Secretly dating a celebrity♡

27

The next morning, Luke woke up slowly—too slowly.

Pain throbbed behind his eyes the moment consciousness settled in. It wasn’t sharp, but it was heavy, like pressure that refused to lift. He groaned softly and rolled onto his side, one arm reaching blindly across the bed until his fingers closed around his phone.

He squinted at the screen.

7:03 a.m.

“s**t,” he muttered.

His head fell back against the pillow as he stared at the ceiling. His body felt drained, like he hadn’t rested at all. Sleep had come, but peace hadn’t followed it. His dreams were messy—fragments of stages, flashing lights, Heather’s voice fading in and out, Gwen’s shy smile appearing when he least expected it.

Luke pushed himself upright, rubbing his temples as another wave of discomfort rolled through him. He stood slowly, careful not to make the headache worse, and shuffled toward the bathroom.

The mirror greeted him with a version of himself he barely recognized.

Dark circles sat under his eyes. His shoulders looked tense, permanently pulled tight like he was bracing for impact. He stared at his reflection for a long moment, gripping the edge of the sink.

“I need a break from all this,” he said quietly.

The words came out heavier than he meant them to.

He splashed cold water on his face, hoping it would shock him awake, ground him. The water dripped down his jaw, soaking the collar of his shirt, but it didn’t help much. He still felt foggy, disconnected—like he was moving through his own life on autopilot.

He brushed his teeth without really paying attention, his thoughts drifting back to last night. Gwen’s messages. The picture of her smiling with that strawberry. The way her words hadn’t demanded anything from him.

Then Heather’s face slipped in again, uninvited.

Luke clenched his jaw and shut off the sink.

He walked back into his room and sat on the edge of the bed, unlocking his phone again—this time opening his schedule. His eyes scanned the screen, each line adding more weight to his chest.

Morning rehearsal.

Dance practice.

Recording session.

Meet with management.

Gwen’s birthday in the evening.

His fingers tightened around the phone.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “This is too much.”

For a moment, he thought about canceling everything. Just disappearing for a day. Turning his phone off. Letting the world handle itself without him.

But he knew better.

He always showed up. Even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.

Luke leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. His head pulsed again, stronger this time. His stomach felt off, like he hadn’t eaten properly in days—which was probably true.

“I’m not feeling well,” he murmured to himself.

He said it out loud, as if hearing it might make it more real. More acceptable.

But the schedule didn’t change.

The expectations didn’t disappear.

He stood halfway, intending to force himself into motion again—then stopped.

His legs felt heavy. His chest felt tight. The thought of facing the day made his head spin even more.

Luke slowly sat back down.

Then, without really deciding to, he lay back on the bed.

He stared at the ceiling again, the same spot he’d stared at countless nights before.

“Just… two minutes,” he whispered.

He closed his eyes.

The room stayed quiet. No alarms. No voices. No pressure—at least not for a moment.

His breathing evened out without him realizing it.

And then, just like that, he was asleep.

⸻

When Luke opened his eyes again, something felt wrong.

The light in the room was different—brighter, warmer. His body felt stiff, his headache dulled but still present. He blinked a few times, disoriented, and reached for his phone.

The screen lit up.

12:46 p.m.

His heart dropped.

“No—no, no,” he muttered, sitting up too fast and immediately regretting it as his head spun.

He’d slept through everything.

Rehearsal.

Dance practice.

Recording.

His phone buzzed again, this time with missed calls. Messages. Notifications piling up like proof of his failure.

Jake.

Management.

Unknown numbers.

And then—one name that made his chest tighten differently.

Gwen (3 unread messages).

Luke stared at the screen, guilt creeping in alongside the panic. He rubbed his face hard, dragging his hands down slowly.

What was he doing?

He wasn’t sick enough to stop. He wasn’t broken enough to rest. That’s what he’d always told himself.

But as he sat there, phone trembling slightly in his hand, Luke realized something unsettling.

His body had made the choice for him.

It had shut everything down.

And for the first time, he wondered if ignoring that—ignoring himself—was finally starting to cost him more than he could afford.

He took a deep breath, unlocked his phone, and prepared to face the consequences of sleeping longer than he ever meant to.

And the day he was supposed to show up for everyone else… had already begun without him.

Heather’s fingers slid into Lane’s hair, nails grazing his scalp the way she knew he liked. He hummed softly against her skin, lips moving slowly along her neck, warm and familiar. His hands rested at her waist, steady, grounding—everything about the moment should have felt right.

But her mind wasn’t there.

She stared past his shoulder, eyes unfocused, watching the faint reflection of city lights on the window. Her body responded out of habit, out of practice. She tilted her head slightly, let out a quiet breath at the right moments, held him the way someone in love was supposed to.

