“Show off.”
“You’re the one who’s going to be a doctor. I just have to keep writing essays about books I’ve already read ten times.”
He turns his head. We’re close enough that his nose brushes my temple. “You know you’re going to be a great writer, right? The way you write about those characters—like they’re real people. Like you understand them better than the author does.”
That’s the thing about Lucas—he sees through my deflections. Always has. Nate loves me fiercely, protectively. Theo loves me gently, hopefully. But Lucas loves me like he’sstudied me, like he’s memorized every part and understands exactly how they fit together.
“Maybe I just like being here,” I say quietly. “With you.”
His hand tightens on mine. “You can always be here. You know that.”
I kiss him instead of answering. Soft and slow, tasting like the mint gum he always chews when he’s studying. The textbooks slide off the bed. Neither of us cares.
Later, tangled together in his sheets, he traces patterns on my shoulder blade.
“I’m going to miss you,” he murmurs. “When we go to college.”
“We’ll make it work.”
“Long distance is hard.”
“We’re harder.” I prop myself up to look at him. “We’re pack, Lucas. Nothing changes that.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
I broke that promise. Six months later, I was gone.
“Dr. Price,” I manage, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel.
He steps inside. Closes the door.
His scent hits me fully now—bergamot and sandalwood, warm and complex and achingly familiar. It’s stronger than it used to be, more mature, but underneath it’s still him. Still the boy who traced patterns on my skin and saw through every wall I tried to build.
The room shrinks. The bergamot thickens, fills every corner, presses against my skin like a physical weight. My heart is pounding too fast and I can’t make it stop.
“I heard you had a fall.” He sets the tablet on the counter. Still not looking at me directly. “Let’s take a look.”
Professional. Detached. Like I’m any other patient. Like we weren’t tangled in his sheets ten years ago making promises I didn’t keep.
My instincts don’t care about professional. They only care that he’s here, close, smelling like safety and home and everything I threw away. And underneath the instincts, something worse—the part of me that remembers his hands in my hair, his voice in my ear, his absolute certainty that we would make it work.
Promise?
Promise.
God, I was such a liar.
Say something. Apologize. That’s why you’re here.
But his face is closed off, his scent carefully controlled, and I can’t find the opening. Can’t find the version of him who might actually want to hear what I have to say.
He pulls up a rolling stool and sits in front of me. This close, I can see the tiredness around his eyes. The tension in his jaw. Ten years have changed him—made him sharper, more guarded—but underneath, he’s still Lucas.
His hands hover near my foot.
“May I?”
