Chapter 19
NINETEEN
LUCAS
I wake up to warmth, wrapped in the lingering scent of musk, and something distinctly Alex. It’s everywhere—on the sheets, the pillow, clinging to my skin. It makes my heart flutter, and for a sleepy, blissful moment, I smile into the fabric beneath me, burrowing deeper into its comfort.
And then, everything comes crashing down.
I jolt upright, chest rising and falling rapidly as the memories flood in, remembering Alex’s hands on me, his lips tracing fire down my skin. The way I had moaned his name, the way I had come apart in his lap inside my briefs—untouched.
“Oh my god.”
Heat floods my face, and before I can think better of it, I fly out of bed, my feet hitting the cold floor as I start pacing, fanning myself like that’ll somehow help. Why is the room so hot all of a sudden?
I glance back at the bed, and something twists inside me. Did Alex sleep here with me? Or did he leave the moment I passed out? I remember cuddling into him, his warmth, and his fingers in my hair.
A glance at the small clock on the nightstand tells me it’s 4:30 AM. My body is thrumming with something restless—shame, embarrassment, something dangerously close to longing. I press a hand over my face and groan quietly. Get it together, Lucas.
And then, as if on cue, my stomach growls.
I freeze. Seriously?
Another grumble, louder this time. I rub my face, sighing. Fine. Food. I can focus on that. I tiptoe downstairs, careful not to make a sound. I don’t even know why I’m tiptoeing, but the absurdity of it almost makes me laugh. I shake my head, stepping into the open space of the living room.
And then I hear the soft chime of the elevator doors sliding open. I turn just as Alex steps inside.
Where did he go?
He looks like something out of a dream—or a nightmare I wouldn’t mind getting lost in.
A black compression shirt clings to his broad shoulders and chest, every line of muscle outlined in the dim light.
His abs are visible even beneath the fabric, shifting with every slow breath.
His dark hair is tied up in a messy bun, stray strands falling over his forehead, damp with sweat.
Gloves cover his hands, and a helmet dangles from one arm.
In the other, a takeout bag swings casually, like this is the most normal thing in the world.
And he looks like he’s been out riding. I didn’t even know he owned a bike.
I can’t stop staring.
Neither can he.
The air goes heavy between us, thick with something I can’t name but feel everywhere in my chest, in my throat, low in my stomach.
His gaze drags over me: my messy hair, my bare feet on the cold marble, the oversized shirt hanging off me—his shirt.
Heat crawls up my neck as his eyes linger there, and I tug at the hem like it might shield me from him.
Then it happens.
Grumble.
The loudest, most humiliating growl my stomach has ever produced. The sound practically echoes in the silence.
I want to drop dead on the spot. Right here. Right now.
Honestly, with the number of times I embarrass myself in front of this man, I should have a PhD in it. I’m shocked I haven’t tripped over my own feet and split my head open in front of him yet.
His lips twitch. The faintest hint of a smirk. He doesn’t say anything, but that almost-smile makes it worse. He just tilts the bag in his hand, voice smooth and deep enough to vibrate through me.
“You’re hungry.”
My throat works around a knot.
“No.”
Grumble.
His eyebrow lifts, slow and deliberate.
I close my eyes.
“Maybe.”
When I look at him again, there’s something flickering in his gaze. Not judgment. Not mockery. Something softer, like I’ve just handed him a secret.
He shakes his head, low amusement in the movement, then he heads to the kitchen, and I join him. He sets the helmet on the counter, then the takeout bag lands there next, sliding toward me.
“I figured you would be.”
I blink at the bag, then at him.
“You went out to get food?”
He shrugs, the motion casual, but his eyes never leave mine.
“Went out to take care of something.”
I pull the containers free one by one and set them on the counter. A massive vanilla iced coffee. Beef burgers wrapped in grease-stained paper. Loaded fries dripping with cheese. Chicken tenders with more dipping sauces than anyone needs at four in the morning.
I just stare. Because these aren’t random choices. These are mine.
Slowly, I look back at him. He’s leaning against the counter now, arms crossed over his chest, the play of muscle obvious even through the shirt. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes—God, his eyes are locked on me, watching every flicker of surprise and disbelief on my face.
The kitchen light is dim, catching on the hard edges of his jaw, throwing half his face into shadow.
