Things I Never Say Out Loud

WORK STUDY – PART III

Thursday nights are always dead.

No study groups. No panic-printing. No lost freshmen begging for directions to the bio lab that doesn’t exist.

Just the hum of the overhead lights and the occasional existential sigh from someone in the carrel maze.

Which made it all the more suspicious when I found the book.

The Interpretation of Dreams.

Same cracked spine. Same faded Freud cover staring out like he knew things I didn’t want to admit. It wasn’t supposed to be back yet. At least not according to the system.

But there it was — just sitting on the returns cart like it hadn’t ruined me three nights ago.

I went to shelve it.

But a neon pink Post-it was sticking out of page 237.

My pulse jumped.

Not enough to admit anything.

Just enough to confirm it.

I pulled the note gently, like it might detonate.

Luca’s handwriting. Always somehow both lazy and dramatic.

Party at Grant’s. 9:30. East end of campus. If you don’t show, I’ll assume you’re avoiding me. And I’ll make it weird. Like, interpret-your-dreams weird.

(PS: Bring that smile you pretend you don’t have.)

I stared at it for a full thirty seconds.

Then at the book.

Then back at the note.

This wasn’t an invitation.

It was a callback. A breadcrumb. A fucking flirtation in Post-it form.

And like an idiot, I folded it up and tucked it into my wallet.

I didn’t know if this was going to be, like, a chill kickback. Or a full-on Greek life bacchanal. I didn’t even know who Grant was.

But I knew one thing:

If I didn’t go, I’d spend all night wondering what would’ve happened if I had.

And lately, that seemed worse than whatever fresh hell awaited me in someone’s overcrowded townhouse.

And then, when my shift ended — and I should’ve gone home, and showered, and watched The West Wing reruns until my brain stopped buzzing — I did the thing I wasn’t supposed to do.

I texted him.

What’s the dress code for a party I wasn’t invited to out loud?

He replied immediately.

Casual. Curious. A little bit brave.

Grant’s place turned out to be one of those off-campus townhomes that looks deceptively tame from the outside — string lights on the porch, a too-clean welcome mat, maybe a potted plant if you’re lucky. But the second you opened the door?

Chaos.

There were bodies everywhere. Music loud enough to rearrange your heartbeat. A girl in a Pikachu onesie standing on a coffee table yelling about horoscopes. The air smelled like jungle juice and Axe body spray and something unidentifiable I hoped wasn’t smoke.

I stepped inside and immediately wanted to step back out.

No one noticed me. Or if they did, no one cared. I was just another background extra in the great collegiate sitcom of the night.

I texted Luca:

I’m here. I think.

I didn’t expect a response.

And I didn’t get one.

I wandered deeper into the house like someone looking for a bathroom that didn’t exist. Every room I passed had its own theme: drunk karaoke in the kitchen, beer pong in the dining room, overly intense Jenga in the hall.

I was halfway through regretting everything when I saw him.

Luca.

Back turned.

Leaning against the fridge, solo cup in hand, talking to someone.

Not just someone.

A guy.

Tall. Sharp jawline. Buzz cut. Leather jacket.

You know — the kind of guy who looks like he was born at golden hour.

Luca laughed at something he said.

The kind of laugh that leaned into the other person without even trying.

I froze.

My stomach did that awful inside-out flip it does right before a pop quiz or a panic attack.

And then, as if the universe wasn’t already doing the most, Luca turned — caught me standing there like a stray dog in a lightning storm — and lit up.

He waved me over.

And because I’m nothing if not obedient in the face of poor life choices, I walked toward him.

“Micah,” he said, like it was the punchline to a joke no one else got. “This is Noah.”

Noah.

Goddammit.

He held out his hand. “Hey.”

I shook it. It was warm and confident and made me wish I’d kept mine in my pocket.

“We go way back,” Luca said, which I now understood was code for: We’ve seen each other naked and still text sometimes.

Noah grinned. “College stuff.”

Then — like it was the most natural thing in the world — he reached out and kissed Luca on the forehead.

Not quick. Not lingering. Just enough to feel practiced.

My chest tightened.

Luca didn’t flinch. Didn’t push away. Just smiled and said something back I didn’t hear.

I laughed.

At nothing.

Too loud.

And excused myself before my face could betray me.

I didn’t go far — just outside, onto the porch, where the air was cold enough to shock my skin back into coherence.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Lauren asking where I’d been all week.

I ignored it.

Another buzz.

This one from Luca.

He’s not what you think.

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t know what I thought.

I just knew I felt stupid.

And small.

And like I had just crashed a party I was never actually invited to.

I was two sips into my third regret when the door creaked open behind me.

Luca stepped out, solo cup now conspicuously absent. He closed the door gently behind him, like he already knew I was one bump away from bolting.

He leaned against the porch railing, a few feet away.

Didn’t say anything at first.

Just looked out at the street like we were two old friends waiting for a ride that wasn’t coming.

Then—

Luca: “Noah and I used to date.”

