4. Oliver #3
My silence was an agreement. I had no idea how the two worked together.
I didn’t think it mattered, but maybe I was the crazy one.
The story that broke just before the Olympic Games had split the internet.
On one hand, my rare and irregular social media updates got an overwhelming amount of support, the tabloid in question was slammed for their unethical coverage, and the guy who wrote the story lost all credibility.
On the other hand, my messages were flooded with an even mix of hate and dick pics.
Besides, no amount of hate the tabloid got affected anything.
They feasted on bad press because it got their name into the collective consciousness.
And my parents pretended none of it had ever happened.
Lennox had that look again. The one where he wondered if he should say what was on his mind. “I remember you from high school.”
“Small town,” I said. Everyone remembered everyone else. Lennox and I had never shared classes or crossed paths that much.
“You were such an amazing swimmer,” Lennox said. “No wonder you went all the way to Paris.”
And returned with silver, not gold, I thought.
Lennox’s compliment hung between us longer than it should have.
I didn’t know what to say. Thank you sounded too small. Too polite. He wasn’t just making conversation. I could feel it. There was weight behind it, like he meant more than the words he’d chosen.
I nodded slowly, trying not to fidget, though my legs were already buzzing with energy I couldn’t explain away. “I worked hard.”
“You still do,” he said.
He wasn’t looking at me now. His eyes were on the fire again. The flames played shadows across his face, softening it, making him look even nicer somehow. Kinder.
I studied him while he wasn’t watching. His posture had relaxed again. One arm rested along the back of the couch. His legs were long as they stretched out toward the fire. He had this openness to him, like someone who didn’t know how to hide and wouldn’t even try.
I hated that about him.
Not really. I envied it. And that felt worse.
He glanced at me and caught me looking. Not for the first time. I turned away too slowly. He didn’t smile, but I saw something flicker across his face. Understanding, maybe. Or curiosity.
My throat felt tight.
I wasn’t sure how to sit anymore. Every position felt like too much. I shifted slightly, then stopped myself before I could make it obvious. He didn’t say anything. He just watched me from the corner of his eye like he was waiting to see if I’d squirm.
I didn’t. Not visibly, at least.
The room had gotten hotter. That was what I told myself.
It had nothing to do with the way he looked.
Nothing to do with the fact that I could still see the shape of his legs in those sweatpants.
Or the faint outline of muscle beneath that T-shirt.
Or the way his hair had dried into soft waves, falling over his forehead like it belonged there.
I crossed my arms tighter across my chest and focused on the fire.
“You ever miss it?” he asked after a while.
“Miss what?”
“Normal life. School. Just…not being in the spotlight.”
I shook my head. “I never had a normal life.”
He didn’t push me to explain. He just nodded like he understood, even if he didn’t.
We sat in silence again. The heat in the room had seeped into the space between us. I could feel him. Not physically, but almost. His presence had weight to it. The air between us was getting hotter by the minute.
My gaze flicked toward the bed in the back of the room.
I told myself it didn’t mean anything.
One night. Just one. I could handle it.
Except I kept picturing it. The covers pushed back, the sound of breathing, and the heat of another body just inches away.
My fingers curled slightly where they rested on my forearm.
He moved again, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. His shirt stretched across his shoulders when he did that. The fabric pulled just enough to show the way his back moved underneath.
I swallowed hard.
This was stupid. I was stupid for letting my mind go there, but I couldn’t stop it. It had already started. That slow, creeping want. Not loud. Not urgent. Just a low thrum beneath my skin. A tension I couldn’t name.
I didn’t want this.
Except…I did.
I didn’t want to want it.
But I did.
Lennox turned to look at me. He didn’t smile this time. His eyes were serious. Calm. Like he could feel it too. Like he wasn’t sure what to do with it either.
I stood too fast. “I’m going to grab a glass of water.”
I went to the kitchenette and busied myself with the tap, pretending I couldn’t feel his eyes on my back. The water was cold and sharp. I drank slowly, one sip at a time, until I could breathe again.
When I turned around, he was still watching me.
The look in his eyes wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t friendly. It wasn’t flirty.
It was quiet and patient, and it made my chest tighten.
I sat back down, a little farther from the fire this time, and kept my eyes on the flames.
The silence returned.
I didn’t know what would happen when we turned out the lights. I didn’t know if we’d speak again. If we’d touch. If we’d just lie there, pretending the air wasn’t suffocating us like a held breath.
But I knew one thing for sure. I didn’t want to sleep. Not yet. Not while he was this close. Not while my thoughts were like this. Not while my hands ached to know what his skin felt like.
I had to let this wash over me before I could even think of lying down next to him.
And as I bit my lower lip in anticipation, I understood that this electrifying feeling simply wasn’t going away. I’d have to shut my eyes and pretend he wasn’t there.