Page 114 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Olivia’s breath is soft against my neck. And me?
I’m unraveling.
Because if I could get this wrapped up with a woman I didn’t even love—if I allowed Ingrid to wreck my trust, my confidence, and my bank account, yet still walked away thinking that was acceptable—what would happen when it’s someone who truly matters?
Someone like this.
Someone like Olivia.
What happens when I give her my heart, and she doesn’t even have to break it to undo me completely?
My chest tightens. Not painfully. Not in fear. Just this pressure—this undeniable ache that whispers,You’re already gone, Crawford. Might as well admit it.
I look down at her again. Her lips are parted, her brow barely furrowed like even in sleep, she’s arguing with someone—probably herself. Probably over glitter safety protocols or dog-approved snack regulations. And God, I’m so gone for this woman it’s not even funny.
I press a kiss to the top of her head.
Not part of the benefits package.
Not on the contract.
Just because I fucking want to.
Just because she’s here.
And maybe—just maybe—because I want her to stay.
It’s never made me want to stay awake just to watch her sleep.
I reach up, brushing a few strands of hair from her face. Her lashes flutter, and she mumbles something about peanut sauce and glitter again before sighing. Her cheek sinks deeper into my chest, as if she knows I’m watching and doesn’t mind.
God help me.
It seems like I’m not falling. Nope. This woman with her antics and nonsense has me already there.
And the worst part is that I’m the idiot who wrote the damn contract.
I’m even adding fucking addendums in my head already.
Addendum Four: Spoon only by request or in case of an emotional emergency.
Addendum Five: No sleeping over unless logistics require it.
Addendum Six: Avoid the middle of the night spirals at all costs.
Guess we’re shredding that part. I’m already spiraling and what the fuck am I supposed to do?
She stirs.
One of her hands drifts across my stomach, fingertips grazing the line of my abs like muscle memory. Just the faintest brush—but it lands like a sucker punch. I don’t move. Can’t. My body’s already buzzing from the heat of her pressed against me,the way her skin clings to mine, still warm from sleep and the sex we swore wouldn’t mean anything.
Her shampoo lingers in the air—lavender and whatever sweet note she claims isn’t vanilla but absolutely is. I inhale it anyway. Deep. Like it’s oxygen. Maybe if I breathe her in long enough, I’ll stop wanting more than what we said this was.
But then she says my name.
Not like a tease. Not like a punchline. Just?—
“Lucian,” she breathes, soft and sleep-wrecked, like I’m something she wants to hold onto, even in her dreams.
