Page 95 of Try Line Hearts
Eli’s breath caught.
Heat moved through him fast, traitorous and practiced. His body knew this path. It had walked it before—late nights, short messages, proof of want delivered without the risk of words.
He shifted back against the couch, towel slipping as his attention narrowed, the room falling away until there was only the glow of the screen and the thrum under his skin. He dragged a hand down his chest, slow at first, then less so, eyes fixed on the photo like it might change if he looked hard enough.
For a few seconds, it worked.
That was the part that made him feel sick.
The tension eased. The ache dulled. His breathing went shallow and fast, body doing what it had always done when offered this kind of intimacy—taking, answering, filling the quiet with sensation instead of thought. He spit into his hand and stroked slowly, almost hypnotized by his screen.
And then—
Something twisted.
Not the want; that stayed.
But the meaning.
His eyes traced the image again, slower this time, and the warmth drained out of it. What had felt like closeness a moment ago now felt transactional. Like a substitute. Like something sent to smooth over a silence Lucas hadn’t known how to bridge.
Eli stilled.
His hand dropped to his thigh.
“Oh, fuck off,” he muttered, to himself, to the phone, to the version of Lucas who thought this was a kindness.
Shame rolled in sharp and fast. Not because of the desire—but because of how easily he’d let it stand in for something else. How quickly he’d reached for the familiar instead of admitting how much the rest of it hurt.
He stood abruptly, pacing once, then twice, like the room was too small for him. The phone was still in his hand. The image still there.
He didn’t hesitate this time.
He threw it.
The phone hit the wall with a crack that echoed too loudly in the quiet flat, slid down, and landed face-up on the floor, screen now sporting a crack, but stubbornly lit.
Eli pressed his palms into his eyes and breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, slow and deliberate.
Get a grip.
The phone started ringing.
He froze.
The sound cut straight through him, sharp and insistent. He stared at it from across the room like it might accuse him if he picked it up.
It stopped.
Started again.
He crossed the room and scooped it up, answering without checking.
“What,” he said flatly.
“Jesus, you sound like you’re about to commit a crime,” Maeve said. “Should I ring the Gardaí or make tea?”
Eli huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. “Now’s not great, Maeve.”