She was convincing.

Too convincing.

Lane kissed just beneath her ear, murmuring her name softly. “You’re quiet,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at her.

Heather smiled—small, careful. “Just tired,” she said. It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the whole truth.

Lane brushed his thumb along her jaw, concern flickering briefly in his eyes before he leaned in again, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. She kissed him back, slow and warm, matching his rhythm. He tasted like coffee and something sweet. Familiar. Safe.

And still… her chest felt hollow.

Her grip tightened slightly in his hair, as if grounding herself, as if reminding herself that this was real. That this was her life now. A new apartment. A new routine. A new relationship that everyone said was healthy.

Lane smiled against her skin again. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said quietly, almost teasing. “I can tell when your head’s somewhere else.”

Her heart skipped—not in excitement, but in fear.

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “I’m fine,” she repeated, firmer this time. “Really.”

Lane studied her for a moment, searching her face like he might find something she hadn’t said out loud. Then he nodded, letting it go, and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his chest.

Heather wrapped her arms around Lane's neck, pulling him closer

Heather: I-I...I need you, baby . I can't get enough of you.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear.

Lane: I know, baby. I need you too.

An hour later the room was filled with moans and skin against skin

Heather’s breath came in shallow gasps as Lane moved above her, each deep thrust sending sparks through her trembling body. Her fingers clawed at his back, nails leaving faint red trails as she arched up to meet him.

Heather: *m.oaning loudly*

A-ah~ L-Lanee

Lane: *Growling low in his throat*

That’s my girl…that’s my [th.rusting harder while grinding his teeth] my good girl~

Heather: All yours! Always yours! f**k—*gasping*—I love how you stre.tch me, how you f.ill me up…

She lifted her legs higher, wrapping them around his waist as he drove dee.per still. The bed creaked beneath them, their sweat-slicked skin slapping together in a rhythm that bordered on desperate.

Lane:

Keep those legs a.part for d.addy

Heather:

M-mh~ m-make me unable to…to walk

Her in.ner walls clenched around him suddenly and she cried out—a high-pitched moan laced with pleasure and emotion—as her orgas.m crashed over her like a wave.

Lane: That’s it, baby… c*m on daddy’s c***k. Squeeze me while I pour myself in.to you…

With a few final powerful thrus.ts, he stilled de.el insi.de her and groaned long and rough as he spilled himself fully within.

They collapsed together in tangled limbs and heavy breaths—the room thick with the scent of se*x —and neither moved nor spoke for minutes after...

Heather rested her head against him, listening to his heartbeat. It was steady. Calm. Nothing like the way her own heart felt—too loud, too restless, like it was constantly looking for something it had lost.

She closed her eyes.

For a split second, another image tried to surface. Another pair of arms. Another familiar warmth. Another voice that used to say her name like it meant something fragile.

She pushed it down immediately.

Don’t do this, she told herself. Don’t ruin what you have.

Lane pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m going to grab some water,” he said softly. “You want some?”

Heather nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He smiled and walked toward the kitchen, leaving her alone on the couch.

The moment he was gone, her smile faded.

Heather leaned back, staring at the ceiling, her fingers curling into the fabric of the cushion beneath her. The apartment was quiet except for the faint sound of Lane moving around in the other room. It should have felt peaceful.

Instead, it felt heavy.

She swallowed hard and sat up, rubbing her arms like she was cold. Her phone lay face down on the coffee table. She hadn’t touched it in a while. She hadn’t wanted to.

Because she knew.

If she turned it over, she’d hope for something she shouldn’t. A name she wasn’t supposed to think about anymore. A life she had walked away from because it hurt too much to stay.

Heather pressed her lips together, breathing slowly until the tightness in her chest eased.

Lane came back a moment later, handing her a glass of water. “Here,” he said, sitting beside her.

“Thanks,” she murmured, taking it.

He watched her take a sip, then reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together. “You know,” he said gently, “you don’t have to rush anything with me. We’ve got time.”

She looked at him, really looked at him. His patience. His kindness. The way he never pushed, never demanded explanations she wasn’t ready to give.

That made it worse.

“I know,” she said softly.

Lane smiled, squeezing her hand once. “I’m here. That’s all.”

Heather nodded, leaning her head against his shoulder.

She let herself stay there, let herself breathe in the moment, let herself pretend that her heart wasn’t still bruised, still aching in places she refused to touch.

She didn’t pull away.

She didn’t confess.

She just stayed.

And as Lane wrapped an arm around her, holding her close, Heather stared ahead—wondering how long pretending would be enough, and whether the past would ever truly loosen its grip on her heart.