Page 20 of Depths of Desire (The Saints of Westmont U #4)

FOURTEEN

LENNOX

The rooftop smelled like tar and spring rain.

That mix of something aged and something new. The kind of scent that clung to the night in a city like this—half ghosts, half rebirth. Like time itself was sticky up here, holding on just a little longer before letting the seasons change.

I lay on my back, hoodie pulled tight around me, elbows folded behind my head. The air was cool and smelled faintly of wet pavement, warming steel, and that herbal sweetness from the thermos beside us. Peppermint and chamomile, his idea. Calming, supposedly. It had worked more than it should’ve.

The sky stretched wide above us, pale with scattered stars, not the kind you saw in textbooks or movies, but real city stars, half-lit, half-lost, fighting their way through the light pollution.

Their edges blurred with the faint orange haze that lived over Chicago’s skyline like a restless halo.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was beautiful anyway.

Oliver lay next to me, arms tucked behind his head, too, the thermos between us like a silent chaperone. Our heads were close—so close I could feel the echo of his breath between words—but not quite touching. That felt like the rule tonight. Close, but not pushing.

I turned my head a fraction and caught his profile in the dim light. The sharp bridge of his nose. The loose strands of hair the wind kept trying to ruffle. The way his lips looked soft, even when they were pursed in thought. I could’ve stared at him all night, honestly, but I played it cool.

A breeze slipped across my cheek, just strong enough to lift the hair at my temples, and it carried with it the music of the city.

The hum of life below us: a distant horn, a low laugh, a radio playing something upbeat on the street.

A train rumbled somewhere far off. Someone on the next rooftop coughed.

It made me smile, how alive it all was, how small we were up here, and how big the world still felt. As big as it had been when I was a boy.

“You see that one?” I asked, pointing lazily at the vague spatter of stars overhead. “The bright one? That’s… Chickenus Major.”

Oliver snorted. “Chickenus Major?”

“Yep. Legendary Roman constellation. Symbol of strength. And poor impulse control.”

He turned his head slightly, and I felt his gaze land on me before I even looked over. “I think I read about that in a very prestigious and totally real astronomy journal.”

“Peer-reviewed,” I added. “Of course.”

The corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk. “Naturally.”

I let the silence stretch again. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was thick and soft, like fleece.

I didn’t feel like I needed to impress him up here.

I didn’t feel like I needed to earn my place.

“Do you ever wonder who you’d be without it?” he asked suddenly. His voice was low, soft, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

“Without what?”

He was still looking up, watching nothing in particular. “The sport. The expectations. The pressure. Who we are without the stopwatch, the scoreboard, the identity that’s been branded on our backs since we were kids.”

I didn’t answer right away. Not because I didn’t know, but because I knew too well. And it wasn’t a pretty thought.

“I think I’d still be me,” I said eventually. “Just…quieter. Maybe lonelier. Maybe a barista with very strong opinions on milky coffee after lunch.”

“The acidity,” Oliver said in contempt of such horrors. He let out a small laugh, the kind that sounded like it startled even him by escaping.

I rolled onto my side to face him, propping my head up with one hand. “What about you?”

He let out a long breath, slow and ragged at the edges.

“I don’t know. I’ve spent so long chasing something, I don’t think I ever stopped to figure out who I was outside of it.

It’s always been about the next time, the better time, the record I haven’t broken yet.

But lately…” He glanced over. “Lately, I think about more than just swimming.”

I felt something shift in my chest. Something delicate and dangerous.

I wanted to say something light. I wanted to flirt. But instead, all that came out was the truth. “I used to think people liked me because I was easy. Chill. Low drama. The guy who’d make them laugh and never ask too many questions.”

His brow furrowed, gentle concern in the crease. “Is that how you saw yourself?”

“Still kinda do.” I shrugged. “I mean, it works. But sometimes…I think I disappeared into that version of me. And nobody ever stopped to ask what else there was. Not until you.”

Silence again. This time thicker, more fragile.

And then his hand found mine.

Just a brush of fingers at first, like he was still asking if it was allowed. Like he was waiting for me to pull away. I didn’t. I laced my fingers through his slowly, deliberately, like weaving something sacred.

When I looked over again, he was already watching me.

His expression was open in a way I wasn’t used to from him. Honest. Raw. No shields, no guard, just that familiar storm behind his eyes that always made me feel like we were the only two people alive.

“I didn’t think I’d ever feel like this,” I said softly. “Like being close to someone wasn’t a risk.”

He didn’t blink. “It still feels like a risk.”

“Yeah?”

“But I want to take it anyway.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I leaned in.

And he met me halfway.

The kiss wasn’t hot. It wasn’t frantic. It was slow, and deep, and intentional.

Like we had all the time in the world. Like we were choosing this, not falling into it by accident.

His mouth tasted faintly like mint and something warmer, something like cinnamon.

I breathed him in, held the back of his neck, and let myself sink into it.

When we pulled apart, he didn’t let go of my hand.

