"A week," I said, the timeframe emerging with surprising clarity.
"One week where we don't see each other. Don't sleep together. Don't get lost in this intensity that makes clear thinking impossible."
"And after this week?" The question was careful, measured, revealing nothing of what he hoped the answer might be.
"After this week, I come back to you," I said simply.
"Not as someone running from her past or repeating destructive patterns. But as a woman making a conscious choice, with full awareness of the risks and complications."
Relief flickered briefly in his eyes before he masked it. "And if during this week, you decide those risks are too great?"
"Then I tell you that directly," I promised. "No lies. No evasions. No elaborate fictions to spare feelings or avoid difficult conversations."
He nodded slowly, reluctantly releasing me. The loss of his touch felt like a physical ache spreading beneath my skin, but I held my ground.
This wasn't about what my body wanted—it had made that abundantly clear last night.
This was about what my mind needed. What my heart needed. The clarity that could only come from temporary distance.
"One week," he agreed finally. "Though I warn you, little fox, it will seem an eternity."
The endearment made something flutter in my chest—hope or fear, I couldn't distinguish between them anymore. "For me too," I admitted. "But necessary."
I moved away then, gathering my things, dressing with deliberate care. Each action a small assertion of independence, of autonomy, of the woman I'd worked so hard to become after extracting myself from relationships that diminished rather than enhanced me.
At the door, I turned back to find him watching me, his expression a complex blend of reluctance and respect. Of desire and restraint. Of a man fighting his own instincts to give someone else what they needed rather than what he wanted.
"One week," I repeated softly. "And then a choice. A real one, made with open eyes."
He didn't try to touch me, didn't try to sway me with the connection that hummed between us even now. Just nodded once, accepting the boundary I'd established with the grace of a man who recognized its necessity, even as everything in him rebelled against it.
As the elevator doors closed between us, I felt something shift inside me—not the familiar spiral of self-destruction, but the steady foundation of self-respect. Of a woman choosing her path deliberately rather than being swept along by desire or fear or old, familiar patterns.
For the first time since meeting Lucas Turner, I felt like myself again.
Not diminished, not overwhelmed, not lost in his gravitational pull. But centered. Clear-eyed.
Determined to approach whatever lay between us not as a victim of my own history, but as the architect of my future.
One week to find clarity. One week to be certain. One week to make the most significant choice of my life with full awareness of its implications.
And then, if I still wanted this—wanted him—I would return. Not as a woman caught in a pattern, but as one breaking free of it.
Choosing connection not despite the risks but because they were worth taking.
For the first time in my adult life, I would walk toward something with my eyes wide open. Toward a man who might destroy me or complete me.
Toward Lucas Turner, and whatever future we might build together.
Chapter 15
Lucas
The night Savannah walked out, promising to return in a week, had shaken that foundation in ways I still couldn't fully comprehend.
Seven days.
I'd counted every hour, every minute, with a precision that bordered on obsession.
