Chapter Seventeen
Lucy
We’re tangled together in Dylan’s bed, the muted glow of the TV flickering across the walls. My head rests on his chest while one arm curves around me beneath the covers. I’m wearing his shirt, the fabric soft and oversized, carrying the clean, familiar scent of him.
Being with Dylan feels like safety. Like stepping out of a storm I didn’t even realize I was standing in.
And yet, no matter how tightly he holds me, my thoughts refuse to quiet.
Ray Upton’s voice echoes in my head. Supporting someone’s career doesn’t mean surrendering every part of your own life.
The two of you need to talk honestly about what happens if your dreams lead in different directions.
The question refuses to loosen its hold on my thoughts. I’ve always believed love conquers all. Every romance novel I’ve ever read promises the same thing. That no matter the obstacle, no matter the cost, love wins.
It makes space for more, not less.
But what if loving someone whose dream is bigger than yours means slowly folding yourself smaller?
Ray didn’t have to raise his voice. He didn’t threaten or insult me. He simply asked a question neither of us has answered yet.
Dylan is built for movement. For roaring crowds and stadium lights and a game that pulses through his veins.
I am built for quiet corners. For the same streets. For knowing the barista by name and walking the same path home every night.
As I lie in Dylan’s arms, I can’t stop wondering if that’s exactly what’s going to happen. If one day, he’ll look back and realize I don’t fit into the life he’s meant to have.
The last hour replays in my mind. The patience in Dylan’s voice. The way he let me ask questions without embarrassment. The quiet closeness afterward.
I’m not ready for more, but what’s growing between us feels more powerful than anything I’ve ever read in a book.
I’ve never had the kind of friendships where you talk openly about intimacy, where you dissect feelings and fears with wine glasses and late nights. Most of what I know comes from novels, from stories where everything unfolds neatly, where love always seems to know where it’s going.
What I have with Dylan doesn’t feel neat.
It feels complicated.
I don’t want to become the thing that slows him down. I don’t want to be an anchor when he’s meant to run. But the closer we get—the deeper we sink into each other—the more impossible it feels to separate myself from his future.
And that terrifies me.
Carefully, I slip out of his arms, easing myself off the bed so I don’t wake him.
I tug the hem of his shirt down over my thighs, wrapping myself in the familiar weight of it, then quietly turn the doorknob.
I just need a second. I need a minute to separate my own fears from everyone else’s opinions.
The hallway is dark and quiet as I move toward the bathroom, but voices drift through the thin walls before I can reach it.
My name stops me cold.
“Don’t give him a hard time about Lucy,” someone says. Maybe Darnell. “He finally found someone who makes him happy.”
At least one of them is defending us. The thought should help, but it doesn’t.
“Yeah, but he doesn’t hang with the team anymore,” another snaps. “He’s always running off instead of being around.”
A woman’s voice cuts in, light and dismissive. “It won’t matter once he’s playing pro ball. He won’t have time for dating then anyway.”
The words hit harder than I expect. Careless and final.
Is that how they see me? A distraction? A temporary detour?
I shouldn’t care what they think.
I’ve never built my identity around popularity or locker-room approval. I’ve never needed to be the loudest voice in the room.
But this isn’t about fitting in.
It’s about being tolerated.
About being seen as something Dylan will “outgrow” once his life becomes bigger and brighter and faster.
Temporary.
The word stings because it carries an assumption. That I’m part of the college chapter. That I don’t belong in the next one.
I step backward before anyone sees me listening. The bathroom door closes louder than I intend, the sound echoing down the hall, a clear signal that I heard everything.
I really need to stop hiding in bathrooms. Nothing good ever happens in them.
The woman in the mirror looks startlingly unlike the Lucy who began this semester. Bare legs, tangled curls, and Dylan’s shirt hanging nearly to her knees.
Instead of picking myself apart, I quickly splash my face in cold water, trying to cool the humiliation on my scorched cheeks.
Then, I brave the hallway and cross back into Dylan’s room.
When I climb back into bed, the conversation follows me back beneath the covers. Dylan shifts instinctively, pulling me close, his body curving around mine like he’s been waiting for me to return.
“Where’d you go?” he murmurs sleepily, his voice thick with drowsiness.
“Bathroom,” I whisper.
His hand slips beneath the shirt I’m wearing and he draws me into him. My chest presses against his, our breaths syncing, and the ache in my heart sharpens.
“My mom wants you to come with me to Dallas for Thanksgiving,” he says softly. “I know it’s coming up fast, but she’s really excited to meet you.”
The word Dallas sends a flutter of nerves through me. His family. His home. A future that feels both inviting and terrifying.