I didn’t answer.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t blink.

Just waited for the part I didn’t want to hear.

Luca: “It ended a while ago. Like, a long while. But we’ve known each other forever. There’s history there. Some connections don’t disappear just because they stop being romantic.”

My jaw clenched.

“Yeah,” I said finally, “I noticed the connection. Right between his lips and your forehead.”

Luca turned to look at me. “Micah—”

“Don’t,” I snapped. “Don’t ‘Micah’ me like I’m being irrational.”

He straightened a little, brows tugging together. “I didn’t say you were.”

“You didn’t have to,” I shot back. “You just dropped a post-it note in a Freud book like it was cute and then ghosted me the second we walked in so you could cozy up with your very platonic ex.”

That flicker of defensiveness hit his face. “It wasn’t like that.”

“You think this is funny? You think this is just a fun little experiment for you? Invite the anxious library kid to a party, throw him in a room full of people he doesn’t know, and see how long it takes for him to implode?”

“Micah—”

“I skipped class for you!”

That stopped him cold.

“I rearranged my entire week to follow whatever twisted scavenger hunt you’re playing and for what? So you can make eyes at your ex while I stand in the corner like a backup dancer?”

His expression shifted then — from surprise to something else. Something sharper.

“You think this is a game?” I asked. “You think this is just some big Luca Morales experience? Because I’m not here for that. I don’t do this—this mess.”

He opened his mouth, but I was already moving.

“You know what? Forget it.”

I stepped past him, down the porch stairs, into the night.

He didn’t follow.

Didn’t call my name.

Didn’t explain.

Not yet.

And I wasn’t ready to hear it anyway.

Three days.

That’s how long I’d been pretending I didn’t care.

Three days since I stormed off that porch with my jaw tight and my ego louder than the part of me that wanted to stay.

Luca hadn’t stopped texting.

Not in a blow-up-your-phone kind of way — just enough to remind me that I was the one being silent.

hey

missed you in the stacks today

thinking about you

you gonna make me write a whole apology poem or what

I miss your mouth. and your sarcasm. in that order.

please talk to me

Each one a quiet knock on a door I’d locked from the inside.

And tonight?

Tonight I couldn’t keep pretending it wasn’t wearing me down.

I took a long, hot shower to avoid my own reflection. To rinse off the tension I’d been carrying since that kiss — that forehead kiss — lodged itself behind my ribs like a splinter I couldn’t dig out.

By the time I stepped out, the mirror was fogged and my skin flushed. I wrapped the towel around my waist and padded into the room, steam following me like guilt.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Another message.

You really not gonna talk to me? Even a little?

I stared at the screen.

Not for the words.

For the feeling.

The feeling of him.

Of his voice brushing my neck.

His hand sliding beneath my hoodie.

His thumb dragging slow circles over my hip like he had all the time in the world.

I hated how fast my body reacted.

Hated that the ache between my legs wasn’t even subtle anymore.

Hated that my first thought wasn’t stop, it was fuck, I miss him.

I let the towel fall.

Climbed onto the bed without even pretending this was about sleep.

I lay back against the sheets, still damp, still warm — and closed my eyes.

I pictured his mouth first.

The way he teased before he kissed, like it was a game he already knew he’d win.

I touched myself lightly. A tease.

The ghost of his fingers on my skin.

I could almost feel his weight, the press of his chest against mine, the heat of his breath behind my ear when he whispered something borderline inappropriate just to see me blush.

My hips rolled into my hand.

A soft, broken sound escaped my throat — not quite a moan, not quite a plea.

I whispered his name again.

Not on purpose.

But it slipped out anyway.

My grip tightened.

The memory of his voice, low and close — you gonna let me touch you like that? — bloomed in my chest and dropped straight to my stomach.

My thighs tensed. Breath caught. I whispered his name again, hoarse this time. And then—

It broke.

The release was sharp and overwhelming — a hot, desperate snap of sensation that ripped through me.

Ropes of cum shot up my chest, some catching just beneath my collarbone, the rest spilling across my stomach in warm streaks. My hand stayed there, trembling slightly, fingers slick and coated.

I gasped. Once. Then again.

The rush was too much and not enough, all at once.

For a long second, I just stared at the ceiling — heart racing, skin flushed, chest rising and falling under the weight of my own mess.

Then—

My fingers. Still wet. Still tingling.

I brought them to my mouth slowly. Not out of some bold, porn-y instinct — but because I needed to feel something. Anything. A connection. A taste of what I missed.

I sucked them in, gentle at first, tongue curling around the salt and heat. Eyes fluttering shut.

It wasn’t just about sensation.

It was about him.

The want. The memory. The ache.

I sucked my fingers clean like I’d starved for days — like the ghost of Luca was something I could consume if I just took enough in.

When I finally pulled my fingers free, I stared at the ceiling again.

Still alone. Still too in it.

Still not ready to forgive him.

But God… I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold the line.

TO BE CONTINUED…