The Morning After the Fire

By Anthony Corona

 

Luke’s body jolted upright, the sheet twisted like a noose around his legs, breath heaving. The room was dark. Dim. Still steeped in the hush of pre-dawn. But his skin felt slick, chilled, like it had been dragged through ice water.

 Pain.

 A paddle. A laugh. The flick of a belt

He gasped—sharp, wild. The memory didn’t come in full. It never did. Just flashes. Fractures. A blur of beer and teeth and something—someone—pressing too hard, too fast, too cruel. His wrists aching from cords. Something tugging at his throat.

 A name echoed in the back of his mind. Brent.

 He clenched his fists. Tried to breathe.

 

But then—

 “I’m here.”

 The voice came soft. Barely more than a breath. Noah’s breath.

 Warmth curled against his back, arms slipping gently around his waist, breath brushing the shell of his ear.

“It’s okay, baby. I’m here.”

Luke froze. Just for a moment. Stillness thick with shame. Terror.

 Then… slowly… his body melted. His spine curved backward into the embrace, a sigh escaping his lips like steam from a cracked kettle

Noah’s palm spread across his chest, grounding him. His nose nuzzled the back of Luke’s neck.

 

 “It’s okay. I’ve got you,” he whispered.

 

Luke’s voice cracked through the dark. “It’s always flashes. Just… pieces.”

 He trembled.

 “I remember… the paddle. The cords. One around my wrists. One around my neck.”

 Silence. Just the sound of his breath hitching. Then a tear—hot, unwelcome—slipped down his cheek.

 Noah reached up, gently kissed it away. Then another.

 Luke turned slightly, needing the contact, craving the quiet anchor Noah had become. His hands slid up Noah’s bare back—slowly, instinctively—until his fingers brushed something raised.

 A scar.

 Luke froze again. Then, carefully, he ran his fingertips along it.

 

“Belt straps don’t usually leave scars,” Noah murmured, trying for lightness. “But the buckle… oh, buckle.”

 Noah’s breath caught. Just for a moment.

 

Luke placed a kiss against his cheek. Gentle. Reverent. “How often did he hate you?”

 

Noah’s answer came, low and firm. “Not tonight. I’ll tell you. But not tonight.”

 And then, slowly, their bodies quieted. Luke’s head tucked beneath Noah’s chin, Noah’s hand stroking lazy patterns against his side.

 Sleep reclaimed them.

 

Sunlight poured through the windows. Warm. Bold. Forgiving. Luke blinked awake to the smell of bacon and coffee and something cinnamon-spiced in the air.

 He rolled onto his back, rubbed his eyes, and realized he was alone in bed.

Only his boxer briefs remained. The rest—shirt, jeans, shame—were scattered somewhere between the kitchen and whatever the hell last night had become.

 

 

He padded out quietly, one foot at a time, expecting awkward silence or worse: pity.

 What he got was Noah—shirtless, humming off-key, flipping bacon in a skillet while his bare feet shuffled slightly on the tile.

 Luke blinked.

 

Noah turned and grinned. “Well, look who’s awake.”

 

Luke scratched the back of his head. “Is this some weird dream? Because I’m either in a Folgers commercial or a gay remake of Mrs. Doubtfire.”

 

Noah chuckled. “Definitely the latter. Except my drag persona doesn’t wake up this fabulous.”

 

Luke smirked. “You’re not wearing pants.”

 

“I am. Just… very low-slung sweats. And for the record”—he waved the spatula—“it’s Friday. We’re not going in.”

 

Luke furrowed his brow. “Excuse me?”

 

“I called your assistant this morning,” Noah said casually. “Told her we’re working off-site today. Special project.”

 

Luke raised an eyebrow. “And what, exactly, are we working on?”

 

 Noah turned off the burner, grabbed two plates, and plopped a mountain of eggs, toast, and bacon onto each.

 He looked up, eyes warm but unreadable. “Us.”

 Luke’s breath caught.

 “I mean,” Noah added quickly, “us not murdering each other in a boardroom. Us not self-destructing after one night of, you know… spontaneous trauma bonding and partial nudity.”

 

Luke barked a laugh, picked up a strip of bacon, and bit into it. “You’re ridiculous.”

 

“You love it.”

 

“I tolerate it.”

 

“You crave it,” Noah said, smirking.

 

Luke didn’t answer. Just took a long sip of coffee, then muttered, “Okay. I might like it a little.”

 

Noah grinned, triumphant.

 

They ate in easy silence—feet brushing under the table, tension lifting by degrees.

 Then Luke’s phone buzzed. One glance and his entire face changed.

 Pale. Tight. Cold.

 

“What is it?” Noah asked, already moving toward him.

 

Luke swallowed. “It’s Alyssa. She’s going to see Mom… and apparently, there was a bad night. They’re adjusting her hospice meds. She needs me to take Cinnamon for the day.”

 

Noah nodded. “Okay. Of course.”

 

 Luke hesitated. “You sure?”

 

“I love dogs.”

 

 

“She’s… a lot.”

 

“I like a lot.”

 

Luke smiled faintly. “You’re not ready for Cinnamon.”

 

Noah stepped closer, took the phone from Luke’s hand, and set it down. Then cupped his face gently.

 “Tell me what’s going on, Luke.”

 

Luke closed his eyes. “My mom’s fading. The facility’s been incredible, but the past few weeks…”

 His voice cracked.

 “She forgets me sometimes. But not Alyssa. Never Alyssa.”

