Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lucian
Midnight Addendums and Other Lies
Things you discover in the middle of the night .
. .
Olivia talks in her sleep.
Not full sentences. Not anything useful to tease her about the next day.
It’s just murmurs. Fragments of her day stitched together like a fever dream with no plot.
Right now, she’s doing it again—curled against my chest, wearing my shirt and my boxers, her hand resting over my heart as if she forgot how not to touch me.
She’s warm. Her hair is mostly dry, still faintly damp at the roots where it’s pressed to my collarbone.
One of her legs is tangled between mine, like she’s trying to claim space and retreat from it all at once.
“. . . no glitter . . .” she breathes out, soft and slurred.
“Dogs don’t eat glitter . . .”
I grin into the dark.
Of course she’s dreaming about her clinic, or maybe Sarah doing something while she’s scrapbooking.
Who knows?
It’s probably work.
This woman could be mid-orgasm and still mentally ticking off a to-do list for the next staff meeting.
My fingers skim the hem of the shirt she’s drowning in—my shirt.
The fabric bunches around her hips, clinging to her as if it wants to be part of this whole ridiculous, beautiful disaster we’ve created.
And God, so do I.
I should sleep.
My body is exhausted.
Training camp has left me aching in places I didn’t even know existed last season.
Tomorrow brings another early call, and I need every minute of rest I can get.
But I’m wide awake.
And she’s still here.
And that should scare the shit out of me.
Because I’ve done this before.
The benefits thing. The whole casual, no-strings-attached, just-having-fun thing.
Hell, I practically wrote the damn manual on it.
But this? Olivia? She doesn’t fit the mold.
She’s not just in my bed—she’s in my head.
In the way I check my phone too often when she’s not around.
In the way I sleep better when I know she’s already asleep.
In the way I can’t stop thinking about her in my kitchen, barefoot, talking to my dog like they’re best friends.
And worse?
She feels like home in a way my ex-wife never did.
With Ingrid, it was always a performance.
A checklist. A polished version of intimacy that never touched anything real.
Yeah . . . That’s a fucking revelation.
I stare up at the ceiling, the blue glow from the phone charger slicing across the wall as if it’s trying to underline every thought I’ve been trying to bury since this whole thing started.
Sarah’s snoring like a freight train at the foot of the bed.
This girl needs to stop moving during the night.
I won’t be surprised if she somehow manages to sandwich herself between us like a furry little wrecking ball.
Olivia’s breath is soft against my neck.
And me?
I’m unraveling.
Because if I could get this wrapped up with a woman I didn’t even love—if I allowed Ingrid to wreck my trust, my confidence, and my bank account, yet still walked away thinking that was acceptable—what would happen when it’s someone who truly matters?
Someone like this.
Someone like Olivia.
What happens when I give her my heart, and she doesn’t even have to break it to undo me completely?
My chest tightens. Not painfully.
Not in fear. Just this pressure—this undeniable ache that whispers, You’re already gone, Crawford.
Might as well admit it.
I look down at her again.
Her lips are parted, her brow barely furrowed like even in sleep, she’s arguing with someone—probably herself.
Probably over glitter safety protocols or dog- approved snack regulations.
And God, I’m so gone for this woman it’s not even funny.
I press a kiss to the top of her head.
Not part of the benefits package.
Not on the contract.
Just because I fucking want to.
Just because she’s here.
And maybe—just maybe—because I want her to stay.
It’s never made me want to stay awake just to watch her sleep.
I reach up, brushing a few strands of hair from her face.
Her lashes flutter, and she mumbles something about peanut sauce and glitter again before sighing.
Her cheek sinks deeper into my chest, as if she knows I’m watching and doesn’t mind.
God help me.
It seems like I’m not falling.
Nope. This woman with her antics and nonsense has me already there.
And the worst part is that I’m the idiot who wrote the damn contract.
I’m even adding fucking addendums in my head already.
Addendum Four: Spoon only by request or in case of an emotional emergency.
Addendum Five: No sleeping over unless logistics require it.
Addendum Six: Avoid the middle of the night spirals at all costs.
