Page 160 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns

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My heart stumbles, like it’s trying to trip over its own denial. “Yes.”

“Then maybe you’re in love,” she says, like it’s not a complete unraveling. Like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world. “And maybe that’s okay.”

I blink fast. “It doesn’t feel okay.”

“No,” she agrees. “It feels like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff and someone’s asking you to jump.”

I nod, tears pricking hot in my eyes. “Exactly.”

“But what if he’s at the bottom?” she whispers. “Waiting to catch you? What if he’s actually gliding, falling and waiting to hold your hand so you can do it together?”

And fuck.

That’s it.

That’s the thing.

Lucian, with his cocky smirk and unholy mouth and his ability to ruin my day simply by being too handsome near coffee—he’s been waiting. Not pushing. Not asking for anything I’m not ready to give. Just there.

Loyal. Kind. Slightly unhinged.

And maybe he’s also mine.

Mine.

“I have to go,” I say, suddenly breathless.

Aspen laughs like she’s been expecting this. “Go get your man, Olivia.”

I hang up with shaking hands.

Then I run.

Upstairs, down the hall, past Sarah—who gives me a lingering look that could be either judgment or encouragement, but remains unclear.

I don’t knock.

I don’t pause.

I open his door.

And there he is.

Still sitting on the edge of the bed, like maybe he hasn’t moved since I left. Like maybe he’s been waiting, too scared to hope, too stubborn to leave.

His head lifts, eyes finding mine.

I walk in.

Close the door behind me.

And say, “If I try—if I really, really try—not to mess this up . . . will you catch me?”

Lucian stands.

One step.

Then another.

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