 

Noah kissed his forehead. “Then we’ll hold space for Alyssa today. And we’ll spoil Cinnamon. And we’ll take it one hour at a time.”

 

 Luke’s voice was barely audible. “You want to spend the day with me?”

 

Noah smiled, brushing a stray strand of hair from Luke’s forehead. “I already cleared our schedules.”

 

Luke blinked. “And what’s this special project again?”

 

Noah leaned in, lips a breath from Luke’s ear.

 “You. Me. And a dog with a blueberry muffin addiction.”

 

 Luke laughed—honest and sharp and aching.

 “Will you trust me?” Noah whispered.

 Luke didn’t answer.

 But he didn’t pull away.

 

 

 

The plates were rinsed. The pans were clean. And somehow, between washing silverware and refolding the kitchen towels “the right way,” they fell into a rhythm.

 Luke hummed softly as he wiped the counters. Noah slid in behind him to grab the dish towel, their hips brushing, lingering.

 

 

“I thought you said we weren’t working today,” Luke teased, flicking a drop of water at him.

 

“This isn’t work,” Noah said, reaching around him to grab the sponge, “this is foreplay with Lysol.”

 

“God, you’re weird.”

 

“And yet,” Noah grinned, “you keep touching me.”

 

Luke smirked, grabbing the dish soap. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m only here for the breakfast and your questionable taste in cleaning products.”

 

Their laughter filled the space—quiet, domestic, unhurried.

 Then the buzzer rang.

 

 

Luke froze. “That’s Alyssa.”

 “I’ll grab Cinnamon,” he said, already slipping on sneakers.

 

Cut to: Luke running down to the curb, bare arms, hastily buttoned shirt, shoes untied.

 Alyssa barely rolled down her window. “She’s yours for the day. She’s had half a muffin and all the drama.”

 

Luke leaned in. “Tell Mom I love her, okay?”

 Alyssa nodded, her eyes soft. “She’ll know.”

 Cinnamon leapt from the passenger seat like a caffeinated jackrabbit.

 She hit the sidewalk, tail whirling, leash dragging, tongue flapping—and then bolted for the building.

 Luke jogged after her. “Cinnamon! Cinnamon, no—no stairs! Don’t you—shit.”

 By the time he caught up, she was already on Noah’s couch. Then the chair. Then the bed. Then back again.

 Sniffing. Barking. Flipping a throw pillow with disdain.

 

Luke burst in, panting. “I’m so sorry. She’s… she’s usually not this—”

 

“Let her be,” Noah said, watching her bounce from rug to rug like she was redecorating. “It’s her kingdom now.”

 Cinnamon barked triumphantly, did a zoomie, then paused to sniff a candle with extreme judgment.

 

“She’s got opinions,” Luke muttered.

 

“She’s got style,” Noah corrected. “And that throw pillow was ugly.”

 

Luke and Noah showered. Together.

 Steam. Jokes. Slippery hands and biting kisses. Luke lathered Noah’s shoulders while Noah teased him about his loofah technique.

 

“Your idea of clean is… intense,” Noah said, sliding a soapy hand around Luke’s hip.

 

“My idea of clean is survival,” Luke shot back. “You try growing up in a house where antibacterial spray was basically a love language.”

 

“Hot.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

 

“Nope.”

 

They dried off to the sound of Cinnamon snoring on a rug she’d claimed as hers.

 Clothes were pulled on slowly. Carefully.

 A brushed-cotton tee on Luke. Rolled cuffs on Noah’s linen sleeves. A nod to casual—but carefully curated casual.

 

Luke raised an eyebrow as Noah tucked in his shirt. “You planning to impress someone?”

 

“Maybe,” Noah said, adjusting the watch on his wrist.

 

“You ready?”

 

The Porsche purred beneath them, wind through the open window teasing Luke’s curls as they drove. Cinnamon sat in the back seat like a judgmentalqueen, panting loudly.

 

Luke glanced around. The skyline thinned. Trees crept in.

 “Noah…” he began. “This route. This isn’t…”

 

Noah said nothing.

 Luke turned, eyes wide. “Are we going—are we going to see the kids?”

 

Noah’s jaw flexed. He kept his eyes on the road. Then, softly—so softly Luke almost didn’t hear it:

 “I wanted to bring the one person who’s made me happy— in as long as I can remember—to the place where I’m happiest.”

 He glanced at Luke. “You wanna play some soccer with me and my friends?”

 

Luke didn’t answer. He just reached over and slipped his hand into Noah’s.

 

The school’s playground and grassy fields glowed in the early afternoon sun. Kids poured out, many already familiar with Noah, rushing him with unfiltered joy.

 Luke stood back for a moment, taking it all in—the way Noah dropped into a crouch to meet a boy with thick glasses and a squeaky giggle, the way he spun a girl with bright pink headphones in slow, silly circles until she shrieked with laughter.

 Then came the soccer ball. And chaos.

 Luke was immediately dragged in by three determined kids who decided “he looks like he runs fast.”

 Within minutes, Luke was sprinting, juking, feinting passes while Cinnamon tore around them in wild arcs, barking joyfully and occasionally crashing into goalposts.

 One boy looped a friendship bracelet onto Luke’s wrist without a word. A nonverbal girl tapped his shoulder and made a heart shape with her hands.

 He didn’t even realize he was crying until Noah appeared beside him and whispered, “They like you.”

