I blink at him. Is this what I think it is? “For what?”
He doesn’t look away this time. “For how I ended things. For how I left.”
My throat tightens.
Ope… It is.
He drags a hand across his jaw, like the words are scraping their way out. “I was scared,” he says, voice low, steady in that way that means he’s forcing himself to stay in it. “Not of you. Of me. Of what I would have to deal with after the accident. I didn’t know how to be someone worth keeping around after I lost partof my leg. And I sure as hell didn’t think I could be someone you could still want. I knew the tour was coming up, and you were working with Umbra in some capacity, and I didn’t want to hold you back.”
The confession lands between us like a stone dropped into deep water. I swallow hard. “You didn’t even give me the chance to prove you wrong.”
“I know,” he says quietly. “And I hate that.”
I study him, really look at him. The man across from me isn’t the one who had nurses escort me to the hospital parking lot, leaving me sobbing into my steering wheel. I’ve tried to ignore it, but there’s something steadier in him now. Not soft, he will never be soft, but grounded. Like he finally stopped trying to outrun the parts of himself he doesn’t want people to see.
“What changed?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intend.
His eyes drop to the coffee in front of him. “Well, therapy’s helped. I still have shit to work through. But don’t feel like I’m constantly drowning anymore.”
“But why are you telling me all this?” I whisper.
He leans forward, placing his elbows on the table, and the morning light pours through the window, catching in his eyes and turning them a deep, molten gold. He looks at me like he’s bracing for impact, like the truth is something he’s finally strong enough to hold.
“Because I don’t want to lie to you,” he says. “Not anymore. And because being near you again is bringing up every reason I loved you in the first place.”
My heart stutters, a sharp, startled beat. “Lucian—”
“I’m not asking for you to say it back,” he cuts in, but his voice is gentle, almost careful. “I know I broke something I can’t glue back together. I just needed you to know… it mattered. You mattered, and you still do.”
The words land like a bruise blooming under my ribs. It hurts to hear, because some part of me still wants it too, still remembers the shape of the future we almost had. And yet… I can’t ignore what came after. The silence. The abandonment. The way he left when things got hard.
“I don’t know what to do with all of this,” I whisper, the truth slipping out before I can soften it.
“I’m not asking you to do anything right now,” he says, steady in a way that feels new. “You’ve been through enough. I just needed you to know where I stand.”
I nod slowly, letting the words settle, letting the ache of them loosen just a little. “You’ve come a long way.”
“I’m still making progress,” he admits. “Every day. It’s not linear, but… I’m fighting for myself now. I didn’t know how to do that before.”
“You should be proud of yourself, Lucian.”
“I am. It’s hard work,” he says quietly. “But it’s worth it. Especially if it means I get to sit here with you and not pretend I don’t still feel everything I used to.”
“I appreciate your honesty, but I’m going to have to think about it,” I tell him, carefully, trying to be as honest as I can. Because I owe him that. And I owe myself that too.
“Okay.” He nods once. “That’s more than I thought I’d get.”
And somehow, that simple acceptance, no pressure or expectation in his voice, makes me want to reach across the table and take his hand. Not because we’re back where we were. Not because everything is fixed.
But because maybe… someday… we could build something new from the pieces that survived.
Lucian doesn’t push or reach for my hand or try to fill the silence with promises he can’t make. He just sits there, steady and patient, like he’s willing to let the moment be whatever it needs to be.
Eventually, he glances toward the window, toward the soft gold spilling across the street. “We should get moving,” he says quietly. “Before it gets too hot.”
I nod, grateful for the shift, for the chance to stand and breathe and let my body do something other than hold the weight of everything we just said. We gather our cups, toss them in the bin, and step out into the morning.
We start slow, walking until the sidewalk widens and the morning crowd thins. Then he glances at me, a small question in his eyes.
