He wouldn’t see the message I’d deleted. I wasn’t ready for him to know.
We drove up the coast to a bistro that was both casual and romantic. Every lingering touch of his hand sent shockwaves of heat through me. Having Luke’s undivided attention was a powerful thing, addictive in the best possible way.
After, we strolled along the beach. The boardwalk thinned as we moved toward the sand, shoes slipping slightly over weathered planks before the beach opened up in front of us. The ocean stretched out in muted silver under a pale sky, waves folding into themselves with a steady rhythm.
His hand found mine easily, our fingers threading together like they’d done it a thousand times. It felt right—it always did.
We didn’t talk about the letter from Darren to my mom. We didn’t talk about his parents. Or any of the other stressors pressing in on us from every angle. Instead, we talked about nothing and everything.
He told me about practice that morning—how Theo had nearly taken Chase out during a drill and tried to blame the ice. How Jax insisted on running sprints even after Coach dismissed them, claiming it was “character building,” which apparentlymeant everyone else had to suffer with him. Punishment for leaving a mess on the lawn after the bonfire Friday night.
I laughed hard enough my cheeks ached. “You love them,” I accused.
“They’re idiots,” he corrected.
“Same thing.”
He bumped his shoulder lightly against mine, and the contact lingered.
We walked near the shoreline, the wind tugging at my hair. His thumb brushed over my knuckles absently as he talked, like he needed the contact as much as I did.
At some point he asked about my art show. I hesitated before answering. “I accepted.”
His head turned immediately. “You did?”
“I did.” The words felt both terrifying and freeing at the same time. “I’m nervous,” I admitted. “But it’ll look good. Michigan tracks this stuff, and if I show up already exhibiting, it helps. Funding, studio placement… all of it.”
“You’re already negotiating your spot before you even move in.”
“I’m not negotiating,” I said, trying not to smile. “I’m making it harder to overlook me.”
His grip closed more firmly around my hand.
“You won’t be overlooked.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“It is when you’re good.” There was no hesitation in his voice, just belief.
We talked about housing next—he had a list saved on his phone. Apartments near campus. Shared houses. Floor plans he’d screenshotted like he’d been studying them.
“You’re organized,” I teased.
“I like knowing where I’m landing.”
“You’re still serious about Ann Arbor?” I asked.
“Yes. Nothing’s changed.”
“And not the backup your dad prefers.”
“No.”
There was no strain in the answer. Just clarity.
The wind off the water pushed against us as we turned back toward the boardwalk.
“You don’t get to protect me by pushing me away,” he added quietly.