By Anthony Corona
They stumbled back into Luke’s carriage house just past midnight, cheeks flushed from wine and laughter, fingers brushing like teenagers testing gravity.
“All right, stable boy,” Luke said, nudging the door shut behind them with his hip, “home again. You’ve officially survived your first date with a McAllister.”
Noah grinned. “I don’t know, it’s not over yet. I could still be murdered in my sleep. Or worse—served instant coffee in the morning.”
Luke scoffed. “Please. I’m not a savage. I grind my own beans.”
“You’re a man of mystery and layers,” Noah said, eyes sweeping the warmly lit room. “Layers and—oh God—is that a portrait of Shirley Bassey?”
Luke placed a reverent hand over his heart. “Dame. Shirley. Bassey. She watches over the living room and judges all who dare to sing along.”
Noah raised an eyebrow. “Should I be concerned that I’m competing with a British diva?”
Luke smirked. “You could never. But you are about to experience one of my power songs.”
He crossed to the record player and slid a vinyl out of its sleeve. As the unmistakable swell of strings filled the room, Shirley’s voice cut through with glorious conviction:
“This is my life…”
Luke turned back, the song washing over him. “Whenever I feel small or stuck or like the walls are caving in, I put this on. Reminds me who I am. What I’ve survived.”
Noah’s expression softened. “It’s bold. Dramatic. Over the top.” He smiled. “Very you.”
They sank onto the couch together, Luke’s head finding its way to Noah’s shoulder, their legs pressed together in easy, tentative closeness.
Enter Cinnamon.
She leapt up with all the grace of a four-legged wrecking ball, promptly wedging herself between them—half draped across Noah, the other half claiming Luke like a jealous sibling.
“Oh my God, Cinna,” Luke groaned, attempting to shift her bulk. “You’re not even subtle.”
“She’s asserting dominance,” Noah said, laughing as Cinnamon’s tail whacked him in the face. “I respect it.”
But then: disaster. Cinnamon’s back paw nudged Luke’s elbow just as he was lifting his glass, sending a splash of red wine straight across Noah’s lower stomach and down to his crotch.
There was a beat of horrified silence.
“Well,” Noah deadpanned, glancing down at the stain, “that’s one way to get me undressed.”
Luke covered his face. “I’m mortified. Don’t move. I’ll get towels—no, wait, clothes first—laundry—just don’t stand up.”
Noah chuckled as he peeled his shirt off and stood, very slowly. “Relax, I’ve survived worse. My pride’s intact. My pants… not so much.”
Luke ushered him toward the washer-dryer closet like a frazzled hotel concierge, grabbing the stained clothes and muttering about fabric care and stain sticks like it was a sacred ritual.
By the time he returned, cheeks still pink, Noah was scrolling through Luke’s digital playlist, now dressed only in black boxer briefs that should’ve been illegal.
“Eric Clapton?” Luke asked, raising an eyebrow as *Wonderful Tonight* began to play.
Noah turned, bare and barefoot, the soft glow from the record player casting golden halos along his shoulders. He held out a hand.
“Dance with me, Luke.”
Luke hesitated—then took it.
They swayed, slow and steady, through three songs, bodies flush, breath warm against each other’s necks. Neither spoke. They didn’t need to.
When the music faded, they walked hand in hand to the bedroom, not like they were rushing, but like they couldn’t not go.
—
The next morning, breakfast was already on the table. Fresh eggs, sautéed spinach, sourdough toast. Coffee—real coffee—steamed in a French press beside two mismatched mugs.
Noah sat quietly, stirring sugar into his cup, his mind drifting backward to hours before…
Luke’s lips against his shoulder. Their kisses unhurried, exploratory. Luke trembling—not in fear, but in the exquisite kind of surrender that comes only when the walls finally fall.
Noah had taken his time.
Hands trailing over every inch of Luke’s body, memorizing the way he arched, gasped, shivered. He could still feel the moment Luke went from tentative to hungry, when quivering nerves gave way to deep, aching want.
Noah’s fingers had slipped inside Luke’s underwear and that breathless, beautiful tension became something primal.
A soft clatter brought him back. Luke looked up from his plate, met his eyes, and whispered:
“Thank you. For last night.”
Noah’s chest warmed.
Luke’s memory held the rest:
The way Noah had soothed him, slowly rubbing up and down his side and back, one palm gently copping a handful of his ass, the other brushing his jaw.
“You’re okay, Luke,” Noah had whispered. “We can take our time.”
Luke had started to protest, eyes glassy.
“I want to—”
But Noah had pressed a finger to his lips, both of them.
“There’s no rush. There’s absolutely no rush, baby. Your body will tell me when you’re ready… and I’ll be here, when it does.”
And then there was nothing but skin and breath and stars and the slow, perfect rhythm of trust.
They fell asleep in each other’s arms, limbs tangled like they’d always belonged that way.
—
Later that morning, Luke made his way to the hospice center, Cinnamon trotting at his side like a tiny bodyguard.
Alyssa was waiting in the front garden with two paper cups of coffee and an expression that said *I know everything, don’t even try to hide it.*
“So?” she asked, handing him a cup. “Did Prince Cocky make it through the night?”
Luke gave her a look. “He’s… still here. In my head. In my bed.”
Alyssa sipped, then gave him a sharp little smile. “Good. You deserve someone who’ll stay.”
They walked through the halls in silence until they reached their mother’s room.
Dottie was awake, propped up on pillows, her hair combed and a faint gloss on her lips. She turned as they entered and her face lit up.
“Lukey,” she whispered. “My beautiful boy. You’re so thin. Are you eating?”
Luke nodded, kneeling beside the bed. “I’m eating. I swear.”
Her eyes twinkled. “You look happy. There’s… a glow about you.”
Luke swallowed. “Mom…”
She reached out, touching his cheek gently. “His name is Nick, isn’t it?”
Luke blinked.
“Mama—”
But just like that, the clarity faded. Her gaze drifted. She began humming something tuneless under her breath. Cinnamon nudged her hand and Dottie smiled absently, murmuring, “silly little creature,” as she stroked the soft fur.
Luke stayed kneeling, holding onto that fleeting moment, until Alyssa touched his shoulder.
“She remembered you. That’s something.”
—
Meanwhile, across town in a sleek glass penthouse, Noah paced.
The quiet buzz of the city below did nothing to quell the unease creeping up his spine. He missed Luke. Not just his body. His presence. The weight of him. The breath in the room.
His phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“Noah.” The voice was unmistakable. Calm. Clipped. Commanding. Victor Vaughn.
“Dad?”
“I’ll be back in two weeks. We have… things to discuss. Important things. Be ready.”
Noah frowned. “Wait—what kind of things?”
“And your boy toy, Luke.”
“I don’t even—what? I don’t even like him,” Noah sputtered, caught completely off guard.
His father chuckled. “You keep telling yourself that, son.”
Then the line went dead.
Noah stared at the phone, dread settling into his gut like a stone. What the hell is he planning?
He sat on the edge of his sleek designer couch and tried to shake the chill. Instead, he reached for his notebook and started scribbling.
*Kayaking.*
*Picnic on the bay.*
*A dive bar with sticky floors and a jukebox where he could pull Luke close and watch him let loose.*
He wanted real with Luke. And he was going to fight for it.
His phone buzzed again.
Luke: *She remembered me for a few minutes. But then… of course it faded. I’m tired. I’m gonna go home and take a nap.*
Noah typed back without hesitation.
Noah: *Be ready at 7:30, stable boy… I’m gonna rock your spreadsheets tonight!*