Page 72 of Click of Fate

And he does.

We don’t rush it. There’s no need. Every movement is deliberate, every kiss a question I don’t quite know how to answer.

And maybe I don’t need to.

Because for right now, in this sliver of time, I stop thinking altogether.

When we’re done, we linger—bodies still tangled, breath still uneven. He wraps his arms around me from behind, chin resting on my shoulder as we watch our reflections in the fogged-up mirror.

I don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

But the silence is warm.

And maybe, just maybe, it feels a little bit like home.

When he starts peppering kisses on my shoulder, I feel that familiar need bloom low in my core. I leave the shower running, but lead him to my bed between sweet, stolen kisses.

We slip into my bed like it’s second nature, skin still warm from the shower we never quite finished.

Luke lies on his back, one hand behind his head, the other still tangled with mine beneath the covers. His body radiates heat and comfort. Familiarity.

I rest my cheek against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

We don’t talk for a while. We don’t need to.

But then his fingers trace lazy lines along my arm, and his voice breaks the quiet.

“This,” he murmurs, “is starting to feel like a thing.”

I smile against his skin. “A thing?”

“Yeah. You, me. Hanging out with no plan. Lilly bossing us around like a tiny coach. Your sister acting like me being here is nothing new. It’s… I don’t know.” He pauses. “It’s good.”

I swallow. The sheets are suddenly too warm. My throat, too tight.

Luke shifts slightly, tilting his head to look at me. “I’m not saying we need to define anything right now. But down the line… I could see this being something.”

Something.

A word that shouldn’t make my chest clench. But it does.

“Stella?” he asks, voice soft. “You still with me?”

I nod. Barely.

Because I am with him. Right now. In this moment.

But it’s the future part—the “down the line” part—that makes my skin prickle with warning. That has me already pulling back in the places he can’t see.

I press a kiss to his shoulder and whisper, “Go to sleep, Professor Meatball.”

He chuckles. “Trouble.”

But the warmth in my chest is already cooling.

Because I know myself.

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