He looks sharp, dangerous, untouchable. But in the silence, with the smell of burgers filling the space and his attention pressed entirely on me, all I can feel is the pull—magnetic and relentless—dragging me closer to him even when I don’t move.
Before I can ask anything, he speaks.
“I was coming back from my ride. Passed a 24-hour diner and picked something up.” His tone is deliberately casual, but there’s something under it, something heavier. Then, after a beat, he adds,
“You slept early. I figured you’d wake up early, and you might be hungry.”
For a moment, I can only stare at him. My chest feels too tight, too full. No one has ever thought of me like this—so simple, so matter-of-fact, yet it feels… overwhelming. It isn’t just gratitude; it’s something deeper, sharper, something I don’t have the words for.
I swallow past the lump rising in my throat, dropping my gaze to the table.
“…Thank you,” I murmur.
The burger is warm in my hands. The first bite nearly makes me groan, relief flooding through me as the taste hits my tongue.
I hadn’t realized just how empty I felt until now.
The cold sweetness of the drink soothes my dry throat, and for a moment, I let myself close my eyes.
Across from me, I hear movement. The fridge opens, then shuts.
When I glance up, Alex is setting a bottle of water in front of me.
“You’re not eating?” My voice comes out quieter than I intend.
He shakes his head. “No.”
I frown at the spread still on the counter. “How do you expect me to finish all this?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile, though his expression stays unreadable. “You will.”
Something about his tone —steady and sure —makes irritation spark under my skin. I narrow my eyes. “I won’t.”
He doesn’t argue. He just waits.
Minutes pass in silence, broken only by the sound of me chewing. By the time I reach the bottom of my drink, I freeze. There’s only one small piece of chicken left.
The realization crawls over me slowly.
Alex doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to.
The weight of his gaze presses against me, heavy, amused, knowing.
I force myself to look up. He’s watching me, face unreadable, but his eyes give him away.
They gleam with something subtle, something that makes my skin heat.
Of course, he knows. He’s seen me eat here almost every day for weeks.
Embarrassment prickles up my neck, flooding my chest with warmth. He doesn’t say anything, but he starts packing the takeout paper plates.
“Go wash your hands.” He finally says, dumping them in the kitchen bin.
I push away from the stool and head for the sink. Soap lathers between my fingers, and I glance back just in time to see him leave the kitchen. The space feels too quiet without him. I wash faster than I should, dry my hands, then linger awkwardly before finally returning to sit on the stool.
When he returns, there’s something in his hand—a medium-sized paper bag.
He sits down on the stool next to me and places the bag on the counter. I stare at it, then at him. His face is unreadable, but his eyes hold something deeper, something heavy. He doesn’t say anything. Just tilts his chin slightly—a silent command.
Open it.
I hesitate. Then, slowly, I reach for the bag, fingers brushing against the paper as I pull out what’s inside.
My breath catches.
A phone.
Brand new. Still in the box.
And not just any phone—one of the latest models, a costly brand, worth hundreds more than the one I had. I stare at it, my pulse thrumming beneath my skin.
I don’t understand.
I look back at him. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. My throat feels thick, stuck between words I can’t seem to form.
“I saw your phone.”
His voice is low, measured.
I swallow.
He watches me, his gaze unwavering.
“Before you came here, I texted you. You didn’t reply.” A pause. “That’s not like you.”
I look away, fingers tightening around the phone box.
“You didn’t have to,” I say quietly. But the words feel wrong because, of course, he didn’t have to get me a new one. That’s what makes this so suffocating.
No one has ever done this for me before. No one has ever thought about me like this before. Tyler tries his best, but he also has his own demons to fight with.
The attention, care, and weight that Alex is giving me feel so foreign. I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know what to do with him, and I hate it.
More importantly, I hate that I’m not mad at it, or at him. It makes something deep inside me ache. Makes me feel seen in a way I’ve spent years trying to avoid.
“Lucas.”
His voice snaps me out of my thoughts.
“What happened to your phone?”
There’s something different in his tone now—a quiet and unyielding kind of authority. I force myself to meet his gaze.
“I…” My fingers clench around the box.
“I mistakenly… smashed it,” I mumble, voice weak.
It’s a shitty lie.
Alex doesn’t even blink. He knows, of course, he knows. He probably knew I was lying before I even opened my mouth. His silence is heavier than words. Then, after a beat, he exhales, slow and controlled, then stands.
And when he speaks, it’s not gentle.