Where the Light Doesn't Reach

WORK STUDY – PART V

I didn’t ask where we were going.

That alone should’ve been the first sign something was off — or evolving. Or unraveling. Depending on your perspective.

I didn’t double-check the weather.

Didn’t grab my laptop.

Didn’t text Lauren about the group project or my professor about the quiz I was absolutely about to miss.

I just followed him.

Down the stairs, out the building, into the kind of bright, cloudless morning that begged you to believe in the possibility of detours.

Luca walked like he had a secret. Like the world was a puzzle he’d already solved, and he was just trying to show me how the pieces fit together. I matched his pace, trying not to think about how different it felt — walking side by side, in daylight, not needing excuses.

“I’m not skipping classes,” I said, mostly to convince myself.

“You’re rescheduling them,” he said, without turning around. “It’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” he said. “Because today, I’m the syllabus.”

That made me laugh. Loudly. In public. Like some kind of emotionally stable person.

He looked over his shoulder, grinning. “There it is.”

“There what is?”

“Your actual laugh. Not the polite chuckle. The real thing.”

I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t stop smiling.

We caught a bus toward downtown, Luca somehow knowing which route to take without checking his phone. I let myself be led. Window down, breeze cutting across my neck, his leg brushing mine just often enough to keep me aware of it.

Our first stop: a vintage record shop that I’d passed a dozen times but never gone inside.

He didn’t ask if I liked vinyl. He just tugged me in by the hand like I belonged there.

The place smelled like dust and nostalgia. Luca beelined for the back corner, flipping through bins like he was on a mission.

He handed me a battered copy of Rumours and said, “Tell me this didn’t raise you.”

I laughed. “I didn’t know I was being tested.”

“You’re always being tested,” he said. “Life is oral exam.”

“That sounds vaguely threatening.”

He just winked and handed me another record. Tracy Chapman.

I took it without comment, too embarrassed to admit I already owned the exact same one. CD and vinyl.

We spent almost an hour there, wandering aisles, sharing earbuds, arguing over whether Maggie Rogers was better on headphones or car speakers. Luca leaned against a shelf while I queued up a song and sang along quietly, out of tune. He didn’t laugh. He just watched me like I was the main act.

Afterward, we wandered through a farmer’s market.

He bought me a mango juice I didn’t ask for.

I gave him the last bite of my empanada even though I never share food.

He dragged me toward a booth selling handmade zines and kept trying to get me to read poems out loud.

“They’re not mine,” I said.

“That’s why it’s safe,” he replied. “It’s like singing karaoke in someone else’s shame.”

I did it anyway. Whispered the words off the page, and he looked at me like I’d read him a love letter.

And still, I didn’t ask where we were going next.

Because it didn’t matter.

Because for the first time in a long time, I didn’t need a map.

I just needed him.

We found a bookstore next.

The kind with a crooked floor and handwritten shelf labels and that distinct smell of paper and old radiator heat.

I lost him for a minute in the poetry section.

He found me again in travel — handed me a dog-eared guidebook for Lisbon.

“Think we’d survive Portugal?” he asked, head tilted.

“I think we’d definitely get deported.”

He grinned. “That’s half the fun.”

I flipped through the book, pretending not to notice how close he was standing. His arm brushed mine every time I turned a page. I could feel the warmth of him through my sleeve. He didn’t move away.

“I’ve never been out of the country,” I said.

“I have a passport,” he replied. “Let’s fix that.”

He said it like a joke, but there was something in his eyes — like he meant it. Like he was already picturing it: the two of us on a rooftop somewhere, sharing language and cheap wine and a bed that creaked louder than the floorboards here.

I put the book back before I got too carried away.

We left the store with a single purchase: a copy of The Little Prince in French, because he insisted I needed it.

“Philosophy disguised as bedtime reading,” he said. “You’ll love it. It’s neurotic and existential and cute. Just like you.”

“You’re an ass,” I muttered.

“You’re blushing.”

We walked through campus next, cutting across the quad, where students were spread out like lawn ornaments — headphones in, books out, sun drunk and half-asleep. Luca dragged me into the shade of the giant live oak near the English building and pulled a crushed granola bar from his backpack like it was a feast.

We shared it.

Crumbs on my hoodie.

Chocolate on his thumb.

He licked it clean without breaking eye contact.

“Was that necessary?” I asked.

“Undeniably.”