 

“I like them,” Luke said, voice cracking.

 “They see you.”

 “They don’t need me to be anything,”

 

Luke replied. “They just… want me here.”

 “And that’s everything.”

 

They walked hand in hand back to the car, shoes muddy, hearts full. Cinnamon zigzagged wildly, wrapping the leash around them both until they were tangled chest-to-chest.

 Luke laughed, lifting his phone as it buzzed. He read the message silently. His smile faded just slightly.

 

Noah’s brow furrowed. “What is it?”

 

“It’s Alyssa. She says things have calmed down. Mom’s steady, but it’s a bad memory day.”

 

Noah’s eyes softened. “She doesn’t remember you?”

 

Luke shook his head. “Worse. She half-remembers. She gets agitated. Doesn’t trust me. Thinks I’m… someone else. A social worker, sometimes. A stranger.”

 

Noah reached up, brushed his knuckles slowly along Luke’s cheek, then his jawline. A gesture so gentle it broke something open.

 “Is there anything I can do?” Noah asked.

 

“You’re already doing it,” Luke replied, voice quiet. “You’ve done it all day.”

 

Noah stared at him, breath catching in his throat. Is this real? Can I make this real?

 He glanced at Luke—those green eyes full of storm and softness—and thought, My God, he’s beautiful. Not just outside. All the way through.

 And Luke, watching him, thought, There’s more. So much more. I can feel it. Even beyond this.

 Then Cinnamon, with impeccable comedic timing and zero shame, lifted her leg and peed on the back tire of Noah’s pristine Porsche Carrera.

 

Luke burst out laughing. “She just claimed your car.”

 

“Honestly,” Noah said, smirking, “it was only a matter of time.”

 They stood there a moment longer, wrapped in sunlight and something unspoken.

 

Noah started toward the passenger door—then paused. Turned back.

 “You look like you’re waiting to be rescued,” he said softly.

 

Luke raised a brow. “You offering?”

 

Noah stepped closer. “I’m not the white knight.”

 

 

“Could’ve fooled me,” Luke said. “You’ve been slaying demons all damn day.”

 

“I’m the fucked-up prince, remember?”

 

Luke smiled. “Then maybe we’re both just the messed-up fairy tale version.

 

Works for me.”

 Noah opened the car door.

 

Luke quirked a brow. “Being a gentleman now?”

 

“Never have before,” Noah said with a grin. “But it seems like a good fit with you.”

 Noah rounded the car and slid into the driver’s seat, glancing over at Luke with something soft in his eyes—softer than anything he usually let show.

 

“We’re gonna swing by your place real quick,” he said, “You need to grab something dressy.”

 

Luke turned toward him slowly. “Why do I feel like this is where you spring a surprise tuxedo on me and take me to a pretentious French bistro with a fixed menu and a waiter named Marcel?”

 

Noah smirked and reached over, his hand slipping behind Luke’s neck, thumb grazing the hairline. Then he tugged him in for a ferocious kiss—hungry and reverent all at once.

 

Luke gasped against him, melting for a beat before returning it with just as much fire.

 When they broke apart, Noah whispered, “No French bistro. I promise.”

 

Luke blinked, dazed. “Good. Because I really don’t want to pretend to understand the wine list tonight.”

 

Noah exhaled and looked at the road, hands steady on the wheel. “I just… I want us to forget everything else. Your mom. My dad. The company. Just for tonight. Just us. Can we do that?”

 

Luke looked at him—really looked at him—and something in his chest cracked open.

 Can I let it all go, just for once? Can I really? Can I have my fairytale, even if it’s just for one night? He looks like a god—forget about a fucking prince—but Jesus, do I need him to be everything he’s showing me right now.

 That’s when Noah, on impulse, leaned over and kissed him again. Quick this time. Hot. Full of urgency and something that tasted like hope.

 Cinnamon barked happily, launching herself from the backseat to lick Luke’s cheek, then Noah’s—panting between them like a proud matchmaker with terrible boundaries and a taste for drama.

 

Luke laughed. “Okay, okay! We get it. You ship it.”

 Noah reached for the ignition. The Porsche growled to life beneath them, ready to roar into wherever the night would take them.

 

To be continued…

 

Last Time on Crown & Collide… 

 

When Luke joined Vaughn Industries as a quiet, sharp-edged financial supervisor, the last thing he expected was to be paired with the company’s golden boy heir, Noah Vaughn—ravishing, reckless, and utterly infuriating. But with Noah’s parents away on an extended cruise, a surprise move from Victor Vaughn left both men sharing the reins of the company…and a growing, electric tension neither could deny.  After uncovering a potentially devastating mistake in Noah’s dealings, Luke made a choice—quietly fixing the damage and covering Noah’s tracks. What followed was a firestorm of confrontation, sarcasm, and one earth-shaking kiss that neither man was ready for—but both desperately needed.  A late-night flashback revealed that Luke has been keeping a close eye on Noah, even discovering a side of him that no one sees: the man who volunteers—unguarded and sincere—at a school for autistic kids.  Now, the prince and the spreadsheet boy are navigating treacherous new territory, one kiss, one secret, and one fragile truth at a time.  But can lust, disdain, and deep-rooted trauma really lead to something real?  Or is everything about to crash just as quickly as it ignited?

