Page 93 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
“I’m still not hugging you,” she mutters, her arms crossing in a way that only draws attention to how there is absolutely nothing supportive under that shirt.
My eyes linger. Just a second too long. Just long enough for her to notice.
“Lucian.”
“Yeah?” My voice dips—not on purpose. It just happens. Like gravity’s involved now and I’m suddenly not in control of anything.
“Your dog missed you.” She won’t meet my eyes. Instead, she picks a piece of lint off Sarah’s collar like that’s more important than what she just said. “Focus on her, not me.”
“She’s not the only one,” I say, because at this point, hiding it feels like bullshit. “At least she admits it.”
Her breath catches.
That’s all the warning I get.
The air between us shifts—tilts, warps, narrows into something tighter. Something inevitable.
I rise from where I’d been kneeling, hugging Sarah, and glance across the room. Olivia is a good three, maybe four feetaway. Close enough to touch but far enough that I have to work for it. Her arms are still crossed, as if she doesn’t trust herself not to reach for me.
Her fingers tighten around the cereal box like it’s the last thing tethering her to the earth.
And then—slowly, carefully—she sets it down on the coffee table.
She looks up.
“Olivia.”
“Yes?”
“If you don’t hug me in the next five seconds, I’m gonna do something wildly irresponsible.”
Her brow lifts. “Like what?”
“Like kiss you so hard you forget what happened the last five years of your life.”
She doesn’t back away.
She doesn’t move at all.
She just stares at me—unflinching, breath held, a challenge brewing in her eyes as if I dared her to break me.
“I’m counting,” I say, taking a step. “Five?—”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she whispers.
And, fuck. Of course she would challenge me.
So I do.
I close the distance between us in two quick strides and reach for her as if I’ve been starving for this—for her—for something real—since the second she moved in.
Because I have.
One hand finds her waist. The other slides up her back, under the edge of that too-soft cotton shirt that smells like vanilla, her shampoo, and maybe a little like my detergent. My fingers curve against her spine like they’ve been waiting for this permission. Her body molds to mine instantly, like she’s been waiting, too.
She tilts her chin up, lips parted, eyes wide—vulnerable and fierce all at once.
“Stop me,” I warn her as I slowly lean, waiting for her to say something but all she does is part her lips lightly and close her eyes.
