Everything Meant Nothing (Mm Romance Fiction)
Copyright© 2025 by StoriesByTroy
Chapter 2
Part 1: We Weren’t Even a Thing | Summer After Him
It’s past midnight. The kind of night that makes your thoughts louder.
I’m walking the neighborhood loop I’ve done a thousand times, hoodie up, phone buzzing in my pocket. I don’t check it. Probably my mom reminding me to pack some warm clothes, or maybe my best friend Cal sending another funny video that’s supposed to make me laugh. I’m not really in the mood. The sky is clear. No breeze. Not even the usual bark from the neighbor’s dog. Just me, sneakers on pavement, and everything I haven’t said out loud.
I leave for the UK in two days.
Everyone thinks I’m going to explore, find myself, chase something new. I let them believe that. But the truth? It’s messier. I’m leaving because I need distance. From this town. From the version of me I never chose. From him.
Luke.
God, just thinking his name hurts.
He was the golden boy. Quarterback. Straight-passing. Tall, broad, tan, effortlessly hot in that all-American, varsity-jacket, movie-poster kind of way. He had that stupid perfect smile, that cocky little eyebrow raise when he joked. Everyone wanted him. I didn’t think I ever stood a chance.
But then he kissed me.
I still remember the first time. The locker room after gym. Everyone else had cleared out. He was half-dressed, sweaty from football, grinning at me like I was the punchline to some inside joke. I threw my towel at him and called him an asshole.
He caught it. Stepped closer.
His towel was slung over one shoulder, his torso bare. Defined in a way that made me forget how to breathe. Abs you could trace with your eyes. Veins on his arms. I was frozen.
Then he kissed me.
Hard. Fast. Desperate. Like he’d been holding it in for months. I gasped. He pressed me back against the lockers, fingers gripping my hips like I might disappear. It was messy. Hot. A little clumsy. But it felt real. Like something snapped loose.
We didn’t talk about it after. Just texted like normal that night. But from that day on, it kept happening.
Sneaking around. Kisses in dark corners. Late-night drives. Texts that started with “You up?” and ended with “Wish you were here.”
There was the time behind the sports shed. It wasn’t romantic. It was rushed and reckless. He pulled me there after football practice, still high off adrenaline. Breathless. Hair damp.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he said.
And then his mouth was on mine. Tongue, teeth, his fingers sliding under my shirt. The gravel scraped my knees when I dropped for him. He swore under his breath when I opened my mouth for him.
He always kissed me. That’s what made it different.
I’ve been with guys before. Closeted ones. Straight-acting. The kind who say, “You can blow me, but I’m not gay,” or “No kissing. That’s too personal.”
Luke wasn’t like that.
He kissed me. He held me. He fell asleep with my head on his chest. He’d wrap his arms around me and talk about his games, his stats, the scouts who were watching. I pretended to care. Nodded at all the right moments. But really, I was just watching the way his hair curled around his ear, the dip of his collarbone, the way his lashes flickered when he got excited.
Sometimes he’d cup my face with both hands and say, “You’re too pretty when you’re mad.”
He made me feel seen. Important. Like maybe I wasn’t some secret he regretted.
And then came graduation.