We were quiet for a few minutes. Listening to the wind. Watching someone fly a bright yellow kite that kept crashing into a bench.

“I think I’m gonna fail stats,” I said suddenly.

He didn’t laugh.

“Then we’ll study,” he replied. “You can owe me something. A favor. A story. A poem read out loud in a very crowded place.”

I looked at him. “Why are you doing this?”

His brow furrowed. “Doing what?”

“This. All of this. Today. Me.”

He leaned back on his elbows, face tipped toward the sun. “Because I like you, Micah.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Sure it is,” he said, without looking at me. “It’s just not the one you thought you deserved.”

I didn’t say anything.

I didn’t need to.

Because a breeze picked up.

And the kite finally caught the wind.

And for just a moment, it felt like we were flying too.

We didn’t talk much after the greenhouse.

Something about the warmth in there — the dripping leaves, the glass-fogged windows, the way he leaned too close while pretending not to — had left me unmoored. I needed air. Space.

He didn’t press.

Just took my hand and walked.

We ended up on the far edge of campus, past the student center, beyond the dorms. A part of the university I’d only seen during orientation tours and early-morning walks when I couldn’t sleep.

The observatory loomed ahead — tall, round, and dark. The dome was locked up tight for the night, but Luca led me around the side like he knew something I didn’t.

He did.

The side door to the upper deck wasn’t locked.

He opened it without ceremony, and we slipped inside.

The stairs creaked. My breath fogged. The temperature had dropped, and I could see the pulse in his neck now in the dim light from the red safety bulb above us.

When we reached the top, the sky was waiting.

We stepped out onto the deck. No roof. No railing. Just sky. The stars looked fake — too bright, too still, too scattered like a painting some god had forgotten to finish.

He didn’t ask permission to lie down.

He just did.

Arms behind his head, hoodie pulled up, face tilted to the sky.

I watched him for a second before following suit.

The roof was cold against my back. Our shoulders barely touched. But it was enough.

“Is this where you take all your crushes?” I asked, mostly to break the quiet.

“Only the neurotic ones,” he said.

“Must be a long list.”

“Just one name on it, actually.”

I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t move away.

The silence stretched. But it didn’t feel empty.

Up there, surrounded by stars and nothing else, it felt like we were outside of time. Like if I spoke too loudly, the night would shatter.

So I didn’t.

Not until he did.

“I used to come here freshman year,” he said, voice soft. “Before I had friends. Before I figured out how to make this place feel like mine.”

“You’re popular,” I said, and it came out more like a question.

He shrugged. “I’m known. That’s different.”

I turned my head toward him.

He was watching the sky, but something in his expression looked far away.

“I didn’t think you got lonely,” I said.

“Everyone gets lonely,” he replied. “Some people just disguise it better.”

I swallowed.

And then, without thinking, I reached for his hand.

He didn’t flinch.

He just laced our fingers together like it was nothing.

Like it was everything.

For a long while, we didn’t speak.

We just lay there, palms warm, hearts trying not to be too obvious about it, the wind whispering around us.

And when he turned to look at me — really look at me — I let him.

No smirk.

No game.

Just starlight.

And a boy I shouldn’t trust with my morning, let alone my heart.

His lips brushed mine — once, then again.

Not searching. Not urgent.

Just… present.

I opened under him like I’d been waiting for permission. Like I didn’t even realize I’d been holding back until the moment I wasn’t.

He kissed like he knew my mouth already — soft at first, then deeper. A question turning into a declaration. One hand cupped the back of my neck while the other slid beneath the hem of my shirt, warm fingers skating lightly across my ribs.

My breath caught. He felt it. Didn’t stop.

We shifted — just enough for him to lean over me, just enough that I could feel the full weight of him settle between my legs. The fabric of my jeans pressed tight. His thigh moved against me deliberately.

“You okay?” he whispered, lips brushing my jaw.

I nodded — too fast. Too eager.

And then he kissed lower. My throat. My collarbone. The hollow just above my heart.

My hand found his wrist, fingers wrapping instinctively around it — not to stop him. Just to anchor myself. To remind myself this was real.

Because nothing had ever felt so warm, or so known.

He paused at the waistband of my jeans. Didn’t ask. Didn’t tease.

He just looked up at me — eyes dark, steady, full of a question I already understood.

I lifted my hips in answer.

And then he moved. Slow, sure. Confident like this wasn’t just something he wanted — it was something he chose. On purpose. With me.

