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Chapter twenty-nine

Elliot

I’d spent two weeks in Florida, but it felt like a lifetime.

The devastation Hurricane Beatrice left behind had been worse than anything I’d seen in years. Whole neighborhoods had been swallowed by floodwaters, as roads were carved apart by wind and rain, and power poles twisted like paperclips. It was the kind of disaster that didn’t just knock out power—it changed lives.

And we’d worked like hell to bring some of that back.

Day after day, we’d pulled downed lines from broken trees, trudged through waist-high water to get to blown transformers, cut our way through the wreckage with nothing but brute strength and sheer stubbornness. The sun had been relentless, beating down on us as if it hadn’t just spent days hiding behind a storm. I returned to our hotel every night with aching muscles, sweat-drenched clothes, and hands too tired to do anything but grip a fork long enough to shovel food in my mouth before collapsing into bed.

It had been hard, grueling work, the kind that drained every ounce of energy—both physical and emotional—I had.

And yet, in every quiet moment, in every exhausted breath I took—I thought about him.

About Mike.

And it didn’t make sense.

We’d only known each other a month or so, and half that time we’d been hundreds of miles apart. I almost expected to forget about him when I crossed the border . . . or more likely, for him to forget about me. For some reason the universe had yet to explain, the opposite happened.

I’d never been the kind of guy to linger on someone, not like this. A hookup was a hookup. A few good nights together didn’t mean anything in the long run. I was used to passing through people’s lives, used to packing up and moving on before anything could stick.

But this—this was different.

I wasn’t the kind of guy who made lists in my head. I didn’t sit around analyzing my feelings, didn’t waste time picking apart every damn thought I had about a person.

But Mike—

Mike had a way of creeping in, settling into my bones, carving out space in my mind like he belonged there. And maybe he did.

So, fine.

If I had to make a list, if I had to figure out why the hell he was getting under my skin, why I was craving him the way I was—this was it.

Number One: His hair shouldn’t do it for me, but it did.

I’d never looked twice at a redhead before.

It just wasn’t a thing for me.

And yet—

Mike’s hair was something else entirely. It was this deep auburn in some lights, a copper blaze in others. It was the kind of color that made me notice it even when I wasn’t trying to.

I’d caught myself staring more than once, watching the way the sunlight caught in the strands, making them glow like embers. It was obnoxiously soft-looking, too, the kind of hair that begged to be touched.

The first time I did touch it, I’d expected something coarse, wiry. But it wasn’t. It was fine and thick, a little unruly when he didn’t try to tame it.

And fuck, it suited him.

It made his already-pale skin stand out even more, made the freckles across his nose more pronounced. He burned too damn easily, always complaining about needing SPF 50 just to walk to his car, but I liked that about him.

And no, the carpet did not match the drapes. Hell, the carpet was a whole new color of flame, one that might be seen from space, while the drapes (and every other part of his body) held the color of a burned sunset. There was something about the, I don’t know, variety? That was stupid, I know, but it was part of it. Every time I thought I’d seen all of him, something new (like fiery pubes) would present itself.

And it drove me crazy.

He drove me crazy.

And I liked how unapologetically him he was. Moreso, I liked that I was the one who got to see him like this, up close, my fingers tangled in his hair, his breath hot against my skin.

So, yeah.

I guess I did have a thing for redheads.

Or maybe I just had a thing for him.

Number Two: He made me laugh when I least expected it.

I wasn’t someone who laughed easily. Not the kind of real, deep, uncontrollable laughter that takes you by surprise. Most people I worked with didn’t expect much humor from me, and I never gave them any reason to.

But Mike?

Mike had a sharp tongue and an even sharper wit, and he wielded both like weapons, the kind that cut through my defenses before I even knew I had them up. And it wasn’t just what he said—it was the way he said it. That deadpan delivery. That raised eyebrow, like he knew exactly how to press my buttons and enjoyed every second of it.

He wasn’t afraid to call me on my bullshit, either, which was definitely something new. Most guys took one look at my height and build and were scared to say what they really thought. Mike had no fear.

We’d been sprawled out on his couch, my feet kicked up on the coffee table, his knee pressed against mine. Some dumb movie played in the background, something I wasn’t even half watching because all I could focus on was the warmth of him.

Then he looked at me—half lidded, mischievous, like he was about to start trouble.

“You ever smile?” he asked, completely serious. “Or did you sell your ability to feel joy in exchange for unparalleled brooding skills?”

I scoffed, shoving at his shoulder. “Shut up.”

“Ah-ha!” He pointed at me like he’d caught me in a trap. “A reaction. He does have feelings.”

I had laughed then. An actual, full-bodied, helpless laugh. The kind that cracked something open in me, that made me feel light in a way I wasn’t used to.

Mike had just grinned, victorious. “That’s right, big guy. I am funny.”

He was. Infuriatingly so.

Number Three: He was smart, and he knew it. (Okay, that might be a negative, too.)

Mike had a way of thinking through things, of seeing the world in a way that wasn’t always obvious to me. It wasn’t just that he was a teacher—though, Christ, he could pull out a fact about anything at a moment’s notice. It was the way he took the time to understand things, to question them.

It showed in the way he talked about his students. There was a fire in him when he spoke about literature, about the power of stories, about why people clung to them.

I didn’t always have the right words for things. I was better with my hands—with action—but Mike could take a feeling, a thought, and put it into words in a way that made sense, in a way that settled things inside me I hadn’t realized needed settling.

And, God, I loved listening to him talk.

Not that I’d ever tell him that. His ego was big enough as it was.

Number Four: He made me want to stay.

This was the one that scared me.

I wasn’t a man who stayed.

My whole life had been built around movement—chasing storms, following work, never letting myself put down roots deep enough to get caught.

But with Mike?

