Author: Anthony Corona

Crown & Collide: Part 7: The Morning after, Back to reality 

By Anthony Corona

 

  *** For the extended version of Installment 6, including the sex scene, please email: sundayeditionac@gmail.com and use the subject ; extended scene  ***

 

 

Sunday morning came slow, warm, and wind-stirred. The sky above the island was just beginning to shift from violet to pale gold. A few gulls circled in the distance, the water lapping lazily at the sand. Noah was draped behind Luke, limbs heavy and possessive, both of them tangled in linen coverings that smelled of wine, sea, and sweat.

 

Luke blinked at the sky and let the ache bloom across his body. Muscles sore, lips swollen, heart full.

 

They’d made love—no, they’d had sex. Wild, carnal, hungry sex. And also something more. Something that felt like it cracked open the sky.

 

Noah stirred behind him, nuzzling Luke’s shoulder, his voice a low rasp.

 

“You alive?”

 

“Barely,” Luke murmured. “My body is protesting, but in that glorious post-orgasm, post-battle kind of way.”

 

Noah grinned. “We definitely went to war.”

 

Luke let out a breath, then said quietly, “It’s been years. Since I… let anyone inside me.”

 

Noah’s expression softened instantly, his hand stilling against Luke’s stomach.

 

Luke didn’t stop. “I think I was broken. I got used to pretending I didn’t need that kind of touch. That kind of trust. But last night… it was more than incredible. It was…”

 

He paused. Voice thick.

 

“I felt safe. And wanted. Every second. Every breath.”

 

Noah didn’t rush in with words. He just let the weight of Luke’s confession hang in the sea-kissed air. Then he kissed the back of Luke’s neck—once, reverently.

 

“Thank you,” Luke whispered, turning slightly. “For your patience. For letting me lead.”

 

“You led,” Noah said, “and then you let go. I just followed wherever you needed me.”

 

Luke reached up to brush his fingers along Noah’s jaw. “Also, thank you for being an absolute beast inside me.”

 

Noah barked a laugh. “Balance, right?”

 

“Exactly. Gentle beast. Gentleman monster.”

 

Noah leaned down to kiss him—soft, slow, tasting of salt and satisfaction. Luke kissed back, but then pulled away with a lazy grin.

 

“Don’t start something we don’t have time to finish.”

 

“Tempting,” Noah muttered. “But you’re right. We need to pack up before the sun tries to kill us.”

 

They folded blankets, repacked the picnic supplies, and brushed sand off of everything with exaggerated sighs. Luke held up a crumpled napkin with a wine stain in the vague shape of Florida.

 

“Should we frame this?”

 

“Only if you want Cinnamon to pee on it.”

 

Speaking of Cinnamon, they swung by Alyssa’s to pick her up on the drive back. She leapt into the back seat like she’d missed them for a decade, then promptly barked at Noah for taking her spot beside Luke.

 

“She’s jealous,” Noah said.

 

“She knows what you did to me,” Luke whispered, deadpan.

 

Cinnamon sneezed. Luke snorted.

 

Back at the carriage house, Sunday unfolded like silk—pancakes, shared coffee, a slow walk around the lake, and a lazy sprawl on the couch with Cinnamon nestled between them, probably against her will.

 

They napped. Or tried. Mostly they made out like teenagers and whispered dirty things until someone (usually Noah) cracked up laughing.

 

“You’re going to kill me with orgasms,” Luke muttered into his pillow at one point.

 

“Better than dying alone,” Noah shot back, utterly unrepentant.

 

By late afternoon, reality started to creep back in.

 

“I should go,” Noah murmured, glancing at his phone. “Emails. Meal prep. Executive things.”

 

Luke nodded, fingers reluctant to let go of his. “One night apart. We can do it.”

 

“I’m going to miss you like hell.”

 

Luke gave him a long kiss, then smoothed his shirt collar. “No googly eyes tomorrow at the office.”

 

“Especially not after what I did to you.”

 

Luke raised an eyebrow. “Sir. You wept into my neck.”

 

“And you begged for mercy.”

 

“You’re confusing mercy with stamina,” Luke muttered.

