My phone buzzed with a text from Zoe:
Survival check. Has Mr. Control Freak had an aneurysm over your coffee mug collection yet?
I smiled, typing back:
So far he's being suspiciously accommodating. Will report if head explodes.
"Zoe?" Lucas asked, recognizing my expression.
"Checking to see if you've had me killed yet for violating the penthouse aesthetic."
He took my phone gently, typing a response himself before handing it back:
This is Lucas. Savannah is alive and well. The mugs are hideous but apparently make her happy. I'm adapting.
I laughed, both at the message and at how casually he'd inserted himself into my friendship—something the old Lucas would never have done.
"She'll combust when she sees that," I said, sending the message.
"Good. Your friends should know I'm not the monster they likely imagine." He headed toward the kitchen.
"I've made dinner reservations at Luciana's to celebrate our first official night of cohabitation."
I followed him, sliding onto one of the bar stools at the kitchen island.
"Actually, I was hoping we could stay in. Maybe order takeout?"
He paused, turning to look at me with mild surprise. "Takeout."
"Yes, that marvelous invention where food appears at your door without requiring a reservation or dress code." I tilted my head, studying him. "Have you ever actually ordered delivery food, Lucas?"
"Of course I have."
"When you were in college doesn't count."
His expression confirmed my suspicion. "I have a chef who prepares meals that are delivered weekly."
"That's not takeout. That's private catering." I pulled out my phone. "Tonight, we're ordering junk food. In containers. That we'll eat on the couch. Maybe even straight from the cartons."
The flash of horror that crossed his features was comical. "Is that... necessary?"
"Absolutely essential to cohabitation," I said firmly. "Consider it a rite of passage."
Two hours later, we sat on his pristine white sofa, surrounded by containers of Thai food, watching a movie on theenormous screen that had risen from a cabinet at the touch of a button.
Lucas had changed into what passed for loungewear in his world—designer sweatpants and a very expensive-looking cashmere sweater.
I, by contrast, had raided his closet and emerged in one of his dress shirts and nothing else, the hem hitting mid-thigh. The look he'd given me when I appeared had been worth the momentary self-consciousness, heat, and possession, and something softer underlying both.
"This is how normal people live, you know," I said, gesturing with my chopsticks at our casual dinner setup. "Not every meal requires proper silver and three courses."
"I'm beginning to see the appeal," he admitted, though he was still eating his pad thai with a fork and had insisted on actual plates. Baby steps.
I pointed my chopsticks at him accusingly. "You secretly like this. The great Lucas Turner, relaxing like a commoner."
A smile played at his lips. "I like seeing you comfortable. At home."
The simple statement warmed me from the inside out. This—his willingness to adapt, to let me bring disorder into his controlled, orderly world—meant more than any grand gesture. It was small, daily proof that what we were building mattered more than his ingrained need for control.
