I’ve never answered. I told myself they’d stop if I ignored them. Told myself Lucky didn’t need to know. I didn’t want to be the reason he pushed too hard too soon. Now it’s been weeks. And every time I see his face, the guilt twists deeper. I’ve been lying by omission. Keeping this from him feels like betrayal.
I didn’t want to be the girl who couldn’t handle her own ghosts. I’m assuming Brian’s the one who’s been sending the messages. I can’t deal with or even think about the alternative, that I have a stalker of some variety. That would be fucking insane.
Now I’ve waited so long that telling Lucky feels like I’ve been lying to him. Guilt sits heavy in my chest every time I see his face. I swipe the notification away, set the phone face-down, and try to breathe through my panic.
This is his place. My old rental got too small too fast once he started leaving boots by the door and his cut on the back of the couch every night. He owns this house outright, bought it cash years ago after the military money started stacking up.
His dresser drawers are mine now too. Half my stuff migrated over in the first month after the hospital. Bras in the top left, leggings in the bottom. He never complained. Just cleared space and started hanging my jackets next to his in the closet.
My eyes catch on the box of books on the chair in the corner I still haven’t unpacked. And just like that, the memory slams into me, clear as yesterday. Two weeks ago. We were on my couch at the old place, lazy as hell. His arm around me, my legs over his lap, some dumb action flick droning in the background. I was scrolling my phone, sipping iced coffee, when his fingers started wandering up my thigh under my shorts. Slow at first, then higher, teasing.
I glance up. “Are you starting something?”
“Maybe.” His voice is low, lazy. “Been thinking.”
I set the phone down. “Sounds dangerous.”
He chuckles, thumb brushing the crease of my thigh. “You should move in with me.”
My stomach flips. The good kind. “Are you asking or telling me?”
“Little of both.” His hand slides to my hip, thumb hooking inside my waistband. “Your lease is up in three months, right?”
“Three. Yeah,” I murmur, watching him closely.
“Close enough.” He looks me dead in the eye. “The house is paid off. Three bedrooms. Big kitchen you can take over. Garage for your car. Fenced yard for the cats to fuck with me. Plenty of space. And I want you there every morning. Want your toothbrush next to mine. Want your coffee rings on my counters. Want to come home smelling your shampoo instead of just motor oil and smoke. I want you in my bed. Every night. Not your bed. Ours.”
I swallow hard. “You really want my mess in your space full-time?”
He pulls me closer, hand sliding up my back under my shirt, palm flat and warm. “I want every bit of your mess. The way you laugh too loud at nothing. The way you talk to the cats like they’re gonna answer. The way you leave half-finished coffee everywhere. The fights where you yell at me for tracking dirt in. The nights you climb on top of me at three a.m. because you’re restless. The mornings you steal my hoodie and strut around in nothing else. I want you there when I roll in late, reeking like the shop. I want you in my house. In my life. All the way. No half-ass shit.”
My eyes sting. “You’ve been thinking about this a lot.”
“Every damn day since you put that tattoo on my arm.” He kisses me. “I don’t want to wait three months for your lease to be up. I want you moved in today, but I can wait until next weekend. We’ll pack your shit, rent a truck, bribe the brothers with beer and pizza. Bim bam boom, easy as pie.”
I laugh, shaky. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It is easy.” His hand squeezes my hip. “You belong with me. In my house. In my life. All the way. No half-measures.”
I search his face. Steady. No bullshit. Just Lucky. “Okay,” I whisper.
His brows lift. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I grin so wide my cheeks hurt. “Next weekend. I’ll move in. But you’re getting my spice rack in your cabinets, my candles everywhere, and the cats are probably claiming your pillow.”
He groans like I just handed him the world, yanks me into his lap so I’m straddling him. “Fuck yes.”
He kisses me hard, tongue deep, hand fisting my hair. When we break apart I'm panting.
His grin turns filthy. “You keep saying shit like that and I'm gonna lose my mind.”
I rock my hips once, slow, feeling how hard he is under me. “Good. Lose it.”
He flips us so fast I gasp, pinning me under him on the couch. “You're killing me, you know that? Doctor said no sex yet. No full go until I'm cleared. Two more weeks of this bullshit.”
I groan, half laugh. “Two more weeks? You're gonna explode.”
“Already exploding.” He shoves my shorts and panties down in one rough pull, fingers sliding through my slick folds, teasing my clit before pushing two deep inside. He curls them just right, thumb circling slow and firm. “Move in with me. Say it.”
