The front door bursts open.
I yelp as the book goes flying, landing facedown on the floor with a dull thump.
“Shit—!”
Tea splashes across the cushion and my hand, warm but thankfully no longer hot, and my heart slams so violentlyagainst my ribs it steals my breath. I twist toward the doorway, adrenaline flooding my system, every muscle primed for a threat I’ve been trying not to imagine all morning.
For one awful second, my mind fills in the wrong face.
And the terror that filters through my veins tells me exactly how thin the line between calm and chaos really is right now.
“Celeste—shit, are you okay?”
Lucian is already moving before my heart has time to slow, the door banging shut behind him as he crosses the space in three long strides. His eyes sweep the scene in a single pass, noticing the overturned mug, the dark spill soaking into the couch cushion, the book on the floor like something dropped in a hurry.
“I’m fine,” I manage, though my pulse is still skidding. “I just—oops?”
“Sorry.” He reaches back, grabs the back of his hoodie, and pulls it over his head in one smooth, practiced motion. The hoodie hits my lap as he drops to his knees in front of me. The unfairly familiar movement knocks the air from my lungs.
His attention follows the spill instead, over my arms, my lap, the place where the tea soaked through the fabric of my shorts. He shifts closer, still on his knees, and his hands slide to the outside of my thighs to steady me as he blots at the mess, methodical and protective, completely unaware of how this looks. “That’s on me, with everything going on, I should’ve knocked.”
“Any burns?” he asks, glancing up briefly, voice low and steady. “It wasn’t hot, was it?”
“No,” I say quickly. “It had cooled down.”
He exhales, the tension draining out of him in a way I feel more than see. His grip on my thighs loosens, relief settling into his shoulders, and he tips his head forward without thinking.
His loose hair brushes my bare thighs in a way I’m sure is innocent and entirely unintentional.
My body doesn’t care.
Heat blooms low and sharp, a visceral response I don’t have time to stop, my muscles tightening as if they recognize the position before my mind has fully caught up. Lucian, on his knees, has never been neutral for me. It’s always meant unwavering attention, almost relentless in the way he gives himself over to it. My pleasure is something he takes responsibility for, something he refuses to rush or half-finish.
He’s still talking, apologizing, checking for burns like he didn’t hear me tell him I’m okay, his voice steady and concerned while my pulse turns traitorous. I focus on the sound of him, on the cadence of his words, because it’s safer than focusing on where he is or what his hands are doing. I force my breathing even and grip the edge of the cushion hard enough to anchor myself, to keep the reaction contained, to keep it off my face.
I was already wound tight from the book, from the slow, deliberate build it dragged me through, and the whiplash—from anticipation, to fear, to this—leaves me lightheaded. My thoughts scatter, then betray me entirely, pulling memories forward that I do not need right now. I remember the way he could coax the orgasms out of me, and how, no matter how desperate I sounded, he would refuse to rush. The one time he made me count, low and breathless, insisting I stay present even as everything else started to blur. I remember losing the numbers somewhere along the way, and how sensation overtook logic, the way my body trembled so hard I thought I might pass out in his hands, vision darkening at the edges while he stayed exactly where he was, devastatingly focused.
He always gave like that. Fully, and without keeping score.
A memory hits hard enough that I have to swallow, the motion tight and deliberate as I fight the urge to shift and givemyself away. My fingers curl deeper into the cushion beside me, nails biting into the fabric like it might keep me anchored in the present instead of drifting somewhere dangerous.
Lucian stills.
The hoodie is damp in his hands when he looks up at me, his expression immediately sharpening, concern cutting through everything else. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly. “You went pale.”
I roll my eyes at him, more reflex than irritation, refusing to give the moment any more oxygen than it already has.
He studies me for half a second longer than necessary, like he’s weighing whether to push, then nods once and accepts it. He starts to rise, already shifting back into logistics and responsibility as if nothing just happened, as if he hasn’t just knocked the air out of me in more ways than one.
“Cafe du Monde took longer than I expected,” he says in explanation of where he’s been with Korbyn. “The line was brutal. I’m running a little behind, but if you’re ready, I’ll take you to the stadium. Rowan wants us in early for soundcheck, and so I can oversee the changes security’s making after what happened yesterday.”
I nod automatically, even though my body takes a second longer to catch up with the moment.
Lucian gathers his hoodie and stands, completely unaware, or pretending to be, that the space between us has changed. The room feels smaller now, like something invisible has been shifted and not put back where it belongs.
I pass him on my way to the back of the rig and disappear into the bedroom to grab my gear bag, taking a moment to breathe where he can’t see me. When I come back, he’s leaning against the counter, scrolling through something on his phone, his posture relaxed but alert in that way that never really turns off.
The ride settles into a quiet that feels deliberate rather than awkward. Lucian sits beside me in the cab, his posture loose but alert, with one arm stretched along the backseat like a man trained to look relaxed while tracking every possible variable. He’s too composed and too still all at once, and the contrast needles at me in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
