Page 123 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Olivia: Oh, I see. The sexting stops conveniently when the schedule clears—typical man.
Lucian: Never said the benefits were over. Just . . . deferred. Think of what’s coming later as the full package. New incentives. Very hands-on. Possibly mouth-on.
Olivia: Hmm. Are you offering a reward system now?
Lucian: What I mean is, if you feed me tonight, I’ll repay you in creative ways. Starting with your legs over my shoulders and ending with you struggling to form sentences for a good hour.
Olivia: You’re lucky I already pulled the salmon out to thaw.
Lucian: You’re lucky I already made plans to see you out of that dress you’ll inevitably cook in. Slowly, button by button, right before dessert.
Olivia: I don’t even own a dress.
Lucian: Then wear nothing. Saves time.
Olivia: You’re absolutely insufferable.
Lucian: And yet you’re making me dinner. It’s domestic. It’s romantic. It’s dangerous.
Olivia: You do realize we should probably have a genuine conversation before anything. . . happens tonight.
Lucian: Happening in the “I scream your name so loud that Sarah files a noise complaint” way, or in the “what’s your birth control situation” way?
Olivia: The latter. You’ve had your fun, General Crawford. Now it’s time for responsible adulting.
Lucian: Fine, fine. I’ll be good. I’ll see your panel—show you mine. (winks). We’ll talk contraception. I’ll be very serious—clinical and respectful.
Olivia: You’re incapable of being clinical.
Lucian: That’s not true. I can be very . . . thorough. And if a discussion about contraception leads to a demonstration of what happens when we don’t use it? Well, that’s just educational.
Olivia: You are not turning my reproductive health into foreplay.
Lucian: No promises. Now hurry up and start dinner, Doc. I’m almost home. And I’m starving—for everything. :smirking face: emoji
Chapter Thirty-Five
Lucian
Sometimes, You Have to Use the Right Utensils
Olivia’s not just living rent-free in my house.
She’s living in my head. Taking up full-time residency in every corner I vowed was off-limits. And that? That’s a fucking problem.
Because this isn’t just feelings anymore. Not the casual kind you can dismiss as lust or boredom. It’s need. It’s want. It’s desire curling into something warmer, deeper.
It’s love, maybe. Lust, certainly. Admiration. Longing. Madness. The kind that drives you to do reckless shit like memorizing the sound she makes when laughing at her own jokes or craving the way she touches my arm when she’s half-asleep and forgets we're supposed to keep this casual.
I want her near me—because of how she perceives the world, due to the ridiculous things she says when she’s tired, and because of the quiet moments when neither of us talks, and it still conveys everything.
Because she’s the only person who’s ever made silence feel like it’s got a heartbeat.
And perhaps it’s an illusion. Perhaps I’ve inflated this idea in my mind so much that it will shatter the moment I speak it aloud.
Because if it is real . . . I wouldn’t know how to handle it.
Of course, by the time I pull into my driveway, I have a half-chub and a full plan. Which, yeah, seems on-brand for a man in denial.
