Chapter Ten The Look That Gave It Away
Eli’s apartment looked like the sort of place people on the internet argued about.
Half the squad had already called it obscene.
Too much glass, too much skyline, too much proof that a national contract and a European club paid better than most of them ever admitted to dreaming about.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Liffey in slick strokes of silver; lights from the far bank glittered like someone had scattered coins across the water and forgotten to pick them back up.
Lucas stood just inside the doorway, boots still on the mat, taking it in.
The space was open-plan and deliberate—clean lines, dark wood, steel accents softened by plants that were definitely real and definitely cared for. Nothing flashy for the sake of it. Everything chosen.
It felt… lived in. Intentionally so.
“Take a picture, captain,” the scrum-half said, clapping him on the back. “It’ll last longer.”
“I’ll see it in film review when you’re late to training,” Lucas replied automatically.
The scrum-half laughed and peeled off toward the kitchen, where noise and bodies had already congregated.
Voices bounced off the high ceilings—accents folding into each other; someone arguing about a call from the match; someone else trying to convince a prop that yes, there was a difference between an IPA and normal beer.
And there, moving easily between it all, was Eli.
Barefoot in joggers and a T-shirt, curls still a little damp, he looked like he’d peeled off the game-day armor and left something softer underneath. He balanced a tray of glasses on one hand, laughing at something a forward said, hip bumping a cabinet door shut without looking.
Lucas felt that now-familiar flick low in his chest.
Don’t stare.
Don’t want.
Eli turned, scanning the room—and caught him.
The change was instant. His shoulders loosened, his face lighting like Lucas was something he’d been looking for rather than something he’d just noticed.
“There you are,” Eli said, like Lucas was late to his own birthday.
“Traffic,” Lucas said, because it was easier than saying I almost didn’t come.
“Liar,” Eli said lightly. “Drink?”
Their fingers brushed as Lucas took the bottle. Static skittered up his arm, sharp and unmistakable.
“Nice place,” Lucas said, glancing around. “They pay you too much.”
“Say it louder,” Eli said. “I want management to hear.”
The corner of Lucas’s mouth threatened a smile before he smoothed it away.
Someone called Eli’s name from the kitchen—something about ice, or limes, or both. Host duties. He squeezed Lucas’s shoulder once as he passed—brief, grounding—and disappeared back into the noise.
Lucas watched him go.
The party moved around him in waves. He did what he always did at these things—checked in, steadied nerves, laughed when required, and made himself useful.
He refilled drinks without being asked. Redirected conversations before they tipped into something stupid.
Made sure the balcony door stayed closed.
And every time he looked up, Eli was there in his periphery.
Watching.
Not once did Eli’s gaze skim past him.
Eventually—inevitably—someone declared it was time for a group photo.
“Housewarming proof!” the scrum-half shouted, already climbing onto a chair with reckless confidence.
Groans, laughter, bodies shuffling closer together. Eli propped his phone against a stack of books near the window and jogged back into frame.
Lucas found himself herded toward the front. Arms slung over shoulders.
Eli squeezed in beside him at the last second, shoulder pressing warm and solid into Lucas’s arm.
“Timer’s on,” someone yelled. “Don’t look miserable.”
Lucas looked toward the phone automatically, setting his face into the neutral expression he’d perfected over years of cameras.
Eli didn’t.
He was looking at Lucas.
Not performing. Not joking. Just there—open, unguarded, intent in a way that made Lucas’s chest tighten.
His eyes flicked sideways and he turned his head before he could stop himself.
Eli’s mouth curved, small and private.
The shutter clicked.
The moment shattered into noise.
Laughter. Complaints. People immediately reaching for their phones. Lucas caught a glimpse of the photo later over someone’s shoulder: chaos and smiles and terrible angles. Eli beside him, facing each other with small soft smiles.
Something small and irreversible shifted inside Lucas.
The party thinned as the night wore on. Jackets collected. Promises made and forgotten. When the door closed on the last of them, the quiet felt loud.
“Didn’t lose anyone over the balcony,” Eli said, leaning back against the door. “Success.”
“Low bar,” Lucas replied.
They cleaned up together without much conversation—plates, bottles, the quiet choreography of shared effort.
It felt unexpectedly intimate, domestic in a way Lucas hadn’t prepared for.
Eli worked on instinct, moving around him without collision, handing him things before Lucas realized he needed them.
Later, they ended up on opposite ends of the couch, music turned low, city lights striping the room in silver and shadow.
“You good?” Eli asked quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You say that a lot.”
Lucas didn’t argue.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Eli said after a moment. “I wasn’t sure you would be.”
“I didn’t want to be somewhere you weren’t,” Lucas said, before he could stop himself.
Eli turned fully toward him.
“Tell me to stop if you don’t want this,” he said, serious now.
“If I didn’t,” Lucas said, steady despite the rush in his chest, “I wouldn’t be here.”
Eli moved closer. Slow. Careful. A hand braced beside Lucas’s hip.
“Last chance,” he murmured. “Luke.”
Lucas leaned in.