Guess we’re shredding that part.
I’m already spiraling and what the fuck am I supposed to do?
She stirs.
One of her hands drifts across my stomach, fingertips grazing the line of my abs like muscle memory.
Just the faintest brush—but it lands like a sucker punch.
I don’t move. Can’t.
My body’s already buzzing from the heat of her pressed against me, the way her skin clings to mine, still warm from sleep and the sex we swore wouldn’t mean anything.
Her shampoo lingers in the air—lavender and whatever sweet note she claims isn’t vanilla but absolutely is.
I inhale it anyway. Deep.
Like it’s oxygen. Maybe if I breathe her in long enough, I’ll stop wanting more than what we said this was.
But then she says my name.
Not like a tease. Not like a punchline.
Just?—
“Lucian,” she breathes, soft and sleep-wrecked, like I’m something she wants to hold onto, even in her dreams.
And I’m done.
There’s no escaping it.
No talking myself out of it.
That single word wrecks me more than anything she’s ever said while awake.
It burrows beneath the logic, beneath the rules, beneath the carefully stacked agreement we both signed with a bottle of wine and a pen I probably stole from the gym.
She just said my name like it matters.
Like I matter.
My throat tightens.
Not in that oh-shit way.
Not fear. It’s something quieter.
Something worse. It’s the impulse to pull her closer and never let go.
The gut-deep knowledge that this—her hand on my stomach, her body tangled with mine, her voice cracking open pieces of me I thought were locked away—isn’t casual anymore.
Not to me.
I look down at her.
She’s already fallen back into a deep sleep, lashes resting against her flushed cheeks, lips parted as if she’s mid-thought.
Still wearing my shirt.
Still ruining me.
I brush my fingers over her wrist, barely grazing her skin.
Just enough to convince myself I’m still allowed to touch her like this.
That it’s not some illusion or a dream I’m going to wake up from alone.
Just for tonight, she’s here.
And God help me, I want every second of it.
I close my eyes and let my hand drift across her back, rubbing a slow circle between her shoulder blades.
She doesn’t wake.
But she sighs again—quiet, content.
Like her body knows something her brain hasn’t caught up to yet.
I’m not even sure how we got here.
I remember the contract, the kiss, the slow slide into blissful madness.
Her falling apart under my mouth, whispering my name as if it was built for her lips.
I remember everything.
I remember her coming out of the bathroom afterward—hair wild, eyes blown wide with what-the-fuck-just-happened confusion, wrapped in a towel and blushing like she hadn’t just made me come so hard I forgot how knees worked.
But it’s not just that.
It’s the way she looked when I helped her get dressed.
She didn’t know what to do with someone being gentle with her.
Like she almost didn’t trust it—but let me anyway.
The way she let me pull my shirt over her head and steady her hips as she stepped into my boxers like it was a slow dance.
Like letting me take care of her wasn’t the worst idea she’d ever had.
I don’t do caretaking.
I don’t do midnight cuddles or dress someone like we’re already halfway to domestic bliss.
This isn’t me. This isn’t what I’m built for.
And yet—here I am.
Holding her as if she’s fragile.
As if she’s already mine.
And I don’t regret any of this.
I’d do it again. Every night.
Every morning after.
Should I act on it? Should I say something?
Or should I just shut up and pray she doesn’t hear how fast my heart beats every time she breathes near my neck?
I should tell her.
This isn’t just physical for me.
That somewhere between the first flirty text and the first real kiss, I stopped seeing her as a distraction and started seeing her in color.
In brightness. In fucking blinding clarity.
Not just lust.
But light.
But if I say it out loud, it’s real.
And she might not be ready for real.
So instead, I whisper into the dark—into the space between her sigh and my next regret.
“You’re dangerous, Liv.”
“Too fucking dangerous.”
She doesn’t hear me.
She just shifts closer, her thigh sliding over mine like a claim, her hand resting against my stomach like it’s where she belongs.
Maybe she does.
Maybe I’m the one who’s late to that realization.
And if this is what spiraling looks like?
Fuck it.
Let me fall even faster.