Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Olivia
Rules of Engagement (and Other Lies We Told Ourselves)
I wake up warm.
Not just blanket-warm.
Not simply couch-on-a-snowy-day-warm.
This is human-furnace warm.
Male chest, arm slung across my waist, someone’s thigh tangled with mine kind of warm.
And I should probably be alarmed.
Or at the very least mildly uncomfortable.
Except my body? She’s having the time of her life.
Also, she already knows it’s him.
Lucian.
Lucian Freaking Crawford.
His scent hits me before my brain even finishes booting up for the day—citrus, musk, and a hint of whatever shampoo he uses that smells way too good to be legal.
How does this man still smell edible after sleeping?
I probably smell like stress and one too many poor decisions.
He smells like a whole damn cologne commercial.
With abs.
There’s a hand on my stomach.
I crack one eye open.
Yep. His fingers are possessively splayed over the hem of his shirt that I’m still wearing—like he’s been holding onto me all night.
Correction: I’m ninety-nine percent sure he has been holding onto me all night.
His breath brushes my hairline—slow, deep.
Still asleep or pretending really well.
Good. I need a second.
Maybe two. Maybe a lifetime.
Because everything hurts- not in a call-your-doctor way.
This is the used-in-all-the-right-ways soreness.
The kind my physical therapist would absolutely frown at but probably high-five me for.
Yet, it’s not just physical.
That would be way too easy.
There’s a pull behind my ribs- a soft, low hum I hesitate to name yet because it’s probably the aftermath of my poor choices.
I shift slightly, and his arm tightens—like his body already knows I’m trying to escape.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice low, sleep-rough, and way too sexy for seven a.m.
I close my eyes again.
“So are you.”
“You were talking in your sleep.”
Oh no.
“No, I wasn’t.”
“You said ‘peanut sauce’ and ‘glitter’ in the same sentence. Also something about a staff meeting and edible dog decorations.”
I groan, dragging the blanket over my face.
“Please tell me I didn’t say your name.”
Silence.
I peek out.
He’s already looking at me, brow arched like I walked into my own trap barefoot.
Which I did. With confetti.
“You said it,” he murmurs, quiet but smug.
Crap. So much crap. This is bad, but I don’t know the degree of bad it is.
“I must’ve been dreaming about firing you.”
He grins.
“In your dream, I was your emotional support intern, bringing you lattes and puppy-safe glitter.”
I scoff because the stuff he makes up is always hilarious.
“Sounds about right.”
Lucian rolls onto his side, propping his head on one hand.
The blanket slips low on his hips—and, hello, abs.
Focus, Olivia. Don’t ogle the man who just made you forget what dignity tastes like.
“What else did I say?” I ask warily.
His gaze softens. “Nothing that made sense. But you were smiling.”
It takes me a beat too long to respond.
“I don’t think I usually smile in my sleep.”
“You don’t usually sleep here.”
Don’t read into it.
Do not make this a thing.
I sit up, ignoring how his shirt slips off one shoulder—and the way his eyes follow it as if it has committed an unforgivable act.
Or maybe . . . maybe that’s hunger in his gaze.
He craves my skin . .
. okay, time to get out of bed before we repeat whatever happened last night.
I gather my hair off my neck and twist it into the internationally recognized “I-have-no-energy” bun, then slide out of bed.
Sarah lifts her head from the floor like she’s been waiting for this moment her whole life.
I let her out to the backyard and head to the kitchen.
Lucian follows, of course.
Because he’s a menace.
The worst. The best. But mostly the worst.
“I’ll make coffee,” he says, already reaching for the French press like a man who knows precisely where my last nerve lives.
“You don’t have to,” I mutter, even as I watch his biceps scoop the grounds.
Why does he have to look hot .
. . well just existing?
He shrugs. “I want to.”
There it is again.
That quiet little landmine of intention he keeps dropping like it’s casual.
He wants to do things for me.
This is so not casual.
He’s not casual. This is not casual.
I pour water into a glass, trying not to overanalyze the fact that this?
This feels like routine.
Like morning-after. Like something.
“I should head back soon,” I say, mainly to the countertop.
Lucian blinks. “Back? You mean to your condemned house?”
“It’s under renovation,” I huff.
“Not condemned. That implies it needs an exorcism.”
He smirks.
“Considering the last time I was there, your oven tried to kill you, and your sink made a noise I’m pretty sure summoned a demon? Potato, potahto.”
I open my mouth.
Close it. He has a point.
I don’t mean about the oven, he’s making that shit up, but it was in pretty bad form.
They said I have to stay away all week, and yet it feels as if I have to remain here for a lifetime.
Why?
“I just don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
He tilts his head.
“Liv, you’re not a guest. You live here right now, not just because Sarah picked you.”
“I know. I just . . .”
Just what?
“No,” I say. Then, quieter, “Just seemed like the right thing to say.”
