The words land like a weight on my chest. Heavy. Terrifying. Good. Too good.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it makes it real.”
“And you want it to be real,” he counters gently. “Even if you hate that you do.”
I sink onto a stool, folding one knee up to my chest. “He’s… steady, Banks. Calm. He sleeps without noise. He cooks. He folds laundry. He fixes things. And I’m—”
“A hurricane in platform boots?” he offers.
“That’s generous.”
He sighs, long and fond. “Lucky, listen. You’ve only ever dated men who fed on your chaos. Men who liked the Lucky Pink version of you. This guy? He likes you. The cardigan-wearing, midday-waking, kitchen-pacing you.”
A breath catches in my throat.
“That’s scarier than anything else, isn’t it?” he adds softly.
I don’t answer. I can’t.
Outside, the patio is washed in a pale afternoon glow. The lake glitters in the distance—quiet, steady, like it’s waiting for me to catch up.
Banks’ voice warms through the phone. “Go for it, babe. Think later. Maybe the lumberjack is exactly the kind of man you need.”
My heart beats too fast. Too loud. But I can’t deny the truth humming under my ribs.
“I think,” I breathe, “that might be the problem.”
I end the call with Banks and drop my phone on the counter. My chest is still hammering, but the familiar storm of nerves and excitement propels me forward. Time to stop hiding in my cardigan. Time to face whatever Ethan is—whatever we are—without overthinking it to death.
I pull on a pair of ripped jeans and a soft sweatshirt, throwing my hair into a messy bun. It’s ridiculous how conscious I feel about my hair, my smell, the scent of last night’s outdoor lingering on me, but I shove all that aside and step out the door.
The garage is exactly where I know he’ll be. The low hum of computers and the faint whir of surveillance equipment hits me before I even see him. The air smells faintly of leather, metal, and cleaning spray—a mix that’s oddly grounding. Monitors line one wall, some showing grainy security feeds, others showing spreadsheets I don’t understand. A couple of toolboxes are tucked incorners, along with cases of cameras and what looks like tactical gear stacked neatly on shelves.
He’s bent over a workbench, papers spread around him, one hand tapping a keyboard while the other adjusts a small camera. His sleeves are rolled up, showing the sharp lines of his forearms, and sunlight from the open garage door glints off the edges of his watch. I can’t stop myself from staring.
My stomach tightens, and I’m reminded of the way his lips felt on mine last night.
Two kisses.
Two kisses that lingered longer in my chest than anywhere else.
I hesitate at the edge of the garage, unsure if I should call his name or just… march in like a normal person.
“Lucky,” he says, voice low, calm. I startle—he’s already noticed me—and then he stands. My chest does that ridiculous jumpy thing, and I almost stumble forward.
I freeze, suddenly unsure how to address him after our kiss.
“Hi,” I mutter, like a fool.
He walks over to where I stand, tilts his head, brushing his hand against my arm. It’s not a casual touch. Not a friend-touch. Something else. Warm, grounding, gentle. And my body relaxes despite my frantic thoughts. He’s never done this before. Never touched me like this.
I clear my throat. “Where’s Lily?” I ask, trying to focus on something other than the thrum in my chest.
“Florida,” he says with a shrug. “My parents. They left just after breakfast. Like they couldn’t wait to get out of Cedar Lake fast enough.”
