All Chapters of The Way He Looked at Me: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

Luca doesn’t speak.I turn toward him. His gaze is fixed straight ahead. His cheeks are flushed, lips pressed tight. He swallows, nods once and exhales like he’s finally releasing something he’s been holding since childhood. The kind of breath you don’t realize you’re carrying until it’s gone.“That said,” Coach continues, “I’d be failing you as a coach if I didn’t think ahead. You’re both star players. If things are good, great. But if they aren’t…” He pauses. “We need a plan. Because if this goes sideways, it affects the Bears. What happens if things sour between you?”“It won’t,” Luca says instantly.Coach smiles softly. Too softly. Like a man who’s seen love burn bright before it burns out.“I hear you,” he says. “But this is new. You’re happy now. That doesn’t mean it stays t

Luca Moretti povIt’s been a long, slow summer too quiet, almost suspiciously so. The garden has grown wild around us, vines and weeds creeping wherever they please. We mention fixing it sometimes, half-hearted plans that never leave our mouths. Truth is, I’ve started to like the chaos. The way the branches scrape softly against our bedroom window when the northern wind blows. The way the greenery wraps around the house like a shield, hiding us from the world. It feels safe here. Insulated. Ours.On warm afternoons, we drag a picnic blanket into the backyard and stretch out beneath the sun, letting the hours slip by until sleep takes us both. We don’t rush anything anymore. After everything, stillness feels earned.The first few days after we came out, we disappeared completely. Locked ourselves inside my place like the world beyond the walls didn’t exist. Jace and Carter showed up that first night and took every device we owned 

I collapse onto the wrong couch, suffocating under a storm of pain that has nowhere to go. It’s lodged in my bones, my blood, even the air I breathe.It’s brutal. One of the worst feelings imaginable messy, confusing, raw. But tonight, it’s different. Tonight, I know exactly what I want.I want it.I need it.I need to unleash the monstrous thing inside me.I flip through channels, forcing my mind to stay detached, though I know where they are. My team. Who’s on the ice, who’s benched. Who’s sharp tonight, who’s faltering. I know the refs. I know Coach’s mood before the first whistle.The screen shifts and I slam my eyes shut. The ice glares like it’s burning me too bright, too cold. I bury my face in my hands, feeling the skull press down, waiting for the scrape of blades across frozen metal.But it’s not the ice that cuts tonight. It’s the crowd. That low, rolling hum of cheering fans. It crawls through me, shakes me apart, floods me with a tidal wave of salt I can’t release. Each c

Carter Blake POV“The things I’d let him get away with…” I drawl, letting my head sink into the back of the sofa and closing my eyes just enough to be theatrical. “Honestly, Ness, even you would turn red if you knew.”Rachel likes to claim she’s a little adventurous, a secret kinkster, though I’ve never actually seen proof. She insists she keeps that side of herself private, worried it might shock me or ruin my opinion of her. I suspect it’s more practical than anything before you can explore that side of yourself, you have to deal with strangers and real-world interactions. For her, that’s tricky when the only people she regularly sees outside work are two openly gay men.She leans toward me, just enough to feel slightly imposing, and slides a finger up the bridge of her nose, nudging her glasses into place with a determined flick. They settle for a heartbeat before sliding back down. “Like what?” she presses.I let my thoughts wander and settle on Cole. The first time I really notic

Honestly, calling it a cottage feels wrong. There’s nothing quaint about this space. It’s clearly a modern extension, all sharp lines and glass, clashing with the Colonial Revival elegance of the main house. It screams contemporary more Barcelona House than old-world charm. The flat roof hovers over floor-to-ceiling windows, stretching out to shade a small outdoor studio. A pottery wheel spins idly there, surrounded by low shelves overflowing with half-finished ceramics.Inside, the kitchen is stripped down, counters bare, everything precise. A floating bookshelf slices the room in half, keeping the kitchen separate from the living area, while another wall of books discreetly shields the bedroom.Lucky bastard. I bet the floors never groan under his weight or scratch when he moves.He’s sunk into the sofa, bare feet planted on the polished wood, his face bathed in the flickering glow of the TV. He’s still wearing the same T-shirt from earlier, a soft cream one with a thin red stripe a