“Come over.”
Two words that basically nuked my entire evening. No context. No explanation. Just Luca Reyes commanding my presence like I’m some kind of on-call emotional support system.
I stared at my phone for exactly five minutes, thumb hovering over the keyboard, pretending I had options. Pretending I wasn’t already mentally cataloging which hoodie made me look less like a walking anxiety disorder.
Spoiler alert: I was out the door in three minutes flat.
“Going for a walk,” I told my mom, which technically wasn’t a lie. If you considered sprinting across town to potentially ruin your life a form of cardio.
Luca opens his front door looking like he stepped out of some bullshit teenage dream sequence. White t-shirt. Gray sweatpants. Hair still damp from the shower. Barefoot and devastatingly casual, like he didn’t just send me into a full-scale panic spiral.
“Hey,” he says, stepping aside.
“Hey yourself.” I slide past him, hyperaware of how his hallway suddenly feels like a matchbox. “Nice cryptic summons. Very mysterious and emotionally manipulative.”
“I missed you.”
The words hit like a sucker punch. No buildup. No flirty preamble. Just raw honesty that makes my chest do this weird clenching thing.
“It’s been six hours since lunch.”
“Felt like six years.”
“Christ, you’re dramatic.”
“Says the guy who literally ran here.”
“I walked. Briskly. There’s a difference.”
“You’re out of breath.”
“I have exercise-induced asthma.”
“Since when?”
“Since right now. It’s a recent development.”
He laughs, and the sound fills up every corner of the room. Makes everything feel smaller and more intense simultaneously.
“So what’s the plan?” I ask, shoving my hands deep in my pockets. “Study session? Netflix binge? Mutual emotional destruction?”
Instead of answering, he starts walking toward me. Slow. Deliberate. Like a predator who’s already decided how this ends.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” he says when he’s close enough that I can count his eyelashes.
“Sounds exhausting for your brain.”
“It is.” His fingers find mine, warm and sure. “I can’t concentrate on anything else.”
“That explains your chemistry grade.”
“Noah.” His voice drops to barely above a whisper. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
“About fucking time.”
And then he does.
This isn’t the tentative, questioning kiss from the party. This is hunger and frustration and three years of wanting distilled into pure heat. His mouth claims mine like he’s done being polite about it.
I melt. Completely. Every defense mechanism I’ve ever built just evaporates on contact.
We stumble backward, still kissing, until my back hits the couch. He follows, pressing close, one hand tangling in my hair.
“This okay?” he breathes against my mouth.
“Do I look like I’m filing a complaint?”
His laugh vibrates against my lips. Then he’s kissing my jaw, my neck, finding spots that make me forget basic motor functions.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” I gasp.
“What a way to go, though.”
His hands slide under my shirt, fingertips tracing patterns on my ribs. I arch into the touch, shameless and desperate and completely gone.
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmurs into my collarbone.
“How long?”
“Since freshman year. Since you told Peterson he was factually incorrect about the Berlin Wall and didn’t back down when he tried to argue.”
“That’s when you knew you wanted to make out with me?”
“That’s when I knew you were dangerous.”
His mouth finds that spot just below my ear, and my brain goes completely offline. Everything narrows down to heat and pressure and the weight of him against me.
“I don’t know what this is,” I say between kisses, words tumbling out faster than I can stop them.
“Neither do I,” he admits. “But I don’t want to stop.”
“Good, because I might actually die if we—”
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
We freeze. Luca’s mouth is still pressed to my throat, my hands still tangled in his hair. Time stops. Reality crashes back in like a sledgehammer.
“Fuck,” Luca whispers.
KNOCK KNOCK.
“Luca?” Deep voice. Authoritative. Familiar. “You in there, son?”
Luca’s face goes pale. “It’s my dad. And he doesn’t know.”