 

They laughed, but then Luke sobered.

 

“How do we do this?”

 

Noah ran a hand through Luke’s hair. “We show up. Every day. No drama. No pretending. No hiding. Just us.”

 

“Just us,” Luke echoed.

 

—

 

Monday morning. 

 

The elevator dinged. Luke strode in with a calm determination, navy tie slightly loosened, coffee in one hand, air of someone who’d gotten excellent sleep and even better… cardio.

 

Leslie practically tackled him at the entrance to his office.

 

“You. Stop right there. You’re glowing.”

 

“I’m what now?”

 

“You’ve got post-coital radiance and Noah just let someone merge in traffic. Merged. In. Traffic.”

 

Luke blinked. “I think that’s circumstantial.”

 

“Oh no, babycakes. That man was smiling. And your shirt is half-tucked. Either you’ve found inner peace or you finally got laid so well your soul left your body and came back with souvenirs.”

 

Luke smirked. “Is this your way of asking about my weekend?”

 

“I want highlights. A mood board. A confession.”

 

“I made pancakes.”

 

“Oh, honey. That’s code. I’m not new.”

 

—

 

Monday night. 

 

They walked Cinnamon along the waterfront boardwalk. She strutted like a show pony. They shared frozen yogurt, each feeding the other bites until Cinnamon barked in protest and stole a spoon. Luke stole a kiss in retaliation. Noah leaned in and whispered, “You’re my favorite dessert.”

 

Luke whispered back, “You’re my favorite bad idea.”

 

—

 

Tuesday. 

 

A meeting ended early. Noah wandered by Luke’s desk and dropped off a stapler with a post-it: “You left your socks. Again.”

 

Luke didn’t look up. “What color?”

 

“Avocado blue.”

 

“Damn it.”

 

Leslie leaned around the corner. “If I find underwear in the breakroom, I’m calling HR.”

 

—

 

Tuesday night. 

 

Noah’s penthouse. Luke cooked. Cinnamon supervised. Noah brought out wine and dimmed the lights.

 

Dinner was edible. Kisses were sweet. They fell asleep halfway through a documentary about bees, wrapped in each other like they had nowhere else to be.

 

They barely made it through dessert before dessert turned into foreplay turned into headboard trauma. Cinnamon barked once and went to sleep on the couch.

 

—

 

Wednesday. 

 

Luke visited his mother. Sat by her side and whispered stories. His voice cracked when he said, “I think I’m falling in love.”

 

That night, Noah held him on the couch while Luke traced circles on his wrist.

 

They didn’t speak much. They didn’t need to.

 

—

 

Thursday. 

 

Noah’s mother offered him cucumber water and fashion advice for Luke.

 

“She should be on payroll,” Luke texted.

 

“Too late. She wants to officiate our wedding.”

 

“I’ll pencil her in between outfit change four and five.”

 

—

 

Thursday night. 

 

Dog park chaos. Cinnamon tackled Kevin the poodle again. Luke laughed so hard he snorted.

 

“She’s feral,” Noah said.

 

“She’s in love,” Luke replied.

 

“With who?”

 

“With justice.”

 

They got back to their respective homes late—exhausted, horny, happy. Luke was brushing his teeth when his phone buzzed.

 

One message. Unknown number. Two words.

 

“Careful, Noah.”

 

He stared. His chest went cold.

 

Friday morning, Luke showed Noah the message. Noah’s face tightened.

 

“My father,” he said.

 

“Victor?”

 

Noah nodded. “That’s his style. Cryptic. Menacing. Like a mafia fortune cookie.”

 

Luke studied him. “Do we need to worry?”

 

“Only if we let him smell blood.”

 

They said nothing more. But all day, Luke felt it under his skin—unease braided with anticipation. Noah was quieter, but his touches lingered longer.

 

—

 

Friday afternoon. 

 

Luke’s message: “Comfy shoes. Jeans. No questions. Be ready at 5:30.”

 

Noah: “Is this a date or a kidnapping?”

 

Luke: “Both. Depends how well you behave.”

 

Noah: “You’re terrifying. I like it.”

 

Luke set the phone down, heart thudding like he’d just said something out loud he hadn’t fully processed yet.

