Page 88 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Adorable. Not a word I ever thought Lucian fucking Crawford would throw in my direction, let alone while I’m covered in plastic and dog drool. And yet, here we are. Do I want to keep it? Maybe frame it in cursive? Yes. Yes, I do.
He leans closer to the screen. “How’s it going over there? Really.”
I let out a breath. “It’s . . . a lot,” I admit. “The movers mislabeled everything, so now my bras are in the pantry, my dishes are in the guest room, and Sarah keeps climbing into your hamper like it’s a portal to Narnia. Also, all my coffee mugs have vanished. Like, vanished. I’m drinking out of one of your fancy ones.”
His smile shifts—loses its smirk, softens into something quieter. “You okay?”
“I will be,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m one bad IKEA screw away from unraveling.
He doesn’t push. Just waits.
“I didn’t expect it to feel like this,” I add after a moment. “Being here, moving- it’s as if I’m borrowing a life that doesn’t quite fit. It feels like I’m playing house, but the furniture still remembers someone else.”
Lucian’s eyes stay on mine through the screen. He doesn’t joke this time. Doesn’t smirk.
“You’ll make it yours,” he says simply. “You already are.”
“I found three of your socks under Sarah’s bed.”
“See?” He grins. “This arrangement is already working. You’re recovering my lost treasures.”
I laugh. Lightly. And then, because my filter’s been broken, I blurt, “Do you ever think about what it’ll be like when you’re back?”
His posture shifts. Not tense, just . . . more alert. More tuned in.
“You’re going to come home to a vet who thinks your throw pillows are overcompensating and your pantry needs color-coded bins.” I attempt to sound breezy, while trying to ignore the crackle of nerves in my own voice.
Lucian’s voice drops. “Yeah. I think about that.”
My throat tightens. “Like what, exactly?”
He rubs the back of his neck—classic Lucian move when he’s about to say something that feels like I’ve swallowed a solar flare.
“You’ll be in the kitchen wearing something ridiculous. Not bubble wrap this time—my hoodie. The one you keep stealing. Sarah will be passed out in the laundry basket, and we’ll argue over dinner until we give up and eat popcorn in bed.”
I stare at him.
“Popcorn?” I manage, voice not cooperating.
He shrugs, expression gentler now. “It’s a gateway snack. Leads to movies. Cuddling. Confessions.”
My heart . . . does something. Not a leap, not a flutter. Something deeper. Something that suddenly makes it hard to breathe.
I glance down at Sarah, who is, of course, curled at my feet like she hasn’t been emotionally terrorizing me all morning.
“What kind of confessions?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Lucian grins. “Like, maybe I prefer the left side of the bed. Or the way your nose scrunches when you’re trying to organize drives me fucking wild—in a good way.”
“That’s not a confession,” I say softly. “That’s flirting.”
His grin turns slow and sure. “Yeah. It is.”
We stare at each other for a moment too long. I don’t breathe. He doesn’t, either.
It seems that everything we’ve been pretending to laugh off just crystallized between us. One big, inconvenient truth that neither of us knows how to handle.
Eventually, I clear my throat. “Sarah says she expects a welcome-home party when you’re back.”
