Her hair has spilled across the pillow, waves framing her face. Her freckles stand out more now, scattered across her cheeks and nose like constellations. There’s a faint scar near her collarbone, old, thin, easy to miss unless you’re looking for reasons to see her as real.
I wonder how she got it.
Her hand twitches slightly in her sleep, fingers curling as if reaching for something.
I resist the instinct to close the distance. Resist the urge to put my hand in hers.
This isn’t about possession.
This is about learning.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I whisper into the dark. “But I will try.”
The words don’t feel like a promise.
They feel like a confession.
Chapter 33 - Lucy
I wake up slowly. Not the sharp inhale I’ve trained myself into. Not the immediate mental inventory of medications, appointments, contingency plans. Just… awareness. A gentle return to consciousness that feels almost unfamiliar. For a moment, I don’t open my eyes. I lie there and let myselffeel.
The bed is wider than anything I’ve ever slept in, firm but comfortable, the sheets impossibly smooth. Cool, where they haven’t been touched. Warm in one very specific place beside me.
That’s when it hits.
Julian.
The penthouse.
The fact that I am married.
My eyes open.
The ceiling above me is high and seamless, nothing to anchor me to memory. No cracks, no faint water stain shaped like a continent, no hum of old pipes threatening to rattle themselves apart. Sunlight filters in through sheer curtains I didn’t choose but don’t hate.
I turn my head.
The other side of the bed is empty.
The disappointment comes fast and uninvited, a sharp, foolish feeling that makes me close my eyes again like I can undo it by refusing to look.
Get it together, Lucy.
I shift anyway, my hand brushing the sheets.
They’re still warm.
My breath catches. I don’t know why that matters so much, but it does. The pillow smells faintly like him, not cologne, not anything overt, just clean skin and soap and something quieter underneath. Something steady.
I lie there longer than I should, breathing him in, letting the quiet exist without demanding anything from it. No expectations. No performance.
Then habit takes over. I reach for my phone. First check: messages. Always.
One notification from Emily.
It’s a selfie, taken at a bad angle, half-awake and unapologetic. She’s sprawled on the couch in the old apartment, wrapped in Mom’s blanket, hair everywhere, eyes tired but smiling.
Em:first night alone
