Over and Run With - A Gallagher Girls Story

Chapter Six

In the time it took the sun to fully set and the stars to completely settle, Luke and I had managed to collect seventeen new bruises between the two of us. I was convinced that this was our record. Luke was not. The two of us bickered about it throughout our entire trip to the kitchen sink, and then bickered some more in between chugs of icy water. The garage had been freezing, but it had felt nice among the sweat and the heat. Somehow, it had neutralized us.

The kitchen was too hot, and Luke was looking at me like he knew it. "What?" I said. "What is that, what are you doing?"

Luke just shook his head. Sipped his water. Lean, lean, leaned against the counter.

"Nuh uh. That's a look," I told him. "If you're gonna give me a look then you're at least gonna tell me what it's for."

"Why are you so convinced I'm giving you a look?"

"Luke," I said, and my own glass clinked against the countertop as I set it down. Each step I took towards him was measured—a residual sparring mindset leaking into the rest of the night. One, block with the shoulder. Two, lead with the hips. Three, look your opponent in the eye. "I want you to think about all of the arguments we've ever had, all of the arguments you've ever won, and then I want you to think about how likely it is for you to win this one."

And Luke Collins, expert defenseman, didn't move an inch. He didn't bring his fists to his face, didn't take any kind of stance. There was no attempt at keeping me out, and all it did was draw me in. All it did was make me want to test my limits—to see how close he would really let me get.

The kitchen was too hot, and my heart was still racing from the fight.

"Maybe, Morgan," he said, drawing out my name, like he was the only one in the world who knew it, "the goal was never to win this argument."

Closer, closer, closer. His chest was open, and he was watching me. Really, truly watching everything about me. "And why would you ever want to lose this particular argument?"

He was smiling now—the rare full smile—his breaths still uneven, the glow of a good workout still gleaming along his forehead. "Because when it comes to arguments with you, Morgan Goode, winning or losing has never been the point."

And it was that weird warmth again. Not the heat. Warmth. He was different. I was different. We were different. I've gone head to head with Luke before—plenty of times—but this was a new kind of face-off. It's hard to explain exactly how, and more than that, I suspect it's one of those things that a person can only truly understand when they've felt it themselves. I was met with the overwhelming impression that one of us was definitely going to win this interaction, but for the first time, it also kind of felt like neither of us could possibly lose.

Notice things. It was the never-ending cadence to my life—the words that had been engraved into my skin, my skeleton, my soul. When it came to Luke Collins, there were plenty of things I had noticed over the years, but looking at him then, I was struck with all of the things I hadn't.

Instead of his stance or his strategy, I saw his breaths, rising and falling in his chest.

Instead of his words or his wisdom, I saw his lips, creased and cracked from the winter.

Instead of his arrogance, his egotism, his pride, I saw every last crook in his nose, starting at the bend in his bridge and noticing the curve of the light, the shine of his sweat, a scar that I'd left behind at some point in our years together, and the absolute need to kiss him there one of these days.

I saw it all. I saw him. And that warmth snuck up on me in a way that no spy should ever be snuck up on, and I could feel him noticing me in all the same ways I was noticing him, and he was still lean, lean, leaning up against that countertop. "You've got a terrible poker face," he said.