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!*

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.