My head tipped back. My breath stuttered.

And when I finally exhaled, it sounded a lot like surrender.

The first thing I felt was the warmth of his breath.

Then the soft drag of his lips — barely there — over the line where skin met waistband.

And then his hands — one settling on my hip, the other splayed wide across my thigh, grounding me.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

Just air. Just disbelief.

He lifted his head to look at me — a question in his eyes, a flicker of something close to reverence — and I answered by threading my fingers into his hair.

Not pulling. Not pushing. Just inviting.

His gaze held mine for one second longer, and then he lowered his mouth — deliberate, unhurried — and I forgot how to think.

The first press of his tongue against me felt like sin.

Like forgiveness.

Like being unwrapped and worshipped all at once.

He licked slowly from base to tip, warm and maddeningly wet, before pulling back slightly, stroking me with his hand — featherlight, thoughtful — like he was giving me a chance to adjust.

But I didn’t want time. I didn’t want patience. I wanted him.

I guided him lower, my hand still in his hair. He let me.

And when he finally took me into his mouth, all of me clenched.

His lips sealed around me, and his tongue moved in slow, deliberate circles — not hurried, not timid. Just aware. Like he was studying me. Learning the places that made me gasp. The patterns that made my spine lift off the floor.

He came up for a breath once — one long inhale, lips slick, thumb stroking me as he looked up with something fierce in his eyes.

Then he went back down. Deeper this time.

My hand tightened in his hair.

I tilted my head back, eyes catching the stars against the open sky above us.

They blurred. Flickered. Multiplied.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wondered if I’d died. Or ascended. Or been reborn as someone else entirely — someone who could let go without apology.

Because that’s what it felt like.

Like being made of atoms on the edge of collapse. Like light years were bending around me. Like the whole universe was contracting and expanding at the same time — inside me. My breath caught between galaxies. My body nothing but stardust pulled into orbit. Every nerve a supernova. Every moan a ripple across time. I wasn’t just touched — I was rewritten. Reassembled. Unmade and made again.

He hollowed his cheeks just right. Sucked harder. Swallowed around me with a rhythm that felt studied — practiced — filthy in the most reverent way.

The pressure built fast. Sharp. Hot. Like a coil pulled tight inside me, begging to snap.

My hips jerked up, searching for more. My breath stuttered — one hard inhale, then nothing. My fingers dug into the bench behind me as my spine arched on instinct, like I was offering myself up to something bigger than either of us.

And then I came — hard.

The first shot hit the back of his throat. He didn’t flinch. He took it like he wanted it — like he needed it — tongue pressed flat as the second followed, then the third. Thick, warm, relentless. It spilled past his lips, dripped down his chin.

And still he sucked.

His hand gripped the base of my cock, milking every drop with slow, obscene strokes while his mouth stayed wrapped around the head, tongue swirling, coaxing more even as my whole body trembled.

I heard myself — raw, wrecked, moaning his name like a prayer that didn’t ask for forgiveness.

The stars above blurred as my vision dimmed at the edges. It felt like I was unraveling — I was like an atom about to split — charged, volatile, seconds from detonating, light years bending around the force of my release. The universe inside me contracting, expanding, and pouring out through every inch of me that touched him.

When it finally eased, I slumped back, chest heaving, legs loose, spent in a way I hadn’t known was possible. He lifted his head slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on mine.

He licked his lips — tasting me, owning it.

And then he smirked. “Told you,” he said, voice low and wrecked, “I’d take good care of you.”

Luca didn’t pull away.

He stayed with me through it — hands steady, mouth sure, like this wasn’t a performance. Like it was a promise.

When I finally stopped shaking, I blinked at the sky — wide and scattered and infinite — and thought, this is what it feels like to come undone.

Not in lust.

Not in shame.

In wonder.

He crawled back up beside me, lips kiss-warm and pink. He didn’t ask if I was okay. He didn’t need to.

Because he looked at me like I was still glowing.

And maybe I was.

Maybe I still am.

We didn’t speak for a long time.

Not because there was nothing to say, but because the silence felt holy. Like if I broke it, I’d ruin something delicate and unrepeatable.

Luca’s fingers stayed close — brushing mine now and then like he was still checking I was real.

And as I stared up through the open dome, chest rising slow, skin still humming, I felt it hit me all at once:

I’d spent so long building walls, I forgot what it felt like to be seen through them.

TO BE CONTINUED…