And I know it wasn’t an accident.
He’s sulking.
And I don’t blame him.
I stopped us, and maybe to him it felt like rejection. But I had to. Because I refuse to let him bury his hurt under pleasure. I want him raw, honest, whole. Not hiding behind kisses and trembling sighs.
Still… it doesn’t make the silence any easier.
A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I think about his petty revenge—showering alone, brushing past me like I didn’t exist, the little glare he sends my way when I talk to him. He’s soft, but he knows how to sting when he wants to.
The gates of the estate open, and I press the horn lightly in greeting. The guards outside salute as I drive through.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lucas straighten, just a little; his face is unreadable. I wonder if he’ll speak to me at all tonight.
Then, without thinking, I slow the car and pull over to the side of the long driveway—still a little distance from the main entrance. I kill the engine.
If he notices I parked further away from the house than usual, he doesn’t ask why; instead, he unbuckles his seatbelt without a word.
We can’t walk into that mansion with this tension hanging between us. Not with my father and grandfather waiting at the dinner table.
We needed to talk.
Even if all he gave me was silence… I’d take it. I’d sit in it with him, wait it out, pull the words from his guarded heart if I had to.
But before I can even open my mouth, he beats me to it.
“Are you tired of me?” he asks, voice low, barely above a whisper.
He’s not looking at me. His gaze is fixed on his hands, rubbing slowly at his palms like he’s trying to soothe himself. A nervous habit. One I’ve come to recognize when he’s spiraling.
I straighten, heart sinking.
“I will never get tired of you,” I say immediately, my voice firm, unshakably certain, so he knows I mean it. “Why would you even think that?”
His head lifts slowly, and for the first time in hours, his eyes find mine. They’re glassy, guarded, brimming with something I hate seeing on his face—uncertainty. Doubt. Like he’s scared I’ll vanish like he’s expecting me to.
“Then are you still mad at me?” he asks, and there’s a flicker of something fragile in his voice, a sad, hesitant hope that breaks something in my chest. “I’ve apologized, Alex… I have, since yesterday.”
“I know,” I say softly. “I was mad, yes, but I’m not anymore.”
He studies me, really studies me, like he’s trying to read between the lines of my face. And I let him. I let him see it all: the truth, the want, the care. I let him see that I’m not mad anymore… that I was never truly mad at him. Not in the way he thinks.
His brows pinch, his mouth tightens.
“Then why?” he asks, and there’s a tremble in the way he says it, like he’s holding something in and it’s starting to crack.
“Why what?” I ask, even though I know exactly what he means.
I want him to say it. I want him to name it. To let it out.
And he does.
I see his eyes narrow, frustration bleeding through. From the soft glow of the car’s dashboard, I can see the blush rising on his neck—embarrassed, angry, confused.
Then he lets out a low, frustrated sound.
“Why do you keep stopping?” he demands, voice tight with emotion. “Since you brought me back home after that shit with Oliver… you haven’t touched me. It’s been two days.”
