Page 118 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
This is so not casual. He’s not casual. This is not casual.
I pour water into a glass, trying not to overanalyze the fact that this? This feels like routine.
Like morning-after. Like something.
“I should head back soon,” I say, mainly to the countertop.
Lucian blinks. “Back? You mean to your condemned house?”
“It’s under renovation,” I huff. “Not condemned. That implies it needs an exorcism.”
He smirks. “Considering the last time I was there, your oven tried to kill you, and your sink made a noise I’m pretty sure summoned a demon? Potato, potahto.”
I open my mouth. Close it. He has a point. I don’t mean about the oven, he’s making that shit up, but it was in pretty bad form. They said I have to stay away all week, and yet it feels as if I have to remain here for a lifetime. Why?
“I just don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
He tilts his head. “Liv, you’re not a guest. You live here right now, not just because Sarah picked you.”
“I know. I just . . .”
Just what?
“No,” I say. Then, quieter, “Just seemed like the right thing to say.”
Lucian leans against the fridge, mug cradled in one hand, watching me like he’s cataloguing the exact moment I start to retreat.
“I’m not expecting anything,” he says.
“You sure about that?” I ask. “Because last night you kissed my forehead while you were helping me get dressed.”
His lips twitch. “You were being cute.”
“I . . .” I don’t know what to say.
There’s a long pause. Too long.
I exhale, fingers tightening around the mug. “Lucian, we had a deal.”
“I know.”
“No sleepovers. No spiraling. No kissing unless it’s?—”
“Sexual and mutually agreed upon as part of the benefits package,” he recites, with this grin that both infuriates and wrecks me. “Yeah. I remember.”
“Then what are we doing?”
He hesitates. “I don’t know.”
I hate how much that resonates. How honest it is. How it causes something to flutter behind my ribs even as my mind yells at me to create distance between us.
“It’s just a contract,” I say. “We can end it anytime.”
Lucian steps closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough to make my lungs forget how to function.
“Do you want to end it?”
I don’t answer.
