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…