 

Tonight, he’d show Noah where he came from—emotionally, spiritually, physically.

 

And maybe, finally, where they were going.

 

Noah stared at the last message and grinned. His entire body ached—from too much sex, too little sleep, too many feelings he couldn’t name—but all he wanted was more.

 

More of Luke’s surprises. More tangled sheets. More stolen hours. More of whatever the hell this was.

 

He wasn’t just falling. He was already gone.

Crown & Collide: Part  Six (Extended) 

By Anthony Corona

 

Luke woke with a gentle start, the sun slanting low through his bedroom blinds. His limbs were heavy from sleep, skin warm from the leftover sun filtering in, and Cinnamon’s absence left the space just quiet enough to feel strange. He blinked at the clock—4:07 PM—and reached instinctively for his phone.

 

He dialed Alyssa.

 

“You’re alive,” she answered on the second ring.

 

“Barely,” Luke groaned. “That nap turned into a coma. Hey—just confirming I’ve got a date tonight, so I’ll pick up Cinnamon tomorrow. Late morning? Early afternoon?”

 

“Take your time,” Alyssa replied. “She’s been a queen all day. Demanded peanut butter on her midday carrot.”

 

Luke laughed. “Tell her to behave. And if she tries to convince you she needs a foot massage, don’t fall for it.”

 

“I make no promises,” Alyssa teased. “Have fun tonight, baby brother.”

 

“Oh, I intend to.”

 

—

 

Luke’s getting-ready montage would have made a beauty vlogger weep.

 

He started with a long, steamy shower that turned his muscles to melted butter. After towel-drying, he layered on his skincare: gentle exfoliant, vitamin C serum, rosewater toner, moisturizer with SPF, and a dab of illuminating primer—because his glow should say flirt, not frazzled.

 

His hair got the full treatment too. Instead of the typical tousled, off-his-face sweep, he towel-dried, added product, and used his fingers to spike the dark strands up and forward, giving him just the right amount of rebel energy.

 

He chose white linen clamdiggers cuffed at the calves, a rainbow tie-dye tank top that clung in all the right places, and a salmon pink button-down left open and breezy. He finished the look with a spritz of citrusy cologne and white leather sneakers so clean they practically sparkled.

 

He checked himself in the mirror and grinned. “Watch out, Crown Prince.”

 

—

 

Across town, Noah was in prep mode.

 

In the middle of his kitchen stood an insulated picnic basket, slowly filling with carefully chosen items: a chicken pesto pasta salad packed in eco-friendly containers, a wedge of creamy brie, a sharp cheddar block, a box of crackers, two bars of dark chocolate with sea salt, and two bottles of a chilled white blend he’d been saving.

 

He added two elegant plastic wine glasses, biodegradable forks, a pair of cloth napkins, and a roll-up picnic blanket in shades of midnight and navy.

 

Ten electric, battery-operated flameless candles went into a tote bag for ambiance. He even tucked in a Bluetooth speaker and pre-downloaded a playlist of instrumental jazz and chill acoustic covers.

 

He paused, ran a hand through his hair, and exhaled. “Okay. Tonight’s not just a date,” he murmured. “It’s a beginning.”

 

—

 

The sun was inching toward the horizon when Noah pulled up to Luke’s driveway.

 

When Luke stepped out, Noah actually blinked. “Whoa.”

 

Luke grinned. “Too much?”

 

“You look like a sexy Pride parade threw a luau,” Noah said, getting out of the car to open the door for him. “And I’m obsessed.”

 

They drove in comfortable silence, Luke’s knee brushing Noah’s every now and then, until they pulled into a quiet dockyard.

 

Luke’s brows lifted. “We’re boating?”

 

“Canoeing,” Noah said with a wink. “Your chariot awaits.”

 

On the dock sat a sleek canoe with two paddles resting against the side. The sky was starting to blush with streaks of coral and amber.

 

They paddled in rhythm, gliding across the bay toward a tiny tree-dotted island about a quarter-mile away.

 

As they reached the sandy shoreline, Noah hopped out and pulled the canoe up onto dry land. He offered Luke a hand, and once upright, wrapped him into an embrace from behind.

