They didn't talk about the promise again that night.
Instead Lucas kept his word in the most literal, devastating way possible.
He took his time.
Laid her out on his bed like she was something fragile and priceless, then proceeded to prove she wasn't fragile at all.
Started with his mouth between her thighs—slow licks, teasing circles around her clit until she was squirming, begging, fingers twisted in the sheets. When she came the first time it was quiet, almost surprised, her whole body arching off the mattress like she hadn't expected it to hit so hard so soon.
He didn't stop.
Kept going until the second one ripped through her—louder, messier, her thighs clamping around his head while she cried his name like a prayer.
Only then did he crawl back up her body, kissing every inch he passed: the soft curve of her stomach, the dip between her ribs, the underside of each breast. By the time his mouth reached hers she was shaking, oversensitive and desperate.
He slid into her in one long, slow push.
No rush.
Just deep, rolling thrusts that made her feel every ridge, every vein. His hands pinned hers above her head, fingers laced tight. Eye contact the whole time—unblinking, intense, like he was memorizing the exact shape of her pupils when pleasure made them blow wide.
She came again like that—trapped under him, helpless in the best way, whispering broken little "please"s against his lips.
He followed on the next stroke, burying deep and spilling inside her with a low, guttural sound that vibrated through both their chests.
Afterward he didn't pull out right away.
Just stayed there, softening slowly inside her, kissing her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Whispering nonsense against her skin: "So fucking beautiful," "Mine," "Never getting tired of this."
She fell asleep with him still half inside her, his heartbeat steady against her back.
Sunday morning arrived soft and gray.
They didn't leave the apartment.
Ordered groceries instead—eggs, bread, more coffee, condoms even though they'd stopped using them. Watched the rain start again around noon, listened to it drum against the windows while they fucked lazily on the couch, her straddling him, controlling the pace until he gripped her hips and took over, driving up into her until they both shattered.
It was perfect.
Too perfect.
Monday hit like a slap.
Lucas had an early call—some emergency at the site. He kissed her goodbye at 5:45 a.m., promised he'd be back by six that night, disappeared into the hallway with his hard hat tucked under his arm.
Emma's shift didn't start until ten.
She lingered in his bed longer than she should have, breathing in the smell of him on the pillow, replaying every moment of the weekend like a favorite song on repeat.
Around eight her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She almost ignored it.
Then the text preview popped up.
Unknown: Hey Em. It's Jake. Saw your mom this weekend. She mentioned you were seeing someone. Can we talk?
Her stomach dropped through the floor.
Jake.
Her college boyfriend. The one who'd ghosted her senior year after she'd caught him texting some girl from his econ class. The one who'd shown up drunk at her dorm two weeks later crying about how he'd "made a mistake." The one she'd taken back for three miserable months before finally kicking him out for good.
She hadn't heard from him in… God, six years?
She stared at the screen until it went dark.
Then it buzzed again.
Unknown: I'm in Seattle for work. Just coffee? I owe you an explanation. Or at least an apology.
Her thumb hovered over Block.
Instead she typed back one word.
Emma: No.
Sent.
She threw the phone across the bed like it burned her.
Took a shower so hot the mirror fogged completely. Stood under the spray until her skin turned pink.
When she got out, three more texts waited.
Jake: I get it if you hate me. I was an asshole.
Jake: I've changed. Therapy. The whole thing.
Jake: Just want to say I'm sorry in person. That's all.
She read them twice.
Felt nothing but a dull, familiar ache—like pressing on an old bruise to see if it still hurt.
It did.
But not as much as it used to.
She blocked the number.
Went to work.
The day dragged.
Mia noticed her mood immediately.
"You okay? You look like someone kicked your puppy."
"Ex texted," Emma muttered while steaming milk. "Out of nowhere."
Mia's eyes narrowed. "The douche canoe from college?"
"Yeah."
"Block and delete. Done."
"Already did the first part."
"Good girl." Mia bumped her shoulder. "You've got Lucas now. Don't let some ghost from the past fuck with your head."
Emma forced a smile. "I won't."
But the seed was planted.
By five o'clock she was exhausted—physically from the weekend, emotionally from the unexpected contact. She walked home in the drizzle, hood up, replaying every word Jake had sent.
When she reached the fourth floor, Lucas's door was ajar.
She pushed it open.
He was on the couch in sweatpants and nothing else, phone in hand, frowning at the screen.
He looked up when she walked in.
"Hey." His smile was tired but real. "Rough day?"
She dropped her bag, crossed to him, climbed straight into his lap without a word.
He caught her automatically, arms coming around her.
"What's wrong?" he asked against her hair.
She buried her face in his neck. Inhaled cedar and sawdust and him.
"Ex texted me this morning. Out of the blue. Wanted to meet. Apologize or whatever."
Lucas went very still.
"Did you answer?"
"Told him no. Blocked him."
A long exhale. His hand stroked down her back—slow, soothing.
"You okay?"
"I don't know." She pulled back enough to look at him. "It just… rattled me. Reminded me how easy it is for people to disappear. Or reappear. Or hurt you and then act like it was nothing."
Lucas cupped her face in both hands.
"I'm not him."
"I know."
"Do you?"
She searched his eyes. Saw the same quiet fear she'd confessed to him days ago.
"Yeah," she whispered. "I do."
He kissed her then—soft at first, then deeper. Like he was proving something with his mouth.
When they broke apart he rested his forehead against hers.
"Tell me what you need tonight."
She didn't have to think.
"You. Just you."
He nodded once.
Then he stood—still holding her—and carried her to the bedroom.
No rush this time either.
But different.
He undressed her slowly, reverently. Kissed every new inch of skin he uncovered like he was mapping her. When she was naked he laid her down, spread her thighs, and ate her like it was worship—long, luxurious licks, sucking gently on her clit until she was trembling, whispering his name like a secret.
When she came he didn't stop until she pushed weakly at his head.
Then he crawled up, settled between her legs, and slid inside her bare.
They moved together slow—deep, grinding rolls of his hips that made her gasp every time he bottomed out. Her legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his ass, urging him closer, deeper.
No words for a long time.
Just breath, skin, the wet slide of their bodies.
When she started climbing again he slipped a hand between them, thumb on her clit.
"Look at me," he murmured.
She did.
Eyes locked.
"Come with me," he said softly.
She shattered first—quiet this time, intense, tears slipping into her hair because it felt too big, too much, too good.
He followed right after, pulsing inside her, face buried in her neck, whispering her name like it was the only word he remembered.
They stayed tangled for a long time after.
Eventually he rolled them so she was draped across his chest.
His fingers traced her spine.
"You still scared?" he asked quietly.
"A little."
"Me too."
She lifted her head. "You are?"
"Yeah." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Because this feels real. And real things can break."
She swallowed hard.
"Then we don't let it."
Simple.
But it felt like a vow.
He kissed her forehead.
"Deal."
Outside, the rain kept falling.
Inside, they held on a little tighter.