Then what is it about?He scribbles, glaring at me now, tension coiled in his shoulders. I open my mouth to reply, but he’s already scribbling again:
You think I’m a charity case or something?
That makes me pause. Not because I think it’s true, but because he believes it is, my instincts are telling me I probably messed this up by asking him how much it will cost…Maybe I shouldn’t have asked that? Lucas watches me, waiting for my answer.
I set the mug down, resting my hands on the counter, meeting his eyes head-on. “No.” My voice is calm, even. “I don’t.”
He searches my face, trying to find the lie. Then, abruptly, he stands. The scrape of the chair against the floor is sharp in the quiet space between us.
I need to go home. I have to get ready for work.
I study him, taking in the stiffness in his stance, the way his fingers tighten around the pen like it’s the only thing keeping him steady. Then I nod, slow and deliberate.
“There’s a laundry room opposite the room you slept in. Your clothes and shoes are there.”
He doesn’t move right away. He hesitates, shifting his weight like he’s contemplating something.
I tilt my head, waiting.
“Go get your stuff, Lucas,” I say evenly. “I’ll drive you home.”
His grip tightens around the notebook like it’s a shield. Then, after a flicker of hesitation, he scribbles fast, pressing the pen harder than necessary:
I can take myself home.
I exhale slowly. That stubborn streak of his—it’s sharp, unexpected, and already testing the edge of my patience.
Pushing off the counter, I cross the space between us in three measured steps. Deliberate. Unhurried. I watch the way his spine goes rigid as I near him, the tiny hitch in his breath that he probably doesn’t realize I catch. He doesn’t retreat, though. That, more than anything, tells me something about him.
I stop close. Closer than necessary. Close enough to see the faint scatter of freckles across his pale skin, the slight flush blooming beneath them, the tremor in his throat when he swallows. His eyes tilt up to me, guarded but unsteady, and I nearly smirk at how small he looks—five-eight at most. At six-four, I tower over him, and yet… something about the way he stands his ground twists a spark low in my chest.
I lean down, just enough for my voice to drop lower, softer, though it cuts with finality.
“Lucas,” I say, drawing his name out slowly, watching his lashes flutter as he follows the movement of my mouth. “I will take you home.”
His lips part a fraction, like he wants to say something but can’t. His gaze lingers too long on my mouth, then drags back to my eyes. The small, shaky breath he takes feels louder than the quiet around us.
My chest tightens in response, heat flickering unbidden under my skin. It’s Dangerous. His reactions coil something inside me I shouldn’t let unwind, but I hold his stare until he finally dips his chin, a trembling nod breaking his resistance.
“Good.” The word leaves me low, edged, heavier than it should be. I don’t move right away. I let it hang between us, let him feel the weight of my gaze a moment longer, long enough for him to know he’s been seen.
Then I straighten, turning away before I let myself sink further into whatever this is. My steps are steady as I headupstairs, but every nerve in my back is alive with the burn of his stare following me, searing into me, refusing to let me go.
* * *
The drive is silent. And I can feel his eyes on me. The quiet weight of his gaze, the way it lingers and shifts, like he’s trying to figure me out without being obvious about it, but he’s not very good at hiding it.
The first time I catch him, he looks away quickly, pretending to focus on the city outside the window. But I know better. It happens again a few minutes later, and again after that.
It almost makes me smirk. Almost.
I say nothing about it. Instead, I focus on the road, fingers tapping absently against the wheel. He’s not wearing his hearing aids. I think he lost the left one yesterday, and the right is either damaged or low. Which means the silence in this car must be suffocating for him. But he doesn’t write anything. Don’t try to break it.
I don’t either.
When we finally reached his apartment building, the morning light had started to creep in, slipping through the windshield, the pavement still wet from the night’s rain.
I park, then let the engine hum for a moment. Lucas doesn’t move right away. Instead, he reaches for the notebook and pen I left on the headboard, flips to a blank page, and starts writing. The scratch of his pen is quick and decisive. Then, after a beat, he turns the notebook toward me.
