Page 112 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
“Come on,” he says softly, stepping aside and nodding toward his room. “Let me help you get settled.”
“Lucian—”
“No funny business,” he adds. “Unless you ask for it.”
“I’m in a towel.”
“I’m a gentleman.”
“You’re literally shirtless.”
“Exactly. We’re even.”
He leads me down the hall, his hand gliding over my lower back as if it’s nothing—as if it doesn’t short-circuit every rational thought in my mind.
His room is dimly lit, soft, and smells like him. Clean soap and comfort and something warm I don’t want to name. He disappears into his closet for a moment and comes back with a folded T-shirt and a pair of boxers.
“You want help?” he asks, voice low.
I hesitate. Then nod.
Because I’m tired.
Because my brain is pudding.
Because there’s a quiet in him right now that feels both safety and trouble all wrapped in one.
He holds the shirt up while I let the towel drop just enough for him to slide it over my head. His hands brush my sides, careful, yet confident. It’s oversized—of course—and smells like laundry and him. He crouches, guiding my foot through the boxers one at a time, his fingers grazing my calves.
I’m going to combust.
“There,” he says softly, standing. “Now you’re officially part of the lounge club.”
I stare at him, baffled. “You’re doing it again.”
“What?”
“Taking care of me.”
Lucian shrugs like it’s not a big deal. Like he’s not rearranging my internal structure every time he does something like this.
“Come on,” he says, pulling back the covers. “Sarah already claimed the side closest to the window. You get middle.”
“Middle?” I echo, even as I crawl in. “This bed is enormous. Why are we stacking like pancakes?”
“Proximity,” he says, sliding in behind me. “For health reasons, temperature regulation. Plus, spooning is part of the contract.”
“Which clause is that?”
“Addendum three. We accept warm cuddles and/or inappropriate morning wood.”
I laugh as I lean back against him. He wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me close, and the ridiculous thing is—it feels effortless. Too effortless.
Like we’ve done this before.
Like this is home.
His nose brushes the back of my neck. “You smell like my soap.”
