same time.
“I’m negative,” he blurts. “I haven’t—I’ve never—”
He stops, eyes wide like the words jumped out without his permission. His hands shoot up, and he slaps them over his mouth, face turning crimson with horror.
And God, he looks beautiful.
I can’t help it. My lips tug up in a small smile, quiet, almost reverent. I’ve never seen anyone so unintentionally endearing. So unguarded and honest.
And it hits me, like a punch to the chest.
He trusts me.
With his body. With his truth. With the kind of fragile things most people bury so deep, no one ever sees them.
I reach for his hands, gently pulling them away from his mouth. His eyes narrow like he’s mad at himself, but they don’t leave mine, not for a second.
Then I lean down slightly, cradling his beautiful face. His skin is warm under my palms, soft and real.
“Lucas,” I whisper. His name falls from my lips like a prayer. Like something I’ve been trying to say for years.
We don’t speak. We don’t need to.
Because in this quiet, fragile space between us, we know.
We want the same thing.
So I lean in, slow enough to let him pull away if he wants to.
He doesn’t.
He leans into me like he’s been waiting, like this kiss is something he’s been waiting for ever since he got here.
And when our lips meet, it’s hungry, but not rushed.
His mouth opens beneath mine—shy, always shy, but willing. Trusting.
And fuck, I want to deserve that trust.
My thumbs stroke gently across his cheeks as I kiss him deeper, tasting every breath, every inch of trembling softness he offers me. He kisses me back like he means it. Like every slow, desperate drag of his mouth over mine is a question he’s terrified to ask, but still asks anyway.
I answer him with a deeper kiss, harder and feverish until we’re gasping into each other’s mouths, heat pulsing between us like a second heartbeat.