Thursday morning felt different.
Not bad different—just… aware.
Like the air had thickened overnight with the weight of what they'd said the night before.
Lucas woke her with slow kisses along her spine, hands gentle, almost reverent. When she finally rolled over to face him he was already watching her, eyes soft in the pale dawn light filtering through the blinds.
"Morning, love," he murmured.
The word landed soft but heavy. She felt it settle somewhere behind her ribs.
"Morning." She traced the line of his jaw with her fingertip. "You okay after yesterday?"
He caught her hand, pressed a kiss to the center of her palm. "Yeah. Crew's rattled, but we're back on site today. Safety meetings all morning. Should be quiet after that."
She nodded. "Text me if anything feels off?"
"Promise."
They showered together—less frantic than usual, more lingering touches. His soapy hands sliding over her shoulders, her back, the curve of her hips. She washed his hair, fingers massaging his scalp until he groaned low in his throat and leaned his forehead against hers under the spray.
"I could stay here all day," he said.
"You'd get fired."
"Worth it."
She laughed, kissed the water from his lips. "Go be responsible. I'll be here tonight."
He left with one last long kiss at the door, hard hat in hand, promising to bring home Thai from the place on 5th that made the basil perfect.
Emma's shift started at noon.
She spent the morning cleaning both apartments—his and hers—because nervous energy had to go somewhere. She found a stray sock under his couch, a crumpled receipt from two weeks ago in her jeans pocket, little pieces of their lives starting to overlap in the same physical space.
It felt good. Scary good.
At work, Mia cornered her during the mid-afternoon lull.
"So," Mia said, wiping down the milk steamer with exaggerated slowness. "You two said the L-word yet or are we still in the 'really really like you' phase?"
Emma felt her face heat. "Last night."
Mia's eyes went wide. "Shut up. And?"
"And… it felt right." She shrugged, trying for casual. "Scary, but right."
Mia studied her for a second. "You're glowing again. But also… twitchy. What's the catch?"
"No catch." Emma hesitated. "Just… everything's moving fast. And after the almost-accident yesterday I keep thinking—what if something happens? What if we get used to this and then—"
"Stop." Mia held up a hand. "You're spiraling. He's solid. You said it yourself. Let yourself be happy for five minutes without waiting for the sky to fall."
Emma exhaled. "Trying."
"Good. Because if you sabotage this because you're scared, I will personally kick your ass."
Emma laughed despite herself. "Noted."
The rest of the shift passed without incident.
She walked home in the late-afternoon gold, the kind of light that makes everything look softer, more forgiving. She stopped at the Thai place on 5th herself—figured she'd surprise him with dinner waiting when he got in.
When she reached the building, his truck was already parked out front.
Early.
Her heart did a quick, happy flip.
She climbed the stairs, arms full of paper bags smelling like lemongrass and coconut milk.
His door was cracked open.
She pushed inside.
The living room was dark except for the single lamp by the couch.
Lucas sat on the floor, back against the sofa, knees drawn up, phone dangling loose between his fingers.
He didn't look up right away.
"Lucas?"
His head lifted slowly.
His face was pale. Eyes red-rimmed.
For one frozen second she thought someone had died.
Then he spoke, voice low and cracked.
"She called."
Emma set the bags down carefully. "Who?"
"Marissa." He swallowed. "My ex. The one who… you know."
Emma's stomach dropped.
She crossed the room, sank to her knees in front of him.
"What did she want?"
He laughed once—short, bitter. "To talk. Said she's getting divorced. That things didn't work out with… him. That she's been thinking about me. About us."
Emma felt the air leave her lungs.
"Did you answer?"
"No." He rubbed a hand over his face. "Went straight to voicemail. But she left a message. Long one. Crying. Saying she made the biggest mistake of her life. That she never stopped loving me."
Silence stretched between them—thin, fragile.
Emma reached out, rested her hand on his knee. "What do you feel?"
He looked at her then—really looked.
"Angry," he said quietly. "Sad. Confused. Mostly… tired. Like I finally put that chapter down and someone just ripped it open again."
She nodded. Didn't speak. Just listened.
"I deleted the voicemail," he continued. "Blocked her number. But it's still in my head. The sound of her crying. The way she used to say my name when she wanted something."
Emma's chest ached—for him, for the boy he used to be, for the man sitting in front of her trying so hard not to break.
"Do you want to talk to her?" she asked carefully.
"No." The word came fast. Firm. "I don't want anything from her. Not anymore." He reached for Emma's hand, pulled it to his chest so she could feel his heartbeat—fast, unsteady. "I want this. I want you. That hasn't changed."
She exhaled shakily. "Okay."
"But I'm scared," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "Scared that hearing her voice—even for thirty seconds—dug something up I thought was dead. Scared you'll think I'm not over it. Scared I'll fuck this up because part of me still remembers how much it hurt."
Emma shifted closer, cupped his face in both hands.
"Look at me."
He did.
"You're allowed to feel whatever you feel," she said softly. "Old wounds don't vanish because you found something better. They just… scar over. And sometimes they itch."
He let out a trembling breath.
"But you chose to block her," she continued. "You chose to tell me. You're sitting here with me instead of spiraling alone. That's not someone who's not over it. That's someone who's fighting to stay present."
His eyes searched hers—desperate, hopeful.
"I love you," she said simply. "Not the version of you that never got hurt. The version that did, and still learned how to trust again. With me."
A tear slipped down his cheek. He didn't wipe it away.
She leaned in, kissed it off his skin.
Then his mouth found hers—slow, deep, tasting like salt and relief.
They didn't make it to the bedroom.
He pulled her into his lap right there on the floor, hoodie shoved up, leggings yanked down just enough.
She sank onto him—slow, deliberate—taking him inch by inch while they both shuddered at the intimacy of it.
No rush.
Just them—moving together like they were trying to prove something to each other.
His hands gripped her hips, guiding but not forcing. Her arms wrapped around his neck, forehead pressed to his.
Every roll of her hips drew a low groan from him.
Every deep grind made her gasp his name.
When she came it was quiet—intense, trembling, her face buried in his shoulder.
He followed right after—holding her tight, spilling inside her with a broken sound that might have been her name or a prayer.
They stayed like that for a long time—still joined, breathing each other in.
Eventually he eased them both to the floor, pulled the throw blanket over them.
Held her against his chest.
"I'm not going back," he whispered into her hair.
"I know."
"I'm staying right here."
She pressed a kiss over his heart.
"Good."
The Thai food sat forgotten on the counter, growing cold.
Outside, night settled over the city.
Inside, they held each other a little tighter than they had the night before.