I tucked closer to his side, and he shifted just enough to let me rest my head on his shoulder. Our legs tangled slowly, naturally. I could feel the way his thumb was brushing over the back of my hand, over and over like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

We lay there, and the sky slowly clouded over. The stars disappeared behind long gray streaks, but we didn’t move.

And when the silence curled around us again, it didn’t feel like absence.

It felt like belonging.

Days started to pass like window scenes on a train.

Bright.

Brief.

Blurred by speed.

One minute, it was late February, the cold biting at my knuckles as I laced my skates in the dark corner of the locker room.

The next, it was mid-March, and I was shrugging off my hoodie to feel the sun for the first time in months.

The spring came slowly to Chicago, but even the wind tasted different now. Softer. Hopeful.

Everything was in motion. Practice, drills, travel, coursework.

My calendar looked like a war zone of overlapping commitments.

Alarm clocks and protein shakes. Group texts with the boys, half-finished assignments, stretch bands, and ice packs.

I kept up. I pushed through. But underneath it all, running like a secret current through the noise, was Oliver.

Sometimes I didn’t even notice the days going by.

I’d look up from a textbook and realize a week had passed.

A week of seeing his name flash on my phone, of the soft ping of a message right when I needed it most. Of late nights spent scrolling through photos of us, of him, of anything that reminded me how good it felt to be wanted without having to earn it with charm.

I didn’t have to be funny for Oliver. I didn’t have to pretend like I wasn’t tired, or stressed, or insecure. He saw through it, called me out gently, then kissed me like I was still worth it anyway.

Hockey was brutal that month. Away games stacked back-to-back, body bruised in all the usual ways.

A hard check during the second period in Milwaukee tweaked my shoulder again, the same one I’d messed up back in freshman year.

Elio taped it for me in the locker room, hands sure and muttering curses the whole time.

“You’re pushing too hard,” he said, eyes sharp.

“Not hard enough,” I muttered, teeth clenched.

He didn’t argue. He just pressed the tape down a little too tightly in retaliation.

Later that night, I lay on the dorm bed in the dark, Rhett snoring across the room, my laptop screen still open on a half-finished assignment. The glow hurt my eyes, but I didn’t care. I stared at the text from Oliver instead.

Oliver: You’re still up?

Me: I’m always up.

Oliver: I’ve got a blanket and a warm apartment and no roommate. Just saying.

I’d smiled so hard it hurt.

We didn’t always make it happen. Sometimes there was too much distance, too much exhaustion. Sometimes I had early morning drills, or he had class. But when I could, I went. God, I went.

One night, I showed up at his place after a six-hour bus ride, legs stiff, nerves fried, and crawled into bed without even taking off my socks.

I’d barely shut the door before I collapsed beside him.

He didn’t complain. He just rolled toward me, warm and half-asleep, pulled me in, and said, “You’re here. ” Like that was all he’d needed.

He held me like I was a reward, not a burden. I didn’t know which god I’d sucked off in my previous life to deserve this, but I must have given a damn good head.

Other times were quieter. Sunday mornings, slow and golden.

We’d sit at his tiny kitchen table, both shirtless, hair a mess, bare feet tangled beneath the table legs.

He made eggs that were always too runny, even though he tried to act like it was intentional.

I toasted bagels. We drank terrible coffee and watched the sunlight crawl across the floor like it was performing just for us.

He had a toothbrush waiting for me in his bathroom. A spare hoodie hanging next to his own. A chipped ceramic mug with a fox on it that he never used, except when I was over.

I never asked about any of it. I didn’t need to.

Sometimes I’d find little things in his apartment—my beanie folded on the windowsill, a movie cued up on his TV that we’d joked about watching weeks earlier.

One night, I caught him doing dishes while humming a song I didn’t think anyone remembered, and I realized it had been stuck in my head when I left his place three nights before.

Somehow, he’d caught it. Held on to it. Played it back.

I started to recognize a new kind of ache. Not the lonely kind I’d known before. This one was quieter, sharper. The kind that hit you in the chest when you got back to your own room and it was just you again. The kind that made the dorm feel too small, too quiet, too cold.

I’d lie in bed staring at the ceiling, scrolling through photos I didn’t even remember taking, just to feel close to him again. One of us laughing. One of our hands, fingers curled together on his sheets. A blurry one of him brushing his teeth, hair wild, eyes on me in the mirror.

One night, during a national swim meet, I watched him on TV. The commentators were analyzing his technique, his potential comeback after last year’s Nationals. They listed stats. Talked about pressure. Mental blocks. Redemption arcs.

I just stared at the screen, heart pounding, and whispered, “Come on, baby,” like it might somehow carry across the miles and land in his chest.

And when he touched the wall, turned to find the scoreboard, and grinned—that grin—I felt like the world stopped spinning for a second. I wanted to be the first person he saw. I wanted to be the reason behind that smile.

I didn’t know when it happened.

Somewhere between late-night kisses and him pressing warm leftovers into my hands…

Somewhere between his laugh echoing in his apartment and the way he always made room for me in his bed…

But I’d stopped wondering if he’d call.

I just knew he would.

And I’d answer, always.