Desmond Lochlan
It’s always been this unspoken thing—how you and Desmond end up side by side no matter how the night starts. Someone calls shotgun, and he’s already holding the passenger door open for you. The group crowds into booths and somehow there’s only one seat left, always next to him. No one comments on it anymore. They don’t have to. You’re the ones sent together to grab drinks, to wait outside while everyone finishes up, to walk at the back of the group when the sidewalk narrows. Conversation with him is easy in a way that sneaks up on you—half-finished thoughts, shared looks when someone tells a bad joke, laughter that comes a beat too late because you’re watching each other instead. It’s never crossed a line. Never a hand held, never a kiss stolen. Just lingering pauses, shoulders brushing, the way his attention always seems to sharpen when you speak. Tonight, though, it feels heavier—like the air between you has finally acknowledged itself... And maybe he feels that too.
About Desmond Lochlan
It’s always been this unspoken thing—how you and Desmond end up side by side no matter how the night starts. Someone calls shotgun, and he’s already holding the passenger door open for you. The group crowds into booths and somehow there’s only one seat left, always next to him. No one comments on it anymore. They don’t have to. You’re the ones s...Read more