“Are you ready?”
I inhale, the air thick with humidity and possibility. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
We take off together, our strides syncing without effort, like our bodies remember a rhythm our hearts haven’t caught up to yet.
Running has always been my way back to myself. Step after step, breath after breath, the world narrows into something manageable. And with the way Lucian has been running beside me the past couple of weeks, matching my pace without crowding me, it makes the runs feel different.
My thoughts drift back to the café, to the way his voice softened when he said he still felt everything he used to, and how he didn’t ask for forgiveness or a second chance. Just honesty.
Maybe that’s why this run feels lighter than it should. Because for the first time in months, I’m not carrying everything alone.
We turn a corner, the Mississippi River coming into view, sunlight dancing on the water like it’s laughing, and I realize, somewhere between one step and the next, that maybe I’m not as afraid of the “what if” as I thought.
Maybe, just maybe, there’s room for something new to grow here. Something steadier. Something earned.
Something that doesn’t run.
20
Lucian
Isit on the edge of the bed, my palms flat against the sheets, staring at the floor as I wait for her to finish with her shower. When we got back from our run, I handed her the second outfit I had delivered this morning.
The bathroom door opens, and when she steps out, I forget how to breathe. She looks like herself, only more radiant than I’ve seen her since I walked back in her life a few weeks ago, and every compliment I want to give gets stuck behind my teeth.
“Ready?” I ask instead, keeping my voice steady. She nods, and we head downstairs.
The lobby doors slide open, and the warm New Orleans air hits us, sweet and humid, carrying the faint smell of powdered sugar and river breeze. She tucks a strand of damp hair behind her ear, and I have to look away before I start staring like an idiot.
I open the SUV door for her, and she climbs in without hesitation. After our earlier conversation, that tiny bit of trust feels like someone handed me something fragile and told me not to drop it.
The drive is quiet, but not the brittle kind of quiet we used to have. This one feels… tentative. Curious. Like we’re both trying to figure out what the hell comes next without saying it out loud.
When I pull into the boutique’s parking lot, she turns to me with a small crease between her brows. “Lucian…?”
I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how ridiculous this might seem. “You need clothes,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to awkward. “More than the two outfits I had rushed to our hotel last night.
“You didn’t have to do this,” she says quietly.
Maybe not. But after seeing her life scattered across the ground like someone wanted to erase her by destroying her rig, I couldn’t just sit on my hands. I needed to give her something back. Something that was hers.
“I wanted to,” I say, and my words come out rougher than I mean for them to. “You’ve had enough taken from you.”
She holds my gaze for a moment that feels longer than it is, and I swear the air shifts. Not dramatically or in some cinematic, world-tilting way. Just… easier.
I get out and circle to open her door. She takes my hand as she steps down, and the contact is brief but enough to send a quiet jolt through me. I let go before I can be tempted to hold on.
Inside the boutique, she drifts toward a rack of dresses, fingertips brushing the fabric. I stay a few steps behind, hands in my pockets, pretending I’m not watching her with the kind of attention that would embarrass me if anyone called me out on it.
While she moves through the store, I slip away for a moment, just long enough to grab a few things I noticed her eyeing since we walked in. A soft satin hair bow in a dusty rose, a set of goldclips shaped like tiny stars, a delicate headband with a braided detail she’d look unfairly good in. I don’t show them to her. I just hand them off to the associate and exchange a few words with her before she tucks them behind the counter with the rest of the things I’ve already arranged.
I’d called ahead before we even left the hotel, and put my card on file, then asked them not to take a cent from her. She’s lost enough this week, and if she tries to argue, well… the system is already set. My card will run before she can blink.
She gathers a few outfits, including a pair of jeans that make something in my chest tighten, and heads toward the register. I follow, keeping a respectful distance, trying not to look like I’m hovering even though I absolutely am.
Just as she reaches the counter, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I scroll past the missed calls from my physical therapist’s office and see the email I’ve been hoping to receive all day.
A quiet rush of excitement hits me, and I feel my pulse pick up with a strange mix of anticipation and nerves threading through me. I school my expression before she can look over, but I know there’s a tell somewhere.