 

Crown & Collide Installment Two: Something That Might Disappear 

By Anthony Corona

 

Luke followed Noah into the penthouse, his chest still burning with whatever that kiss had ignited. He didn’t know what he expected. A sleek, sterile bachelor pad? Neon lights and too much chrome?  What he got was… warmth.  The foyer opened into a wide, open-concept living space—sunken, soft-lit, with tall arched windows and clean-lined leather furniture in stormy grays. The kitchen sat elevated above the living room on a platformed step, divided by a black marble island fitted with four white leather barstools. A built-in bar flanked the far wall, gleaming under recessed lights with crystal decanters and bottles of bourbon, scotch, and tequila arranged with obsessive precision.  Luke’s eyes trailed over the artwork—bold, modern, expensive. But the faint scent of vanilla and cedar hinted at something homier. Like someone cared how it smelled, not just how it looked. 

 

“Nice place,” Luke muttered, running a hand over the granite countertop. 

“You’re playing with fire,” Noah said from behind him, voice low. 

Luke turned. “I’ve got enough scars. My skin’s already tough.”  Something flickered in Noah’s eyes. 

“Why?” he asked. 

Luke tilted his head. “You really don’t know?” 

Noah’s brow furrowed. 

“I’ve seen you,” Luke said. “Not just the boardroom version of you. Not just the charming, cocky prince. I’ve seen your mask slip.” 

That earned a bitter chuckle from Noah. “So you’ve been watching me?” 

“I wanted to know what made you tick,” Luke replied coolly. “A week and a half ago? After work. You went to a place you didn’t know I followed you to. You didn’t see me. But I saw you.”

Noah stilled. 

Luke didn’t elaborate. Not yet. Let him wonder. Let him feel the same unsteady tilt Luke had been spinning through for days. 

Noah snorted, deflecting. “Creep.” 

Luke smirked. “You liked it.”  Noah turned away, shaking his head, and stalked to the freezer. He grabbed the old-fashioned metal ice tray and cracked it over the sink, then poured two aggressive shots of bourbon and slid one across the island to Luke. 

“You gonna psychoanalyze me the whole time,” Noah asked, “or just drink?” 

Luke took the glass. Swirled it. “Depends. Are you planning to fall apart if I blink wrong?” 

Noah grinned around the rim of his glass. “I like a man with bite.” 

“Yeah?” Luke shot back. “I like a man who knows when to shut up and kiss me.” 

They drank. They stared. Their bodies leaned without meaning to.

Noah set his glass down. “How’d you find out about the deal?” 

Luke didn’t hesitate. “Discrepancies in the vendor logs. Didn’t match the outgoing transfers. I backtracked—” 

Noah rolled his eyes. “Of course you did. Spreadsheet Sherlock strikes again.” 

Luke smirked. “Better than Spreadsheet Disaster.” 

“Touché,” Noah muttered, hiding his smile behind his glass. 

“I started digging,” Luke continued. “Found the wire trail. Buried under three shell invoices and a fake PO. Amateur hour.” 

“Wow,” Noah said, eyebrows raised. “Romance me with audit talk.” 

Luke leaned back on the stool. “It’s working. Don’t lie.”

Noah barked a laugh, then shook his head. “You’re unbelievable.” 

Luke tilted his head. “Are you hungry?”

Noah blinked. “What?” 

Luke chuckled, scrolling on his phone. “I said, are you hungry—wait, which hunger are you going to satiate, Noah? Which one do you think you’ll feed first?” 

The phone froze in Luke’s hand as he glanced up to find Noah’s expression completely still. Stunned. 

Luke’s smile faltered. 

But Noah’s voice broke through, low and rough. “It was an impulse.” 

Luke blinked. “What was?” 

“The deal. The vendor. The wires. All of it.” Noah stepped forward, like the confession had unlocked something in him. “I wanted to stick it to him. My father. I wanted to prove I could make a play without his input. And I rushed it. I didn’t read the fine print. I got manipulated. I got played.” 

Luke’s phone dropped slowly to the countertop. He reached across—tentative, at first—then took Noah’s hand in his.  Not as a stranger. Not as an analyst. As a man seeing another man on the verge of crumbling. 

“Why?” Luke asked softly. 

Noah’s face contorted. Voice breaking. “You have no idea what the monster who calls himself my father is capable of.” 

And when their hands finally locked, it was like the first time all over again. 

Noah’s inner monologue: I should run. I should joke. I should shove it away. But his hand in mine feels like the only thing tethering me to the floor. I don’t know what this is yet—but I know I want to trust him. I know I need to. I’ve never let anyone this close. But I’m already closer to him than anyone else has ever gotten. 

Luke’s inner monologue: He’s cracking. And all I want is to be the arms that catch him. I want to be his place to land. But what if I can’t hold him? What if I fall apart too? I’ve been bruised too many times. But God help me, I want him to fall apart in my hands. 

Their joined hands trembled slightly. But neither pulled away.

 

Luke took a long pull from the glass of bourbon. The warmth hit the back of his throat, sliding down into the pit of whatever was unraveling inside him. He set the glass down with a dull clink and came around the island, eyes locked on Noah.  He reached out and took Noah’s hand again, steady this time. 

“How long can you do this, Noah?” he asked quietly. 

Noah stiffened, then turned toward the sink. He pulled his hand back, bracing against the marble edge with white-knuckled fingers. His voice was barely audible. “Do what?” 

“Drink the pain down. Bury the anger. Pretend you’re invincible by day and numb by night. How long can you keep playing the asshole prince before you forget who you actually are?” 

