Lucas:Not too bad, but not too
good either. I totally suck at it.
I add a bunch of crying emojis then hit send as I step into the elevator, sighing as the doors close. Just thinking about the lessons makes my shoulders tense. I’ve been at it for two weeks now, and it still scares me every time I grip the wheel. But then I think about the car Alex got me—it was in the trust fund he made for me. My dream car.
I know it’s probably not anyone else’s cup of tea, but it’s mine. I still think it’s too much for someone like me, a student still waiting to hear back from universities, but that’s Alex. Too thoughtful. Too generous. Too much sometimes.
I’ll start getting responses in a week or two. I try not to think about it, but the nerves sneak up when I’m not paying attention, especially with Blackwood. God, what if I don’t get in?
The elevator dings, pulling me out of my spiral, and the moment the doors slide open into the penthouse, everything else falls away.
I step inside, taking off my sneakers and sliding my feet into the indoor slide, the hush of the space immediately calming me. I had texted Alex earlier on my way back, and he said he’d be swimming. I left before he got home from his “work trip,”
Halfway through the living room, I stop in my tracks.
There, on the center table, sits a bouquet. Not just any bouquet but a stunning mix of white tulips and soft pink roses, fresh and perfectly arranged. Right next to it is a familiar box of chocolates.
My favorite.
I stare for a beat, chest tightening, then move closer with hesitant steps. The scent hits me before I even pick them up—soft, clean, gentle.
I reach for the bouquet and hold it carefully in my hands.
My throat constricts.
There’s a piece of paper tucked neatly inside it. I reach for it with careful fingers and unfold.
I’m sorry for making you sleep alone last night. I know this doesn’t make up for it… so how about I take you on a vacation instead?
A small laugh escapes me as I read it, quiet and breathy, despite the way my heart somersaults. My eyes drift back to the flowers, the soft white tulips and delicate blush-pink roses, theirscent calming, almost grounding. Then to the box of chocolate on the table.
I run a hand over my face, feeling overwhelmed in that quiet, aching way.
Men get flowers, too?
Apparently, they do, if they’re lucky enough to be loved by someone like him.
I take a picture of the bouquet, my heart still racing, then head toward the balcony. The warm evening air greets me as I step outside, soft and heavy with the scent of the city. I round the corner and come to a halt.
He’s there.
In the pool.
The soft glow of the underwater lights dances along his skin, highlighting the cut of his shoulders, the line of his throat, the way his muscles shift beneath the surface. His arms rest along the edge of the pool, one hand holding a glass of wine, maybe, or something stronger.
His eyes are fixed on the skyline. It’s that golden hour right before night falls, when the world glows in shades of honey and fire, and somehow, the light makes him look untouchable.
Like he was carved into this moment just for me.
And then, like he feels me there, he turns slowly, and his gaze finds me.
That look.
Fuck.
The one that pins me in place. The one that strips me bare without ever touching me. The one that says I belong to him before I ever said yes.
The one that made me fall.
