Wednesday crept in quiet, almost cautious.
Lucas left earlier than usual—some last-minute change order on the downtown project meant twelve-hour days for the rest of the week. He kissed her awake just long enough to murmur "Love the way you taste first thing," then slipped out before the sun had fully decided to show up.
Emma lay there in the half-light, sheets tangled around her legs, replaying the words he hadn't actually said out loud yet.
Love.
He'd said it in pieces—love the way you laugh when you're half asleep, love how you steal all the covers, love waking up to your hair in my mouth—but never the full sentence. Never "I love you."
She wasn't sure she was ready to hear it anyway.
Or maybe she was terrified she'd say it back and mean it too much.
She got up, made coffee in his kitchen instead of hers for the first time without thinking twice about it. His mug—the chipped black one with the faded "Best Boss" joke from some long-ago job—felt right in her hands.
Work was a blur of espresso shots and polite smiles. Mia kept shooting her knowing looks every time her phone buzzed with a text from Lucas.
Most were simple:
Lucas: Site's a mess. Thinking about your mouth to stay sane.
Lucas: Brought lunch. Forgot to pack anything but you in my head.
Lucas: Home by 8. Naked by 8:01?
She answered each one with increasing levels of shamelessness.
By closing time her body was already humming with anticipation.
She stopped at the corner bodega on the way home, grabbed a bottle of the cheap Malbec he liked, and a pint of the salted-caramel ice cream she pretended wasn't her weakness.
When she reached their floor, his door was closed. No music. No lights leaking underneath.
She knocked anyway.
Nothing.
She pulled out her phone—last text from him at 6:42: Still wrapping up. See you soon.
That was almost two hours ago.
She tried his number. Straight to voicemail.
A small, cold finger of worry touched the back of her neck.
She let herself into her own apartment instead, left the wine and ice cream on the counter, changed into leggings and one of his hoodies that still smelled like sawdust and him.
Sat on the couch. Waited.
At 9:14 her phone lit up.
Lucas: Sorry. Shit went sideways. On my way now. 20 min.
Relief hit first—sharp, almost painful—followed immediately by something darker.
She typed back: Everything okay?
Three dots. Then:
Lucas: Yeah. Just… long day. Talk when I get there.
She stared at the screen until it went dark.
Twenty-three minutes later she heard his key in the lock across the hall.
She was at his door before he'd even shut it behind him.
He looked wrecked.
Coveralls streaked with concrete dust, hair damp with sweat under the hard hat he hadn't bothered to take off yet, dark circles under his eyes that hadn't been there this morning.
"Hey," he said. Voice rougher than usual.
She didn't say anything—just stepped inside, pushed the door closed, and wrapped her arms around his waist.
He exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for hours. Dropped the hard hat on the entry table. Buried his face in her hair.
"Fuck, I needed this," he muttered.
She held him tighter.
After a minute he pulled back, cupped her face.
"Sorry I'm late. And sorry I look like shit."
"You look like you worked your ass off." She brushed a streak of gray dust from his cheek. "Want to shower? I brought wine."
He gave a tired half-smile. "You're too good."
"Go. I'll pour."
While water hissed in the bathroom she opened the Malbec, found two glasses that didn't match, carried everything to the living room.
When he came out—towel around his hips, skin still damp, hair wet and curling at the ends—some of the tension had left his shoulders.
He dropped onto the couch beside her, accepted the glass she handed him.
They drank in silence for a minute.
Then he set the glass down.
"Crane operator fucked up today," he said quietly. "Dropped a pallet of rebar about twenty feet from where my crew was working. Nobody got hit, but it was close. Too close."
Emma's stomach lurched.
"Jesus. Is everyone okay?"
"Yeah. Shaken, mostly. Foreman lost his mind—rightfully. We shut down the rest of the day for safety stand-down. Spent the last few hours doing incident reports and listening to the super ream everyone out."
She reached for his hand. Laced their fingers.
"You could've been—"
"I wasn't." He squeezed her hand. "But yeah. The thought crossed my mind."
She swallowed hard. "You didn't text because…?"
"Didn't want to scare you over the phone. Needed to see your face when I told you." He looked at her then—really looked. "I'm okay, Emma. Promise."
She nodded, but her throat felt tight.
He tugged her closer until she was straddling his lap, foreheads touching.
"I kept thinking about you the whole time," he said softly. "How if something had gone wrong today, the last thing I'd have seen in my head was you on that counter last night. Smiling. Coming apart for me."
Her eyes stung.
"Don't," she whispered. "Don't talk like that."
"Like what?"
"Like goodbye."
He cupped the back of her neck. "It wasn't goodbye. It was perspective."
She kissed him then—hard, almost desperate. Tasting salt and wine and the faint metallic edge of fear that still clung to him.
He kissed her back like he was starving.
Hands roaming under the hoodie, finding bare skin, gripping like he needed to prove she was real.
Clothes came off fast after that.
Hoodie tossed. Leggings yanked down. His towel gone.
She sank onto him slowly—taking every inch while they both groaned at the stretch, the heat, the relief of connection.
No teasing tonight.
Just raw need.
She rode him hard—hips rolling, grinding down until he hit deep enough to make her gasp. His hands clamped on her ass, helping her move, urging her faster.
"Fuck, yes—just like that," he growled. "Take what you need."
She did.
Chased the edge until her thighs burned and her breath came in sobs.
When she came it was sudden, violent—clenching around him so hard he cursed, head falling back against the couch.
He flipped them without pulling out—pinned her underneath him, hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, and fucked into her with deep, punishing strokes.
"Look at me," he demanded.
She did.
Eyes locked.
No words—just the wet slap of skin, her broken moans, his ragged breathing.
When he came he buried his face in her neck, groaning her name like it hurt.
They stayed like that—sweaty, trembling, hearts hammering against each other.
Eventually he eased out, grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch, wrapped them both in it.
Pulled her against his chest.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said quietly into her hair. "Not today. Not tomorrow. Not unless you tell me to."
She pressed her lips to the hollow of his throat.
"I'm not telling you to."
"Good."
A long silence—comfortable this time.
Then, soft:
"Emma?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
Her breath caught.
She lifted her head to look at him.
His eyes were steady. Open. A little scared, maybe.
But sure.
She felt the words rise in her chest—big, terrifying, right.
"I love you too," she whispered.
His smile broke slow—small at first, then wide, devastating.
He kissed her forehead. Her nose. Her mouth.
Soft this time.
Sweet.
Like the beginning of something instead of the end.
They fell asleep on the couch—tangled, blanket half off, wine forgotten on the table.
Outside, the city kept moving.
Inside, for the first time, everything felt still.