I wanted this. Iaskedfor it. But I didn’t know it would feel like this, like the moment I let him in, something inside me stopped holding its breath.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Nash
The house is quiet. Still. The kind of still that usually feels like loneliness—hollow and echoing.
But not tonight.
Tonight, there’s Lucy.
A soft, golden mess of tangled limbs and peaceful breaths, curled against me like she belongs here. Sheets twisted around her legs. Hair spilled across my pillow. One hand resting against my chest like she’s anchoring herself to something steady, like she trusts me to be the quiet she can finally rest in.
I’m languid. Sated, but not just in body. It’s deeper than that, like something bruised and restless inside me has finally been wrapped in warmth and told it’s safe. So, I stay still, heartbeat steady beneath her fingers, memorizing the weight of this moment, afraid that evena sigh might send it scattering. Her fingers trace lazy patterns on my chest, and I find myself holding my breath. Not from fear of ruining the moment, but from the simple wonder of it.
Lucy stirs slightly, twisting to meet my gaze. “You’re staring.”
“Can’t help it,” I say, tracing her shoulder with my thumb. “Couldn’t stop if I tried.”
She bites her lip, smiling softly. “Good.” Her voice drops to barely a whisper. “Because I think I’d fall apart if you looked away.”
Something in my chest aches at that—not breaking… blooming. Thawing. Like the parts of me I let freeze over are coming back online.
I smile and run a hand down her back, drawing her close. She lets out a soft sigh and stretches against me, skin brushing skin, that tiny sound in her throat doing things to me I don’t even want to name.
We lie like that for a while, wrapped in comfortable silence, her breath warm against my neck. The world has narrowed to just this, the space between her breath and mine.
“What time is it?”
“Late,” I say. “Or early. Depends how you want to look at it.”
Lucy props herself up on one elbow and studies me. Her eyes are soft. Unarmored. “You okay?”
For a second, I consider brushing her question off, turning it into a joke andreconstructing the wall of sarcasm and humor around my heart. But the instinct feels hollow now.
I’m tired of pretending. Especially with her.
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “I’m okay. Actually… I think I’m better than okay. I feel?—”
Alive. Like something inside me has been restarted after years of coasting in neutral.
I don’t say it out loud. Not yet. But the feeling pulses through me anyway, quiet and undeniable.
“Good,” I finish instead. “I feel very good. And hungry. Want something?”
She grins. “Only if it involves chocolate.” Then, more softly, “And you.”
Ten minutes later, we’re in the kitchen. Me in a pair of joggers. Her in one of my t-shirts that hangs just long enough to be infuriating. She raids the fridge, finds a container of strawberries and pulls out a chocolate bar from the cabinet.
The strawberries are cool and sweet against my tongue, but not as sweet as watching her savor the chocolate, the way she closes her eyes and hums in appreciation. Even this simple act feels intimate now—sharing food, sharing space, sharing the comfortable silence that comes after sharing a bed.
“Want to eat outside?” she asks, walking carefully toward the back door, cautious of her unsupported ankle.
“Very much so,” I reply, bending to scoop her into my arms as she squeals.
“Nash! What are you doing?”
“Exactly what you do when you’ve found somethingprecious. Taking care of you.” I jerk my head toward her feet. “No boot.”