Noah’s shoulders rose with a shaky breath. He didn’t look back. But his silence said everything. 

Luke stepped closer. Gently placed a hand on his back.  “I’m not trying to fix you,” he said, voice steady. “But I want to see you.” 

Noah trembled. A ripple. Subtle. But real.  Then he jerked away. Shaking his head, he grabbed the bourbon bottle and sloshed two more fingers into each glass. His hands weren’t quite steady.  He stalked into the living room, dropped onto the oversized leather couch, and stared out the window. “He made me hate myself,” he said, blunt and brutal. 

Luke followed slowly. Sat beside him, not too close, glass resting in his palm.

“He made me feel like I was a defect,” Noah said, eyes unfocused. “One wrong breath and I’d get the glare. The sarcasm. The fist, sometimes. And always the words. Loud. Quiet. Public. Private. Didn’t matter.”  He tipped back the bourbon, then let the glass balance against his knee. “He’d say things like, ‘You’ll never be half the man I am.’ Or, ‘You better hope someone wants you because I sure as hell don’t.’ I used to wonder if he was disappointed I wasn’t born in his image, or if he hated me because I was.”

Luke clenched his jaw. His free hand itched to reach out, to pull Noah into his arms again—but the moment wasn’t ready. Not yet. 

“I’m sorry,” he said instead. 

Noah gave a hollow laugh. “Don’t be. You didn’t create him.” 

Luke studied him, the way Noah’s leg bounced slightly with tension, the hard line of his mouth pulled tight.  “You carry that every day?” Luke asked. 

“Like a second spine,” Noah replied. 

Luke let the silence stretch. Then: “You ever talk to anyone about it?” 

Noah shook his head. “No one ever asked.” 

Something broke quietly in Luke’s chest. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice low. “You’re safe now. I covered the deal. No one will find it. You can breathe.” 

Noah turned his head slowly. “Why would you do that for me?” 

Luke met his eyes. “Because I saw who you are. Not the mask. The man.”  He let the words hang, raw and honest.  “And I followed you. I saw the kids. I saw her. The little redhead with the smile that made you light up from the inside.” 

Noah blinked fast. “I go there to stop feeling like a mistake. They don’t care who I’m supposed to be. They just want me to be there. And I get to… put everything else on a shelf for a while.”  He ran a hand over his face. “It’s not about saving them. It’s about them saving me.” 

Before Luke could respond, the apartment buzzer buzzed, sharp and jarring.  “Food’s here,” Luke murmured, standing to grab his phone. He hesitated. “You okay?”

Noah didn’t answer right away. Just looked up, eyes tired but open. 

Luke crossed to the intercom, pressed the button, and said, “Send it up.”  Then he turned back and saw Noah watching him—not like a man watching someone pass by, but like he was anchoring himself to the only thing in the room that felt steady.

 

The knock at the door came soft but sharp.  Luke opened it to a delivery bag that smelled like garlic, fresh herbs, and melted cheese. Comfort food—on purpose. He took the bag with a murmured thanks, handing off a tip, then closed the door and turned to find Noah already in motion.

Noah had gone to the cabinets, pulled two wide ceramic plates down, and grabbed silverware with the quiet grace of someone used to setting tables for himself. He set the plates on the island, followed by a bottle of wine and two stemmed glasses. Then—almost as an afterthought—he disappeared into a side drawer and returned with two small pillar candles, one cream and one slate-blue, setting them gently in the center of the island like they were laying the foundation for a truce neither of them had the language for yet. 

Luke unpacked the food: steaming baked rigatoni with spicy sausage, grilled garlic bread, and a side salad with tart vinaigrette and shaved Parmesan. He set the containers down between the plates and began dishing out servings. 

Noah uncorked the wine, poured carefully. He pushed a full glass toward Luke. 

Luke picked it up, gave it a swirl, tilted it, and inhaled before taking a small sip. 

Noah cocked a brow. “What, you a sommelier now?” 

Luke smirked. “Spent a semester waiting tables at a pretentious bistro in college. Picked up a few things.” 

“Bistro?” Noah said, mocking lightly. “Look at you. All refined.” 

“Careful,” Luke said, grabbing his fork, “beneath all this sophistication is a big, dumb, brow-ridge-having Neanderthal.” 

Noah grinned. “Yeah, me too. Just a muscle-brained idiot pretending he didn’t cry at Coco.” 

Luke chuckled, took a bite of the pasta, and sighed. “Okay. That’s good.” 

They ate slowly, quietly at first—forks scraping softly, the candles flickering between them.  As Noah topped off their glasses, Luke studied him. The fluidity of the motion, the way his jaw flexed with thought he wasn’t voicing. Everything about this man was an equation Luke hadn’t solved yet.  Was he the entitled prince? Or was he the little boy still hoping someone would stay long enough to see past the smirk? 

“You don’t have to carry all of this alone,” Luke said, voice low. 

Noah looked up. Smirked. “Tortured prince isn’t fun for anyone but silly girls and Gothic novels.”  He said it with a flash of humor. But his eyes didn’t quite match the tone.  He wanted to believe. He wanted this—whatever this was—to be real. And safe. And maybe something that could finally quiet the storm that had lived under his skin since he was twelve. 

They took another few bites, not rushing, letting the wine mellow the room. 

