I push my wet hair back from my face, my eyes drifting to the shower shelf. His things sit exactly where he left them, lined up neat and untouched. His loofah. His soap. His body wash—the one he barely uses because he likes mine better. His shampoo. And other hair products he swears keep his curls perfect.
I turn the shower off with a muttered curse and step out, toweling off quickly. Traces of him are scattered on the bathroom counter too, small ordinary things that feel like they’ve been branded into my chest.
I move into the walk-in closet, but my eyes go straight to the other side—his side. His clothes hang there in perfect order, half of them unworn because they’re new. I reach for one of his hoodies, the one I love seeing on him. The fabric is soft under my fingers. I bring it to my face and inhale.
It hits me like a punch, longing and pain all at once, grinding my teeth together. His scent. That same scent that’s tangled up in my head, my sheets, my skin. The scent that made me lose control that night by the pool—the moment I kissed him for the first time. That kiss is carved into me, etched so deep it’spermanent. I knew, right then, I was done for him. Hooked. Gone. The one you don’t come back from, no matter how many times he tries to push me away.
I place the hoodie back, pull on a pair of pants and a shirt, and step into my bedroom. Another wave of emotion crashes over me; the emptiness and the silence feel wrong.
I’ve always liked the quiet here, loved it, even. This huge space—2 story and four bedrooms all to myself—was perfect. I never wanted anyone’s presence lingering too long. Not even Vera, whom I never let stay more than two days whenever she comes for sex. Alone was my preference.
Or at least, that’s what I thought.
Lucas proved me wrong.
Having him here was like oxygen after years of stale air. I didn’t want him to leave. I loved seeing him in my bed, my kitchen, wandering barefoot through every fucking corner of this place like he belonged here.
Now the penthouse feels useless without him. Hollow. Shallow.
And I feel the same.
My fingers find my wrist, pressing against the thin band of metal there. The ache in my chest loosens just a little under my touch. The bracelet, the one Maksim had handed to me with a quiet, almost hesitant look, saying Lucas had left it in his car.
I remember opening the box, my hands trembling before I’d even lifted the lid. The cool gleam of the bracelet, His handwriting in the note inside—telling me he appreciated everything I do for him, that he wants to do things for me too. That he loves me. Wholeheartedly. And that he hopes I’ll cherish the gift.
It hasn’t left my wrist since. I don’t think it ever will.
Heading down to the kitchen, I text Tyler and ask him about Lucas. Grateful—if you can call it that—that he finally atesomething after days of starving himself. It’s been five fucking days since I last saw him, touched him, heard the quiet rhythm of his breathing beside me.
Days of Tyler’s updates show that he continues to refuse food. Days of him buried in his blanket, shutting out the world. It’s taken every ounce of patience not to kick his door open and drag him into the light. Tyler tells me not to. Says if Lucas doesn’t want to see me, he has his reasons. Says I should give him time. Respect his wishes.
Time. Patience. Respect. Pretty words for something that’s slowly killing me.
Because my patience is almost gone, and if he doesn’t come out soon, I swear I’ll storm that apartment and bring him here whether he likes it or not. He can wallow here, cry here, drown in whatever storm he’s caught in, just as long as I’m with him. I’ll stand in the middle of it, take every hit, every tear. I don’t care if it’s toxic. Not seeing him is making me unravel thread by thread.
I can’t focus. I can’t eat. My work is piling up, and I don’t give a damn. I don’t have control of anything anymore. I feel lost. Empty. Like someone cut out the part of me that knows how to breathe.
Grabbing a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge, I down it in seconds, even though what I really want is tequila or something stronger that could burn a hole in me. The empty bottle clatters into the trash. My hand reaches for my car keys on the coffee table.
And then I hear it.
The soft chime of the elevator door sliding open.
My brows pull together. I’m not expecting anyone—and if I were, the doorman would let me know when whoever it is arrives. Lucas is the only one who doesn’t need permission, the only one who can come and go from here as he pleases, and the only one who knows the password to my apartment.
My heart stops.
I move toward the sound, each step pulling me tighter, like a wire winding around my ribs. And my breath lodges in my throat as Lucas steps out of the elevator and into my space.
Blonde curls spill over his forehead in soft, messy waves, catching the low light like threads of gold, and those tired brown eyes… God, I’ve been seeing them in my head every night, haunting me, burning holes into me. He looks thinner, paler, and exhausted, but I take him in greedily, like I’m dying of thirst and he’s the only drop of water in the world. His expression is unreadable, some strange mix of exhaustion, sadness, and something I can’t name, something that makes my stomach knot. But even like this—he’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. My chest aches so violently I almost mistake it for pain, but it’s longing and relief that he’s here, even though he looks lost and still standing far away from me.
He’s here, in my space.
The air between us is so thick it’s almost hard to move through it. My fingers twitch with the urge to reach for him, to pull him in, to bury my face in his neck and breathe him in until I can’t tell where I end and he begins. But I don’t move, not yet.
I can’t tell if he came here to stay or to leave me all over again, and that uncertainty is like a live wire in my chest, burning me from the inside out.
“Lucas…”
