And fuck, I want to explain it. I want to tell him I’m doing it for him, for us.
“You need to eat, Lucas,” I say, my voice coming out lower, rougher than I intended, tight with the pressure building in my chest and between my legs. I adjust my position on the bed, trying to rein myself in before I pull him back into me and lose every ounce of restraint I’ve managed to hold onto.
“But—” he starts to protest, his voice soft.
“No buts,” I cut in, firmer now. I meet his eyes and make sure he sees how serious I am. “You need to eat. Then we get ready and go to the mansion.”
For a second, something flashes in his expression—something sharp and quick, like hurt. It cuts into me before I can brace myself. He tries to hide it, but I see it. And it guts me. I watch him clamp his mouth shut, nod once, then slowly pull off of me, his warmth disappearing with the distance.
And fuck, I want to pull him back. I want to bury myself in him and forget the world, let our bodies say everything our mouths can’t. But I can’t, not like this. Not right now.
I rise from the bed, trying not to look at the way he tugs down the hem of his shirt, not to acknowledge the sulking shadow cast across his face, even though he’s trying so hard to hide it. It’s in the silence. The way his fingers twist together like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands now that they’re not on me.
We haven’t fucked since the incident with Oliver two nights ago.
I brought him home that Thursday night, and he crashed, slept throughout the night and half of yesterday. And when he finally woke up, we talked—or tried to. He apologized. God, he apologized so much. Over and over, like he owed me something. Like it was his fault, his world has been nothing but survival for years.
But it wasn’t the apology that stuck with me. It was what he didn’t say.
He didn’t tell me he was going to his mother’s place.
He didn’t tell me he’d been funneling nearly every cent he earned to pay off her debt. That he’d been suffering in silence, digging himself deeper into hell to protect a woman who I know only ever handed him pain.
And he still wouldn’t tell me why. What she said to him before that bastard Oliver showed up. What broke him enough that he had to even cancel on his best friend, Tyler, and run to her instead.
And I’m a little bit angry, because he still doesn’t trust me enough to let me carry his weight. I’ve given him space. I’ve let him heal at his own pace. But every time I think he might start letting me in, he shuts the door quietly and locks it again.
I’m trying. I’m trying not to take it personally. But I won’t lie—it fucking hurts.
He thinks I’m holding back because I’m upset. And maybe part of me is. But mostly, it’s because I see the way he’s unraveling behind those tired eyes since yesterday. The way he’s trying to use sex as a wall, as a distraction. I know the difference between need and numbness, and I’ll be damned if I let him fuck away the pain just to avoid feeling it.
I won’t let him use his body to hide from the truth. Not with me. Never with me.
So I keep my hands to myself even though my entire body aches for him.
Even though the only thing I want in this moment is to kiss that frustrated look off his face, pull him into my lap again, and make him forget everything else, just for a while.
But I won’t. Not until he’s ready. Not until I see that same look I have been seeing on his face before this Oliver incident, that needy look of his that had pinned me in the bathroom and had made me take him and be inside him for the first time, thatneedy look that has kept me trapped all these weeks. I need them back in his eyes.
***
The drive to my parents’ estate is quiet.
Too quiet.
I’ve always liked silence—preferred it, really. It’s where I thrive. Noise always felt like chaos, and I’ve had more than enough of that in my life. People, small talk, unnecessary chatter… It’s never been my thing. Silence was peace.
But not this one.
This silence isn’t peaceful. It itches under my skin, prickling like a warning. This silence feels like punishment.
I glance sideways at Lucas. He’s curled against the passenger seat, head tilted toward the window, watching the world blur past with that same unreadable look he’s worn since we left the penthouse. I know he has music playing through his hearing aid; he always does when he wants to concentrate on something or drown out people.
Right now, that includes me.
He hasn’t said a word since lunch. Not even when I offered to help him get ready, and he showered alone, which sounds small and insignificant, but it isn’t. Not with him. Not with us. We haven’t showered separately in weeks, not since the first time he had joined me in the shower that night. We always do it together. Always.
But today he locked the door.
