Page 53 of Depths of Desire
He didn’t blink. “It still feels like a risk.”
“Yeah?”
“But I want to take it anyway.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I leaned in.
And he met me halfway.
The kiss wasn’t hot. It wasn’t frantic. It was slow, and deep, and intentional. Like we had all the time in the world. Like we were choosing this, not falling into it by accident. His mouth tasted faintly like mint and something warmer, something like cinnamon. I breathed him in, held the back of his neck, and let myself sink into it.
When we pulled apart, he didn’t let go of my hand.
I tucked closer to his side, and he shifted just enough to let me rest my head on his shoulder. Our legs tangled slowly, naturally. I could feel the way his thumb was brushing over the back of my hand, over and over like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
We lay there, and the sky slowly clouded over. The stars disappeared behind long gray streaks, but we didn’t move.
And when the silence curled around us again, it didn’t feel like absence.
It felt like belonging.
Days started to pass like window scenes on a train.
Bright.
Brief.
Blurred by speed.
One minute, it was late February, the cold biting at my knuckles as I laced my skates in the dark corner of the locker room. The next, it was mid-March, and I was shrugging off my hoodie to feel the sun for the first time in months. The spring came slowly to Chicago, but even the wind tasted different now. Softer. Hopeful.
Everything was in motion. Practice, drills, travel, coursework. My calendar looked like a war zone of overlapping commitments. Alarm clocks and protein shakes. Group texts with the boys, half-finished assignments, stretch bands, and ice packs. I kept up. I pushed through. But underneath it all, running like a secret current through the noise, was Oliver.
Sometimes I didn’t even notice the days going by. I’d look up from a textbook and realize a week had passed. A week of seeing his name flash on my phone, of the soft ping of a message right when I needed it most. Of late nights spent scrolling through photos of us, of him, of anything that reminded me how good it felt to be wanted without having to earn it with charm.
I didn’t have to be funny for Oliver. I didn’t have to pretend like I wasn’t tired, or stressed, or insecure. He saw through it, called me out gently, then kissed me like I was still worth it anyway.
Hockey was brutal that month. Away games stacked back-to-back, body bruised in all the usual ways. A hard check during the second period in Milwaukee tweaked my shoulder again, the same one I’d messed up back in freshman year. Elio taped it for me in the locker room, hands sure and muttering curses the whole time.
“You’re pushing too hard,” he said, eyes sharp.
“Not hard enough,” I muttered, teeth clenched.
He didn’t argue. He just pressed the tape down a little too tightly in retaliation.
Later that night, I lay on the dorm bed in the dark, Rhett snoring across the room, my laptop screen still open on a half-finished assignment. The glow hurt my eyes, but I didn’t care. I stared at the text from Oliver instead.
Oliver:You’re still up?
Me:I’m always up.
Oliver:I’ve got a blanket and a warm apartment and no roommate. Just saying.
I’d smiled so hardit hurt.
We didn’t always make it happen. Sometimes there was too much distance, too much exhaustion. Sometimes I had early morning drills, or he had class. But when I could, I went. God, I went.
One night, I showed up at his place after a six-hour bus ride, legs stiff, nerves fried, and crawled into bed without even taking off my socks. I’d barely shut the door before I collapsed beside him. He didn’t complain. He just rolled toward me, warm and half-asleep, pulled me in, and said, “You’re here.” Like that was all he’d needed.