Then, quietly, the meal ended.  Plates found their way to the sink. Luke rinsed while Noah loaded the dishwasher with a precision that made Luke smile faintly. Another glass of wine each. The candles were still burning low when they drifted to the couch.  No cuddling. Not quite.  Luke sat upright, one arm draped over the back of the couch, sipping slowly.  Noah stretched out sideways, his head resting near Luke’s thigh, his legs curled under him like he wasn’t sure he had permission to take up space—but needed to do it anyway. 

“Can I ask you something?” Luke said, his voice softer now, low enough that the candles almost swallowed it. 

Noah looked up lazily. “You mean aside from if I cried at Coco?” 

Luke smirked, but didn’t bite. “The autism center. How did that start?” 

Noah blinked at the ceiling for a moment. “It was a mistake.”  Luke’s brows lifted slightly.  “I got a text. Pickup soccer game. Thought it was a buddy of a buddy. One wrong digit. I showed up at this field behind the research center… next thing I know, a woman’s thanking me for volunteering. She thought I was a new guy they were waiting on. I didn’t correct her.”  Luke raised his glass again, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.  “I just… went with it,” Noah continued. “And it turned out to be the best thing I’ve ever done.” 

As he spoke, Luke adjusted a little, shifting to face him more. Noah adjusted too—just a little—and without thinking, his head settled into Luke’s lap.  Luke hesitated, then slowly let his fingers drift through Noah’s thick black hair. 

Noah kept talking, his voice softer now, almost melodic. “They don’t care who I am. What my last name is. They just… want me to be present. And I want to be there.” 

Luke watched him speak. His fingers slid gently through the silk of Noah’s hair, almost of their own accord. He watched the way Noah’s throat moved as he swallowed, the way his lips formed every word. He wanted to kiss him.  God, he wanted him.  Not just his body—though that, too. The curve of his chest beneath the black tee. The flex of his arms. The pulse in his neck.  But it was the quiet beneath it. The surprising gentleness. The man who showed up for kids who would never care who his father was.  And it felt… terrifyingly good. Too good.  Too real.  He tried not to think the thought—He’d be the first since…  But even not thinking it made his chest ache.  Noah, eyes half-lidded now, looked up and caught Luke’s expression. He went quiet. Then reached up, slowly, fingertips brushing Luke’s cheek, then curling behind his neck.  The touch was tentative. Soft.  And then he pulled gently, coaxing Luke down toward him.  When their lips met, it wasn’t a collision.  It was a breath.  A question.  A promise.  It was sweet, and slow, and deeply exploring. No performance. No agenda. Just mouths learning each other, tasting like wine and everything they hadn’t dared say yet.  And for the first time in either of their lives… they didn’t feel like they were pretending.

 

 

 

The kiss deepened. Then deepened again.  It started with just a slow press of mouths, but it didn’t stay that way. Soon, it was breath and heat and hands roaming up under shirts. Luke’s fingers slipped beneath the hem of Noah’s tee, pressing into the warmth of his skin, the hard ridge of his abs. Noah responded in kind, sliding his palm over Luke’s chest, grazing a nipple just hard enough to make Luke exhale sharply against his lips.  Shirts peeled off. Tossed somewhere behind the couch. They didn’t care.  Buttons were next. Fingers fumbled at belts and flies. There was a soft grunt of frustration, then laughter—low and heady—and more kisses. 

Luke found himself beneath Noah, and then over him, and then back again—like neither of them was quite ready to surrender dominance, but both of them were dying to give in.  Until Noah stilled.  He looked up at Luke, chest rising and falling, eyes searching.  “I want you,” he said. “God, I want you. But… I know I’m a bastard.” 

Luke leaned down, brushing their noses together. “I’m not glass, Vaughn. I can handle myself.” 

That made Noah laugh—soft, surprised, grateful.  Still, they paused.  Noah rolled out from under Luke and reached for the nearly-empty bottle on the counter. “There’s one more glass in here,” he said, voice casual but guarded. “You wanna split it?” 

Luke raised a brow. “You trying to soften me up or put me to sleep?” 

Noah smirked. “Just being practical. No way in hell you’re driving home tonight.” 

“I’d be fine.” 

“You wouldn’t,” Noah said, pouring the wine. “And I’m not letting you out into the world like this. I don’t care how sober you think you are.”  He turned, handed Luke the glass. “I’ve got a guest room.”  A pause.  “But I’ve got a bigger bed in my room.” 

Luke stared at him. 

Noah smirked. “And the sheets are softer. Just saying.” 

Luke sighed. “Let me hit the bathroom first. Wash my face. Take care of a few things. You know…” 

Noah leaned against the bedroom doorway, watching him go, head tilted, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

When Luke stepped out of the bathroom, he found Noah still there. Shirtless. Relaxed. A single flickering candle lit the room behind him, casting warm light across the bed. Two glasses of wine sat on a bureau. The bedding was a deep gray, soft and inviting. 

Noah didn’t say anything.  He just reached out a hand.  Luke took it.  They crossed the threshold together.  And then the wine was forgotten. The candle flickered, watching them like a secret.  They were kissing again before they even hit the bed. Tumbling, groping, breathless. Their pants dropped somewhere between the door and the mattress. They rolled over each other, laughing between kisses, biting down on moans, hands memorizing every inch of newly bared skin. 

Noah’s fingers dug into Luke’s hips. Luke’s mouth moved across Noah’s collarbone, tongue tracing the shape of old tension and new vulnerability.  They fought for control.  Each one wanted to lead.  Each one wanted to surrender.  It was desire, yes—but something else too. A burning need to be seen, to be known, to be held without asking for permission. 