 

They stood together, arms linked, watching the sun kiss the edge of the ocean.

 

“Now,” Noah murmured into Luke’s ear, “open the wine while I set us up.”

 

Luke popped the cork with a flourish as Noah laid out the blanket, unpacked the food, and placed the flameless candles in a loose semicircle around them. The glow was gentle and golden, like fireflies had gathered to bless the evening.

 

They lay side by side on the blanket, the waves lapping nearby, soft jazz floating from the speaker.

 

Luke took a bite of pasta, then glanced toward Noah. “I visited her today. My mom.”

 

Noah nodded, letting Luke talk.

 

“She had a moment. A real moment. She knew who I was. Asked if I was eating. Said I looked happy.”

 

“You do,” Noah said softly.

 

Luke looked down. “But then… it faded. Like it always does.”

 

Noah reached over, laced their fingers. “I’m glad you had that moment.”

 

Luke squeezed his hand. “Me too.”

 

There was a beat of quiet.

 

Then Noah said, “I got a phone call today. From my father.”

 

Luke’s expression shifted instantly. “What did he want?”

 

“He said he’d be back in two weeks. That he has important things to tell me. And he called you my ‘boy toy,’” Noah added with a snort.

 

Luke made a face. “Wow. Your dad’s a charmer.”

 

“He’s a monster,” Noah said, voice low. “But… I think I’m finally ready to tell you why.”

 

Luke turned fully to face him, giving him his complete attention.

 

“At first, it was just emotional abuse,” Noah began. “That was bad enough. Everything I did was wrong. I was too soft, too dramatic, too much. He used to mock the way I spoke, the way I walked.”

 

Luke’s jaw tightened, but he stayed quiet.

 

“But the first time he actually hit me—really hit me—I was fourteen. Freshman year. We were in the playoffs. I was playing third base, and he’d brought a bunch of people from work. The game was tight, and I missed a catch. A routine pop-up. Two runners scored because of it.”

 

Luke stayed silent, watching Noah’s every breath.

 

“But I made three amazing plays later in that same game. We won. But it didn’t matter. On the drive home, he berated me over and over again. How I embarrassed him. Made him look weak. Like his son was a joke.”

 

Noah paused, breath trembling. “I finally snapped. Said something—I don’t even remember what. And he just turned and punched me. Right below the ear. Knocked me into the wall in the garage.”

 

He looked away, eyes glassy but not falling. “I didn’t cry. I wouldn’t let him see me cry. But I wanted to. So badly.”

 

Luke reached out, laced their fingers again, and gave a firm, grounding squeeze.

 

“Go on,” he said gently.

 

Noah took a breath.

 

“My mom? She wasn’t there. Not really. She checked out long before that. She dove into the charity scene—galas, luncheons, committees. I think part of her knew what he was, but it was easier to play the picture-perfect wife than face what was happening under her own roof.”

 

Luke blinked, a slow, burning fury rising behind his tenderness. But before he could speak, a loud screech filled the air. Seagulls.

 

They were circling the picnic, floating on wind currents with greedy eyes trained on the cheese and crackers.

 

Luke stared up at them, then turned to Noah. “They’re plotting.”

 

“They’re bold little bastards,” Noah said, reaching for the cracker box. “Operation: Distraction.”

 

They began tossing broken bits toward the water. The gulls dove, squawked, flapped wildly, fighting over crumbs like it was gourmet fare.

 

Luke snorted. “There. That’s your chaos energy handled.”

 

As the seagulls spiraled away, Luke turned back to Noah and took a breath.

 

“You’re an incredible man,” he said quietly. “Not because of what you went through—but because of who you’ve become in spite of it. Nobody—not even him—can break your spirit unless you let him. And from what I’ve seen, that’s never gonna happen.”

 

Noah didn’t speak, but something in his posture softened.

 

Luke studied his face for a long moment.

 

“I may not understand exactly what you’ve been through,” he continued, “but we’re both broken. We’re both navigating through trauma that changed us. Thank you for sharing yours. I knew I could trust you with mine… but I was afraid you might not open up to me at all.”