With Mike, I felt still.

Not trapped. Not restless. Just present.

When I was with him, I didn’t think about where I had to go next or what job was waiting for me. The only thing that mattered was the now—the way he looked at me across the dinner table, the way his fingers curled around the back of my neck when he kissed me, the way he held me like I was something solid, something real.

I wasn’t sure what to do with that.

I wasn’t sure if I could stay.

But for the first time in my life, I wanted to.

And that was fucking terrifying.

Number Five: He saw right through my bullshit.

I was good at keeping people at arm’s length. At giving them just enough to think they knew me without actually letting them know me.

Mike never bought it.

He saw through every smirk, every deflection, every attempt I made to keep things light and easy. He called me on it every damn time, and he never let me get away with anything.

“You don’t always have to be the strong one, you know,” he’d said once, catching me off guard. “You let yourself lean on people sometimes?” he asked, peering at me with that quiet, thoughtful gaze that always made me feel like I was under a microscope.

I huffed. “I don’t need to.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I swallowed hard. “No.”

Mike had gone quiet then, and for a second, I thought maybe he was going to let it drop.

But then—

“Well,” he’d said, reaching out to brush his fingers through my hair. “Maybe you should try it sometime.”

I’d frozen.

I hadn’t known how to respond to that.

I still didn’t.

Number Six: He wasn’t afraid to want me.

Okay, this might’ve been the worst item on my list—but it was also the most important.

I’d been with people before—plenty of them—but it had always been surface level, always built on heat and convenience and nothing deeper than that.

Mike wasn’t like that.

He didn’t just say he wanted me—he showed it.

He showed it in the way he touched me, in the way he looked at me, in the way he waited for me to catch up.

I wasn’t used to that.

I wasn’t used to being wanted like I was something worth waiting for.

And the worst part?

I wanted him just as badly.

I wanted to hear him laugh at me again. I wanted to sit on his couch and listen to him complain about his students. I wanted to wake up to his voice in the morning, to feel his warmth next to me, to have that in a way I’d never let myself have before.

I wanted it all.

And I had no idea what the hell to do about it.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the last night we’d spent together, the way he looked up at me from the couch, sleepy and warm, his fingers brushing against mine like he’d already decided I belonged there.

The way he’d whispered, “Come back to me.”

The way I wanted to.

Even now, with miles of open road stretched in front of me, my chest felt too tight, my thoughts too tangled. I didn’t know what to do with any of it.

I needed a distraction.

I reached for my phone, flipping through my audiobook library until I found the one I’d downloaded before leaving Florida.

A gay romance.

I had no fucking clue why I’d picked it. I wasn’t the type to read romance—never had been. Maybe I’d just been curious. Maybe I’d wanted something to fill the quiet. Maybe, deep down, I’d needed to hear a story about someone like me.

Who the fuck knew?

I hit play.

The narrator’s voice filled the cab, calm and steady, pulling me into the story. It started slow—two men who shouldn’t have fit together, drawn to each other despite their differences. The hardened soldier, closed off and unreachable. The quiet artist, patient and unrelenting in his love.

I exhaled slowly.

I knew that kind of story.

I lived that kind of story.

The further the book went, the more it started picking me apart, line by line, like someone had cracked open my ribs and begun poking at everything I kept buried.

The soldier was scared to love. He was used to a life where attachment meant pain, where caring about someone only led to loss. He didn’t trust himself to be someone worth staying for.

I gritted my teeth.

It was too fucking close.

But I kept listening.

I couldn’t stop.

At one point, moisture threatened to spill out the corner of one eye. Fuck that author and her sappy, syrupy sweet goodness, her dreamy characters and their emotional availability. How dare she write words that touched my heart and made me . . . damn it . . . I would not cry.

I listened through the moments of slow, aching tension—the artist gently, carefully making space for the soldier in his life, showing him he didn’t have to do everything alone. I listened to every hesitant touch, every quiet confession, every soft promise that love didn’t have to be a battlefield.

And then, suddenly, it wasn’t soft anymore.

I had not been prepared for the sex.

Jesus Christ.

The narrator didn’t falter, his voice even as he described every moment in vivid, explicit detail. The way the soldier let himself be touched for the first time— really touched—without fear, without walls. The way he surrendered, piece by piece, as if he had spent his whole life running from love and desire but chose to never run again.

I swallowed hard, shifting in my seat.

It wasn’t just the heat of it—though it was fucking spicy, undeniably so.

It was the vulnerability.

The way the soldier let himself be wanted.

I rolled down the window, letting the cool air cut through my skin.

This was dangerous.

Not the book itself, but what it was doing to me.

I wasn’t the type of man who let himself dwell on things. I moved too much, worked too hard, kept my life neatly contained between one storm and the next. That was how it had to be.

But now?

Now, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way Mike had looked at me before I left.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the way I’d felt when I told him I’d come back.

And worse—I couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen if I didn’t.

I gripped the wheel tighter, my pulse a steady, uneven thrum.

I wasn’t built for this.

I had spent my whole damn life making sure I didn’t need anyone. Because needing people meant losing them. It meant letting them see every sharp edge, every cracked and broken piece.

But Mike . . .

Mike made me want to try.

I clenched my jaw, flipping the audiobook off. The sudden silence pressed in around me, too loud, too full of everything I didn’t want to think about.

The only narration came from my own frail mental voice.

I should turn it back on. I should let the story swallow me whole, let it drag me under until I don’t have to feel this anymore. Any of this. Damn it.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I let myself sit in the quiet of the wind racing through the open window, the tires against rough pavement, the roar of engines as they passed.

Drowning in those sounds, I let myself miss him.

And as the miles stretched on, carrying me closer to home, one truth became painfully, undeniably clear—

I was already falling.

And I had no idea how to stop.