SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL, J.HUGHES

FIFTY THREE

MORGAN'S POV

"Okay, so let's do it again," Luke says, leaning over the table, his eyes darker than ever. The cafe's low light casts shadows under his brows, making him look more intense than usual—not that he isn't always intense, but tonight, it's cranked up to eleven.

I've lost track of how many times he's tried to get me to talk. It's been over an hour, at least. I was ready to make my escape right after our afternoon meeting, heading straight home. But Luke was waiting for me outside of the building, wasn't letting it go.

"I told you already, Luke, there's nothing wrong with me." My voice comes out more defensive than I planned, but it's the truth, or at least it's what I've decided to stick to.

Luke grunts in frustration, his breath coming out in a huff as he leans back in his chair. The wood creaks under his weight as he lets his head fall back, staring up at the ceiling like it's got the answers he's looking for. His fingers drum impatiently on the armrest. 

I try to ignore the way my stomach flips at his frustration, but it's hard. He's not the kind of guy who gets pissed easily, which makes this feel heavier. I shift in my seat, suddenly aware of how tense my shoulders are, how I'm gripping the edge of the table like it's the only thing keeping me from unraveling.

If we're having this conversation, it's probably because I canceled all my plans for Christmas. Instead of going out, I stayed home, curled up on the couch, binge-watching movies until five in the morning. I didn't even bother with decorations or festive lights; just me, Jack, a blanket, and a half-empty bowl of popcorn. 

He wasn't too happy about it, especially since Christmas is his favorite holiday of the year. He had this whole plan for us— exchanging gifts, play board game and making cookies—but I blew it off. He said I ruined his Christmas, and honestly, I don't blame him for feeling that way.

"C'mon, Morgan," he says, voice softer now, but there's an edge to it. "I'm not stupid. You've been off for days, and don't tell me it's just work stress. We both know that's bull."

I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting the urge to just blurt everything out. But what's the point? What's he gonna do, fix it? It's not that simple.

"Luke, seriously. I'm fine." I try to make my voice sound casual, but it wavers, just a little. Enough that I know he caught it.

He sighs, this long, drawn-out sound that makes me feel like the biggest asshole in the room. His head rolls to the side, and he's looking at me now, really looking at me, with those dark eyes that see way more than I want them to.

"You know I'm not gonna let this go, right?" He's trying to sound light, like we're just messing around, but there's that weight again, heavy and suffocating between us.

I swallow hard, looking away, pretending to focus on the tea bag in my cup, but I can still feel his gaze on me. It's like he's waiting for me to break, to just spill everything, but I can't. Not now, not like this.

"I'm just tired, Luke. Can we drop it?"

He doesn't answer right away, and the silence feels suffocating. I can hear every penny clinking into the cash register, the faint hum of the lights, and it's all too loud, too much. I can feel the weight of every stare in the room, like they're all waiting for something to happen.

"Everyone's looking at us now," I finally say, my voice barely above a whisper. I feel the heat rushing to my cheeks, and it's like my skin's on fire. We both glance around, and it's true—there are a few people who recognize us. It's hard to go anywhere without drawing attention, especially with our status and the hockey season at its peak.