I should be surprised you know where I live, but I’m not.
I read it. Let the words sit between us. Then, I look at him. He watches me expectantly, like he’s waiting for an explanation. Like he thinks I’ll give him one. I don’t.
He exhales, shakes his head, and starts writing again.
How did you know I was at the bus stop last night?
This time, I take my time. Rest an elbow on the console, let my fingers tap idly against my knee. Then, I glance at him and say, “Would you believe me if I said it was a coincidence?”
Lucas stares at me. His lips part slightly, then press together.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he shakes his head. A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, and I don’t confirm or deny it.
He doesn’t look away
I don’t either
There’s an undeniable tension between us. The way he’s staring at me now—something hesitant, uncertain, but searching. His mouth part slightly, like he wants to ask or say something but isn’t sure if he should. I watch him lick his lips; they’re plump, pink, and so beautifully shaped, it takes all the strength to drag my gaze back to his.
Then, he does something unexpected.
He speaks so softly and quietly, I almost miss it
“…Thank you.”
His voice is quiet. Rough. It scrapes against the silence in a way that gets to me. This is the second time I have heard him speak, and it catches me off guard again.
I don’t move.
“For yesterday….The breakfast…And… bringing me home.” He says the sentence so slowly, like he’s forcing it out from somewhere deep inside him, almost like he finds talking too difficult.
I should say something.
But I don’t.
I watch him instead.
Because something about him unsettles me in a good way, his voice gets under my skin like a soft, lingering sensation. I want to hear more of him. fuck, I want him to speak to me again.
Then, for the first time since I met him, he smiles.
It’s small. Barely there. But it still does something to me. Before I can figure out what to do about it, he’s already reaching for the door, slipping out of the car. I watch him walk toward his building, the sunlight catching in his damp curls, his frame slim and delicate, but nothing about him is weak.
Then, when he disappears inside, I drag a hand down my face, lean my head back against the seat, and close my eyes. No one has left me this speechless in my entire life.
I’m so fucked.
NINE
LUCAS
I wake up with a stretch, arms reaching above my head, muscles pulling tight as if even sleep hasn’t been enough to unknot the ache in my body. Exhaustion clings to me, but it’s not the worst weight pressing on my chest.
It’s him.
Alexander Petrov.
God, I must be losing my mind. There’s no reason he should be the first thought clawing its way into my head the second I open my eyes. And yet… here he is, lodged under my skin like a splinter.
