But nothing comes.
Instead, there’s… space.
I frown, water streaming down my face, steam curling in my hair. Did saying it out loud really do that? Last night, I poured it all into Lucky’s hands—the professor, the manipulation, the years of carrying it alone. And he didn’t recoil. He didn’t look at me like I was broken or pathetic. He looked at me like I was still whole. Like I was more.
And now? I feel lighter. Like I finally set down a coffin I’ve been dragging through every year, every attempted relationship, every silence since I was eighteen.
It’s not gone—not entirely. Healing isn’t that clean. But for the first time, I can breathe without that weight crushing me. And that feels like a miracle.
I close my eyes, water streaming over my skin, and let myself imagine it—life where Porter’s touch doesn’t haunt every memory. Where the shame doesn’t anchor me to the past. Where I get to want things without choking on guilt.
It feels dangerous. It feels impossible.
But this also feels like the first step I’ve ever taken toward freedom.
When I finally shut off the water and towel myself dry, I catch my reflection in the fogged mirror. My hair is wild and dripping, my cheeks flushed, my eyes blazing like someone lit a match inside me.
For the first time in years, I don’t look haunted.
I look alive.
When I step out of the bathroom, steam rolling after me, I’m dressed in last night’s black jeans and nothing else but my bra, because as I went to pull my shirt back on, I realized there was asmear of blood along the hem of it. Dammit. I’m usually cleaner than that. I fold it up, careful not to let any of it flake off and land anywhere in Lucky’s home. I leave it on the counter, committed to send it to the great blood-spattered beyond later.
Lucky is at the stove, spatula in hand. He turns at the sound of my bare feet and nearly chokes on his own tongue. His eyes catch on me—linger a beat too long—and then he drags them away, jaw flexing like he’s punishing himself for even looking.
I should tease him. Iwantto. But he doesn’t say a word about it. Instead, he gestures to the table where plates are already waiting. “Food’s up.”
I slip into a chair, swallowing once because words are not wording very well this morning. He sets down the plates and sits across from me.
We both pick at the food. The silence isn’t heavy—just… full. We both have a million thoughts running through our heads. It’s just a matter of who can organize them first.
Finally, Lucky exhales, and runs a hand down his face. “Last night might’ve been the best night of my life.”
I blink at him, caught off guard. “You mean dragging a corpse burrito into Lake Mead or the part where I nearly lost my shit talking about my fucked-up sex drive?”
His mouth twitches, but he shakes his head. “Neither. Both. All of it. Just—being honest with someone. Finally telling someone the dark details of my life. Fuck, my real name. And not being alone in this penthouse for once. It feels like I can breathe for the first time in years.”
The words hit me harder than I expect. Because I know what that’s like. To breathe differently after carrying something for too long. We seem to be experiencing the same symptoms this morning.
I chew my lip, staring at my untouched bacon. “How do you feel about what I told you? About… not being with anyone since him? About my hang-up?”
His eyes soften instantly, the sharp edges melting. He leans forward, elbows braced on the table. “Willow, I think you’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. You did something about that shit bag. You didn’t just roll over. You’re so fucking strong it’s intimidating. And I mean that as someone who’s literally seen men eat their own fingers because of a debt they couldn’t pay.”
Eww. But still, I snort, because of course he’d phrase it like that.
He continues, voice low, steady. “What you told me last night—it doesn’t make me want you less. It doesn’t scare me off. If anything, it makes me want to stay closer. And if all you ever want is what we’ve already done—holding each other, kissing, laughing at my morning wood—then that’s it. That’s enough. I’ll take it and count myself the luckiest bastard on the planet.”
The tears prick before I can stop them. My throat burns. I grab my fork just to have something to do with my hands. “You’re gonna make me cry into my eggs,” I say, my voice cracking just a little—dammit.
He smirks faintly. “Then I’ll know I cooked them right.”
The words unravel me. My laugh wobbles out, wet and real. “I think I want to keep you, Lucky.”
His grin is slow and feral, like I just handed him the world. “I was yours from your first thirsty comment, Willow.‘Girl dinner, tonight. Don’t mind me licking my phone.’”
I choke on a laugh. “Oh, shit, you remember that?”
“I remembereverything.” His voice is dark velvet now, but steady, certain. “And I want you too, Willow. Whatever that looks like. I’m here.”
