Page 119 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Because I don’t know how to say no without agreeing to everything that terrifies me, I don’t know how to tell him I’m falling without providing him a blueprint to break me. Without granting him access to the exact places I’ve spent years protecting.
His voice drops, quieter now. “Because I don’t.”
That pulls my gaze up.
Straight into his.
Honest. Unflinching. Open in a way I haven’t allowed anyone to be with me for longer than I care to admit.
“I’m scared,” I say, before I can lie. Before I can build another wall between us.
Lucian nods, like he already knew, as though he has been waiting for me to catch up. “Me too. You’re too fucking scary, Doctor Olivia Halston.”
My breath catches. It’s not just the words. It’s the way he says my name—half teasing, half reverent—like I’m his favorite problem to solve and his worst idea rolled into one.
Then he steps closer. Not too close. Just enough.
He brushes his knuckles along my jaw—light, almost tentative. Not claiming. Not coaxing. Just . . . there. Just offering.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “I just needed you to know that I’d stay if you asked me to.”
And that’s what unravels me.
Not because I don’t want him to stay.
But because I do.
Because I’ve built my entire adult life around not needing anyone. Around being self-sufficient. Remaining unshakable . . . I’m fine on my own.
And here he is. Standing in the kitchen. Shirtless. Calm. Holding a mug and a promise like it’s not the most dangerous thing he’s ever done.
“I should get dressed,” I croak, the words tripping over the knot in my throat.
Lucian backs off instantly. No hesitation. No pressure.
Respectful in a way that hurts a little more than it should.
“I gotta get ready for camp anyway.” His voice is even and unreadable. He disappears down the hallway, with Sarah trotting after him like a judgmental chaperone, her paws clicking like punctuation marks in the silence he leaves behind.
And all I feel is the cold where he used to be.
I shuffle toward the guest bathroom.
Not because I want to.
Because I need space.
Because I need to get it together before I spiral completely.
I take my time rinsing off the sleep— rinsing the thoughts of his mouth, his hands, the way he said my name like it belonged to him. I brush my teeth with the spare toothbrush he gave me when I stayed “just for convenience” and stare at the same mirror that’s now fogged around the edges as if even it doesn’t want me to see too clearly.
Do I look different now?
Like a woman who’s starting to fall in love with the one man she promised to keep at arm’s length?
I towel off, find one of the clean T-shirts he left folded on the counter (of course he did), and shimmy into a pair of leggings I’d stuffed in a drawer. The flutter’s back. Low and traitorous. The kind that makes your chest feel like it’s bracing for impact. Or perhaps something softer. Something like hope.
When I return to the kitchen, Lucian’s dressed in a soft gray T-shirt and joggers, barefoot and disheveled in a way that should be illegal at eight a.m.