 

Noah leaned forward, eyes shining.

 

Luke met him halfway.

 

Their kiss wasn’t hungry or rushed. It was slow. Honest. Healing. A moment layered in truth, wrapped in moonlight.

 

Their kiss deepened beneath the rising moonlight, the sound of waves soft in the background, the last of the seagulls long gone. Noah held Luke close, one hand pressed against the small of his back, the other cradling his jaw like something precious. Luke melted into him, their bodies aligning with practiced ease as if they’d done this a thousand times in dreams.

 

What began as slow and sweet turned electric—fingers tangling in hair, hips brushing, breath hitching. Piece by piece, they began to undress each other.

 

First, Luke’s salmon pink button-down was shrugged from his shoulders, fabric sliding over sun-warmed skin. Then Noah’s fitted polo came off, revealing sculpted lines and golden tones that caught the candlelight just right.

 

Luke hesitated before pulling off his tie-dye tank top, but the way Noah looked at him—no judgment, just awe—gave him the courage to keep going.

 

They stared at each other, half-naked under the stars.

 

Noah reached out and ran his hand slowly down Luke’s side.

 

“Your time… your pace,” he whispered. “I mean it, baby.”

 

Luke froze, blinked, then smiled.

 

“That’s the third time you’ve called me ‘baby,’” he said, lifting his left hand and giving it a little Beyoncé-style waggle. “I feel like I should be presented with a ring or a remix.”

 

Noah laughed. “Okay, okay… do you want something more formal?”

 

He paused, scratched the back of his calf nervously, then took a breath and started again.

 

“I don’t want anyone else. I don’t want to go to sleep without hearing your voice or wake up without you pressed against me. I don’t want to spend a minute—or, hell, an hour—pretending this isn’t real. So yeah… I want something formal.”

 

He reached out, steady and sure.

 

“Tell me that you’ll be mine.”

 

Luke didn’t answer.

 

Instead, he gently pushed Noah back onto the blanket and climbed onto him, straddling his hips. Their pants were still on, but the heat between them pulsed with every shift of Luke’s weight.

 

He began to move slowly, circling his hips with reverence, teasing friction between them. His hands mapped Noah’s shoulders, firm and steady, then slid up to cradle both sides of his face.

 

Their foreheads touched.

 

“I don’t know exactly when it happened,” Luke whispered, breath trembling against Noah’s lips. “But I’ve known for a while now. Maybe even back when I followed you and saw you with those kids… that joy, that light—it’s yours. And it got to me.”

 

And then he kissed him.

 

Long, deep, full of everything they hadn’t yet said. The stars blinked overhead like silent witnesses, the sea murmuring nearby, and the warmth between their bodies only grew.

 

Shirts forgotten, candles flickering, the rest of their clothes came off in an unhurried dance of hands and mouths and laughter.

 

Soft exploration. Gentle teasing. Whispered curses. Fingers in hair. Kisses trailed along collarbones and backs, thighs and stomachs. They rolled and tangled, laughing and moaning, gasping and groaning, wrapped in each other like a tangle of sea-washed silk.

 

Thoughts of anything else drifted far—so far they might’ve been those tiny points of light above them, distant and faint.

 

Eventually, Noah rolled them once more, easing Luke down onto the blanket and covering him with his body.

 

His elbows planted on either side of Luke’s chest, one hand cupping his face, the other threading into his hair, completely destroying the carefully styled spikes.

 

Luke gave a half-hearted gasp.

 

“You ruined my hair,” he said, chuckling softly.

 

“It was criminally hot,” Noah whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I had to.” Then quieter: “We don’t have to do anything else. You know that, right?”

 

Luke reached up with curled fingers and dragged his knuckles along Noah’s jawline, down his neck, and back up into his hair from behind.

 

“I trust you, Noah,” he whispered. “And oh my God, do I need you.”

 

His voice cracked—full of longing and truth.

 

“I need you, Noah.”

 

And everything else fell away.

 

*** Its not will they or won’t they, lol. They do! If you would like the more explicit version of their evening send a message to SundayEditionAC@gmail.com  – Use the Subject line: Crown, intimate installment***

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!*