Luke arched beneath Noah, letting himself sink into the moment… until his body stiffened. 

Noah hovered over him now, lying fully between Luke’s thighs, held up on his elbows.  And that’s when he saw it.  A single tear. Falling from the corner of Luke’s right eye. 

Luke turned his face away sharply, curling into himself, drawing knees to chest, one arm flung over his face. 

Noah blinked, startled. “Luke—?”  No response.  Noah moved gently, ever so gently. He brought his fingertips down to Luke’s bare shoulder, trailing lightly across the skin, barely a breath. Down the curve of Luke’s back, then sliding softly over his side until his hand flattened across his chest.  He lay down behind him. Body warm against the shell Luke had become. 

“We don’t have to do anything, baby,” Noah whispered before he could think about it.  The word slipped out.  Baby.  He almost flinched. But he didn’t take it back. 

“I don’t know what just happened,” he said softly. “But whatever it was… whatever I did… I’m sorry.” 

Luke didn’t speak at first.  Then he turned slowly, wrapped his arms around Noah’s shoulders, and kissed him—soft, lingering. 

“You didn’t scare me,” Luke whispered. 

Noah held him. 

Luke closed his eyes. His voice barely a breath. “I’m just… terrified.”  He didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t. 

Noah watched the storm ripple across his face. He brought a hand to Luke’s cheek, thumb grazing the bone. 

“Talk to me,” he said, voice low but firm. “What just happened?” 

Luke dropped his forehead to Noah’s chest.  “It’s not you,” he whispered into the warm skin there. “It’s not you.”

 

Noah pulled Luke closer, guiding his head to the crook of his arm, the curve of his neck.  But almost instantly, he felt the tension return—like a muscle memory that wouldn’t release. 

Luke stiffened. 

Noah didn’t push.  He let him go.  Gently, he shifted away, climbing off the bed in silence. He crossed to the bureau, grabbed the half-finished glasses of wine, and returned. He fluffed a couple of pillows and eased back into the bed, leaning halfway against the headboard. His bare chest rose and fell as he looked down at the spot beside him. 

“Come here,” he said softly. “Just… come here. Let me hold you for a few minutes.” 

Luke stood frozen for a moment, every nerve caught in a tug-of-war between fear and something deeper. The need to bolt. The ache to stay. 

He hesitated… then climbed back onto the bed. The mattress dipped as he scooted in slowly, cautiously, and let his head rest against Noah’s chest. 

Noah’s arm wrapped around him without hesitation. 

The room glowed amber with candlelight, flickering across deep navy walls and brushed nickel accents. The bed was enormous—king-sized with dark wood framing and sheets that felt impossibly soft, like silk had learned how to breathe. A closet door stood half open, revealing a row of immaculately hung shirts, all in the same palette of charcoal, navy, and crisp white. A watch box sat on a side shelf, and a pair of neatly folded jeans rested on a tufted bench at the foot of the bed. 

Noah looked down at Luke, lips brushing the top of his hair. “You want me to trust you, Spreadsheet Boy?” he murmured. “Might need you to sprinkle a little of that my way, too.” 

Luke exhaled, the weight of everything still sitting on his chest. But he nodded slightly against Noah’s skin. 

Noah stroked his back gently, fingertips trailing slow lines down his spine. 

“What happened?” he asked, voice like a thread of warmth. 

Luke swallowed. Then, quietly, “It was someone in college.” 

Noah didn’t speak. 

“He was a senior,” Luke said. “We played ball together. I thought he was… I don’t know. Cool. Experienced. Confident. I was shy. A sophomore. I wanted to be seen.”  He paused.  “He invited me out. I was flattered. I let myself feel special. We drank. A lot. Too much. And then… I don’t remember. I know I was laughing. Then I wasn’t.” 

Noah held his breath. 

Luke’s voice cracked. “I woke up on a couch in one of the dorm common rooms. My shirt was buttoned wrong. My pants weren’t zipped. I ached everywhere. And I didn’t know… I still don’t know…”  His voice failed. 

Noah drew him in closer, pressing his cheek to Luke’s temple.  Luke looked away. “I spiraled. For days. I thought I was crazy. I blamed myself. I blamed the booze. I didn’t want to call it anything. I didn’t want to wear the label. But it wore me. For a long time.” 

Silence stretched. 

Noah thought: There are so many ways we all hurt each other. So many ways we’re hurt. Some wounds are loud. Some are invisible.  He tightened his hold, not too much, just enough.  He thought: I don’t know if I can fix this. I don’t know if I should even try. But I want to. God, I want to. I want to be whatever he needs. 

Noah’s hand moved slowly, smoothing the edge of Luke’s jaw. “You didn’t deserve that,” he whispered. “None of it.” 

Luke turned his face into his chest.  “I don’t know how to be touched sometimes,” he said. 

“You don’t have to be anything right now,” Noah replied. “Just here. With me.” 

Luke closed his eyes. The room was quiet except for their breathing, the soft hum of city life far below the penthouse windows. 

Noah pressed his lips to Luke’s forehead.  “Pastors come in all forms,” he said softly. 

Luke looked up, startled by the words.  But they settled around him like a blanket.  He didn’t understand them fully.  But something in them let him breathe just a little easier.  And for the first time since that kiss—since the shaking and the spiraling and the wanting and the fear—he didn’t want to run. 