The kiss started soft and went hungry fast. Control unraveled. Lucas found himself pressed back into the couch cushions, Eli over him, solid and warm, mouths meeting with an urgency neither of them tried to disguise.
Shirts came off. Hands mapped skin like they were memorizing it.
Their bodies aligned—briefs still on, friction immediate and devastating. Eli rolled his hips experimentally and both of them broke at the same time.
“Oh,” Eli breathed, forehead dropping to Lucas’s shoulder. “Okay.”
Lucas arched into him, fingers digging into Eli’s back, breath gone. The grind turned instinctive—pressure on pressure, heat building, rhythm finding itself without permission.
Eli’s mouth found Lucas’s again, messy and desperate. The couch creaked. Lucas’s vision went white at the edges.
Eli whispered his name like a warning and a promise. “Luke.”
He wasn’t ready to listen.
Underwear were yanked off without ceremony, the fabric scraping roughly against their skin as Lucas's thick cock sprang free, already leaking precum from the slit, veins bulging along its length.
Eli followed suit with an excited grin, his own hard shaft slapping against his thigh before standing rigid, the head flushed dark and glistening.
His eyes dropped unabashedly as he took in the view—Lucas's balls heavy and drawn up tight, a faint musky scent filling the air between them on the worn couch cushions.
He laughed airily, voice thick with lust. “I’ll be fucked.”
Lucas looked at him, all heat and wildness now, his pupils blown wide. “If you play your cards right, yes.”
Eli grunted greedily and wrapped one hand around both throbbing cocks, his fingers barely closing around their combined girth.
The heat of their shafts pressed together, slick with shared sweat and precum that smeared between them like lube.
He stroked them in tandem, rough and insistent, the foreskins gliding back and forth over sensitive heads with wet, the feeling delicious.
Leaning down, Eli rested his forehead against Lucas’s, their hot breaths mingling, ragged and desperate. He swore softly, breath hitching, as the friction built—each pump sending jolts of raw pleasure ripping through their cores, cocks twitching against each other, balls brushing with every grind.
The couch creaked under their shifting weight, Eli's free hand digging into Lucas's thigh, nails leaving red marks on the skin.
Eli leaned back and spit into his hand, making the strokes even sloppier, dirtier.
Lucas's hips bucked involuntarily, thrusting into Eli's grip, the tips of their cocks bumping and sliding, smearing sticky fluid across bellies and groins.
“Shit, this is so good,” Eli growled, his voice breaking as he pumped faster, the obscene slap of skin on skin echoing in the room.
Sweat beaded on their chests, trickling down to mix with the mess below, the air thick with the salty tang of arousal.
It didn’t take long. Eli’s breathing stuttered, his strokes faltering as pressure coiled tight in his gut.
A whimpering cry broke from him—raw and needy, like he was getting split open.
His cock pulsed first, hot ropes of cum erupting from the tip, splattering across Lucas’s stomach in thick, white streaks that clung to the hairs there, warm and viscous.
The sight and feel of it—Eli's seed marking him—pushed Lucas over the edge without mercy.
His body seized, hips jerking wildly as he came with a sharp, guttural “Fuck!”
Cum shot from Lucas's cock in forceful spurts, hitting Eli's abs and chest, some landing on his own hand still gripping them both.
Eli let out a low, wrecked laugh, milking every last drop from them, their spent shafts softening in his cum-slicked palm.
The mess pooled between them, sticky and cooling on their skin, as they panted against each other, the couch damp beneath their asses.
When Lucas came back to himself, his forehead was pressed to Eli’s shoulder, both of them breathing like they’d just finished a match.
Eli laughed softly, reverent and unguarded. “Well.”
He winked—wicked, unapologetic—and without breaking eye contact, licked his fingers clean, tasting their combined mess.
Lucas let out a slow, shaken breath. “Fuck—that’s… hot.”
He knew, with sudden clarity, that image would stay with him for the rest of his life.
Later—dressed, cleaned, calmer, sitting side by side with a safe, careful distance that still felt like a decision—their phones buzzed at the same time.
Lucas glanced down and felt his stomach do a small, traitorous flip.
Maeve: (attached is the housewarming photo from a fan account online)
This is an ADORABLE photo… and now the internet is writing fanfic about you two.
Lucas stared at the screen, heat creeping up the back of his neck.
Of course she’d found it.
Maeve had demanded Eli’s number the first time Lucas had admitted—carefully, vaguely—that something had shifted.
She’d said she “needed to establish basic facts,” which had turned out to mean she wanted to hear Eli’s voice, take his temperature, and determine whether he was the sort of man who would treat Lucas like a secret or like a person.
Apparently, after a single conversation with Lucas and a handful of messages with Eli, she’d reached a conclusion.
Between her and Lucas, she’d decided she needed to make sure that, quote: he’s worthy of you.
Eli laughed at his own phone.
“She’s fun but scary, that one,” Eli said, amusement threaded through it.
“You have no idea,” Lucas murmured.
He didn’t pull away.
Outside, the river slid past, indifferent and endless. Inside, the apartment held the quiet aftermath of something new—unsettled, unspoken, real.
For the first time, Lucas didn’t feel the need to leave immediately.
And that—more than anything else that night—terrified him.