“I want to go,” I say. “But I need to talk to my parents.”
“Of course.”
“What about football?” I ask.
“We’ll have practice that week, but we can head to Dallas as soon as Coach releases us. Just think about it,” he says. “I’d really love to take you home with me.”
Home.
Before I can overthink it, the question slips out. “Do your friends not like me?”
Dylan stiffens instantly, his arms strengthening around me. “Why would you think that?”
I hesitate, knowing that once I ask, I can’t pretend the answer doesn’t matter.
“No reason,” I lie. “I just don’t want to make things harder for you.”
The lie feels unfair the moment I say it, but I am not ready to hand him a conflict with his teammates while the victory is still fresh.
Dylan shifts so he can see me. “You don’t make things harder,” he says. “I’m choosing how I spend my time.”
I know I’m giving him the smaller fear because it’s easier to solve.
And yet there’s a separate fear tucked beneath the surface, whispering that maybe I’m not an addition at all. Maybe I’m something he’ll eventually outgrow.
“I’m glad to hear that,” I say, my voice wavering slightly as he presses a soft kiss to the tip of my nose.
Even though we haven’t crossed every line together, I already feel like a part of me belongs to him in a way I can’t take back.
That realization is scary. Because giving someone your heart is one thing, but knowing they’re already holding it is something else entirely.
“I’ve been trying not to say this too soon,” Dylan says. “But I love you. I need you to know that.”
The words settle between us, larger and quieter than every version I have read on a page.
“I love you, too, Dylan.”
His warm hand settles at my hip, slow and reverent, as if he’s memorizing me rather than rushing ahead.
I close my eyes as his lips brush my neck. The fear, the doubt, the constant noise in my head—all of it softens. Right now, the future doesn’t feel so loud. It’s just us. Just Dylan and me.
We stay like that for a while, wrapped around each other, neither of us rushing to fill the quiet. When emotion finally crests, it’s not overwhelming. It’s steady and present. A single tear slips free, surprising me as much as it does him.
Dylan notices immediately. He always does. His thumb brushes it away with infinite care.
“Hey,” he says. “What’s wrong, Luce?”
I shake my head slightly, still catching my breath. “Nothing bad,” I admit. “I just… like being here with you.”
He smiles, his face soft in the glow of the TV, blue eyes bright with something that looks a lot like relief. “I like having you here, too.”
“I’m nervous,” I confess, the word barely audible.
“Nervous about what?” he asks gently, his forehead resting against mine.
About losing myself.
About losing you.
About loving something I can’t control.
The words line up neatly in my head, but they refuse to cross my lips. Because once they’re spoken, they become real.
And I don’t want to plant doubt in a moment that still feels soft and new.
So, I swallow the bigger truth and offer him something safer.
“What if your mom doesn’t like me?”
“She already does,” he says.
“She likes who I am in emails,” I point out. “That’s different from real life.”
“I’d never tell her this,” he whispers conspiratorially, “but she’s an excellent judge of character. She knew I’d like you before I even met you. She was right then, and she’s going to love you.”
The reassurance helps, though it does not answer the question I’m still avoiding.
“Okay,” I say softly. “I’ll go with you to Dallas for Thanksgiving.”
Dallas.
A city that isn’t mine.
A house I’ve never seen.
A version of Dylan that belongs to another world.
Meeting his family is the next step—one with momentum I can’t control.
If I go, I’m choosing to move forward.
I’m choosing the possibility that this becomes serious in ways that can’t be undone. Holidays. Flights. Shared calendars. Shared expectations.
And somewhere deep in my chest, a quieter fear whispers.
If I let myself fully step into his world, will I still recognize myself inside it?
Or will I become “Dylan’s girlfriend” in rooms where my own dreams are treated like background noise?
His eyes widen, pure excitement lighting his face. “Really?”
“Really.”
“We can look at flights after you talk to your parents,” he says, squeezing my hand like he’s afraid the moment might disappear.
Then reality settles back in, quieter but persistent. “I don’t know how my parents are going to take it,” I tell him. “I’ve never spent Thanksgiving away from them.”
Dylan’s expression softens. “You think they’ll be upset?”
I laugh nervously. “I guess we’ll find out.”
“Then maybe I can spend part of Christmas with your family,” he says easily, like it’s the most obvious solution in the world.
“You’d do that?”
He nods, kissing my forehead. “If they’ll have me.”
I move closer, choosing not to demand absolutes from a future that has not arrived yet. I can keep worrying about what might happen… or I can trust what’s happening right now.
“Deal,” I whisper.
His lips meet mine, slow and devastating, and for once, every fear quiets.
At least for tonight.