Luke didn’t move at first.  The silence became a blanket, thick but no longer suffocating. Noah’s arm draped around him like it belonged there. Like he belonged there. 

Luke felt the slow, steady rise and fall of Noah’s chest. The rhythm of it anchored him. The scent of cedar and warmth wrapped around him. His heart, which had been racing, began to settle—beat by beat, breath by breath.  Safe.  The word whispered through his mind. How could he feel this safe? With Noah Vaughn, of all people. A man he claimed to despise not even twelve hours ago. But even then, deep down, he’d known that wasn’t true.  Noah hadn’t just disarmed him—he’d stripped him bare in the most terrifying and exquisite way. 

Luke exhaled slowly. “I really should go,” he whispered, even as his hand settled on Noah’s chest and his weight shifted slightly, lifting onto one elbow. 

Noah didn’t answer at first.  Then, with a rawness that cracked through the candlelight, he said, “Stay. Sleep here. Sleep in my arms. Sleep in the guest room. Sleep on the damn floor if you want. I don’t care. But don’t go.” 

Luke froze.  “Don’t take everything that happened here tonight with you when you walk out that door. Don’t leave me. Not tonight. Not on the one night—as long as I can remember—that I actually believe in hope. That I actually believe there could be more than this miserable existence.” 

The room tightened. The air thickened. And in the soft flicker of amber candlelight, Noah leaned in and kissed him again—slow, deep, reverent.  The flame danced once… twice… then quietly flickered out. 

 

(to be continued…)

 

Coming Up Next on Crown & Collide… 

 

Will they or won’t they?

 

As dawn creeps over the city skyline, Luke and Noah wake to a world forever changed by one candlelit night. But is one moment of vulnerability enough to rebuild years of distrust and carefully constructed walls?  Are they friends? Frenemies? Or still teetering on the edge of outright adversaries?  Lines will blur. Boundaries will be tested. And just when they think the morning might offer clarity… an unexpected visitor makes a chaotic entrance—four legs, a wagging tail, and one very strong opinion about where Luke belongs.  Yes, Cinnamon is on the scene. But just how will she enter—stage left, stage right… or from under the bed? And will she be bringing a warm welcome or a smelly surprise?  The next installment delivers awkward breakfasts, unexpected tenderness, and the slow-burning realization that neither of them is ready to let go.  Not yet.  Not when something this real might finally be starting.

 

under the skin—he could feel it. Tremors of fury. Or something far worse. Something he didn’t have a name for.  He stormed down the hallway outside Victor’s office, his strides clipped and sharp. He didn’t even know where he was going. The elevator maybe. The front door. The edge of the world. 

What the hell had he just done?  He’d kissed Noah.  Or been kissed.  He honestly couldn’t remember which one of them had started it.  Didn’t matter.  It had been good. Too good.  It hadn’t just been a kiss—it had been an unraveling. His entire body felt like it had shifted in those seconds. Like it fit somehow into Noah’s… like two puzzle pieces that had been tossed into different boxes, never realizing they were meant to belong together. 

And the jolt. That electric, bone-deep jolt. It had sparked behind his teeth and crackled through his spine.  He’d never felt anything like it.  And the worst part?  He wanted more. Not just the body, not just the kiss—though God, the body—but the feeling. That sudden, gut-punching sense of need. Of being seen. Of something in him aligning, however briefly, with something in Noah. 

He slammed the elevator button harder than necessary.  His heart was still beating in his throat.  And that’s when the memory came rushing back—again. 

It had been just over a week ago.  Luke hadn’t planned to follow him. It wasn’t even about suspicion. It had been impulse—irrational and desperate. Maybe he was trying to get a leg up. Maybe he thought he’d find something scandalous, something he could use if things went south.  Maybe he just wanted to understand who the hell Noah Vaughn Jr. actually was beneath the snark and the smirk and the champagne-soaked image. 

What he found?  It changed everything.  Noah had pulled into the parking lot of a nondescript building that read “Autism Research and Development Center.” Luke had blinked at the sign. Confused. Cautious. He’d parked a block away and waited.  And twenty minutes later… he’d followed, quietly, to the edge of a tree-lined field beside the building.  He didn’t know what he was expecting. But it wasn’t this.

  Noah—still unfairly gorgeous even in baggy soccer shorts and a tank top that clung to his chest like a second skin—walked onto the field with a group of kids. Eight or nine at first. Then four more. Two staff members. A ball. 

Luke crouched by a cluster of trees, out of sight.  He watched as the game began. Or tried to. The kids clearly had varying abilities—some kicked and ran in circles, others got distracted by grass or shouted randomly. One little boy wandered off mid-game to chase a butterfly.  And one little girl—a redhead with wild curls and a gap-toothed smile—clung to Noah’s pant leg like he was gravity. 

Luke didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.  Noah knelt to whisper something in the girl’s ear. She squealed. Hugged him tight. And when he spun her in the air, her laughter rang out like wind chimes on a summer breeze.  And Noah?  Noah was smiling. A real smile. Soft, open, joyful.  There was no bravado. No sarcasm. Just a man completely, unshakably present. Laughing with the kids. Coaching gently. Never once checking his phone. Never once looking away. 

Luke had watched for nearly forty-five minutes.  And then sat in his car after. Silent. Shaken.  Who the hell was this man?  Because he wasn’t the Noah Vaughn Jr. that everyone talked about.  This Noah… this man with dirt on his knees and children hanging off his arms… was the most honest thing Luke had seen in a long, long time.