Lucian leans against the fridge, mug cradled in one hand, watching me like he’s cataloguing the exact moment I start to retreat.
“I’m not expecting anything,” he says.
“You sure about that?” I ask.
“Because last night you kissed my forehead while you were helping me get dressed.”
His lips twitch.
“You were being cute.”
“I . . .” I don’t know what to say.
There’s a long pause.
Too long.
I exhale, fingers tightening around the mug.
“Lucian, we had a deal.”
“I know.”
“No sleepovers. No spiraling. No kissing unless it’s?—”
“Sexual and mutually agreed upon as part of the benefits package,” he recites, with this grin that both infuriates and wrecks me.
“Yeah. I remember.”
“Then what are we doing?”
He hesitates.
“I don’t know.”
I hate how much that resonates.
How honest it is. How it causes something to flutter behind my ribs even as my mind yells at me to create distance between us.
“It’s just a contract,” I say.
“We can end it anytime.”
Lucian steps closer.
Not enough to touch.
Just enough to make my lungs forget how to function.
“Do you want to end it?”
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t know how to say no without agreeing to everything that terrifies me, I don’t know how to tell him I’m falling without providing him a blueprint to break me.
Without granting him access to the exact places I’ve spent years protecting.
His voice drops, quieter now.
“Because I don’t.”
That pulls my gaze up.
Straight into his.
Honest. Unflinching.
Open in a way I haven’t allowed anyone to be with me for longer than I care to admit.
“I’m scared,” I say, before I can lie.
Before I can build another wall between us.
Lucian nods, like he already knew, as though he has been waiting for me to catch up.
“Me too. You’re too fucking scary, Doctor Olivia Halston.”
My breath catches.
It’s not just the words.
It’s the way he says my name—half teasing, half reverent—like I’m his favorite problem to solve and his worst idea rolled into one.
Then he steps closer.
Not too close. Just enough.
He brushes his knuckles along my jaw—light, almost tentative.
Not claiming. Not coaxing.
Just . . . there. Just offering.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs.
“I just needed you to know that I’d stay if you asked me to.”
And that’s what unravels me.
Not because I don’t want him to stay.
But because I do.
Because I’ve built my entire adult life around not needing anyone.
Around being self-sufficient.
Remaining unshakable .
. . I’m fine on my own.
And here he is. Standing in the kitchen.
Shirtless. Calm. Holding a mug and a promise like it’s not the most dangerous thing he’s ever done.
“I should get dressed,” I croak, the words tripping over the knot in my throat.
Lucian backs off instantly.
No hesitation. No pressure.
Respectful in a way that hurts a little more than it should.
“I gotta get ready for camp anyway.” His voice is even and unreadable.
He disappears down the hallway, with Sarah trotting after him like a judgmental chaperone, her paws clicking like punctuation marks in the silence he leaves behind.
And all I feel is the cold where he used to be.
I shuffle toward the guest bathroom.
Not because I want to.
Because I need space.
Because I need to get it together before I spiral completely.
I take my time rinsing off the sleep— rinsing the thoughts of his mouth, his hands, the way he said my name like it belonged to him.
I brush my teeth with the spare toothbrush he gave me when I stayed “just for convenience” and stare at the same mirror that’s now fogged around the edges as if even it doesn’t want me to see too clearly.
Do I look different now?
Like a woman who’s starting to fall in love with the one man she promised to keep at arm’s length?
I towel off, find one of the clean T-shirts he left folded on the counter (of course he did), and shimmy into a pair of leggings I’d stuffed in a drawer.
The flutter’s back. Low and traitorous.
The kind that makes your chest feel like it’s bracing for impact.
Or perhaps something softer.
Something like hope.
When I return to the kitchen, Lucian’s dressed in a soft gray T-shirt and joggers, barefoot and disheveled in a way that should be illegal at eight a.m.
He holds up a plate.
“I made eggs.”
“Lucian . . .”
“No strings,” he says quickly, lifting a palm like he’s not trying to start anything.
“Just breakfast. For recovery. Strictly functional. Not a metaphor.”
I sit—mainly because my legs are still wobbly, and I don’t trust them not to betray me.
“Fine. But if you made toast, I’m leaving you for dead.”
He smirks.
“No toast. Just eggs, fruit, and a weird yogurt thing I found in the back of the fridge that looked suspiciously yours.”
We eat in silence.
Not the awkward kind .
. . the kind that somehow feels like a conversation without words.
Until he catches me watching him.
“You can stay, you know. For as long as you want.”
“I know.”
“Just for a while. No pressure. No terms. No contracts.”
I nod.
But I don’t say yes.
Not yet.
After we eat, I grab Sarah’s leash and head out.
It’s time for the dog park.
Time to think. Time to breathe.
I leave with the taste of strawberries on my tongue, the scent of Lucian’s shirt still clinging to my skin, and the sound of his voice echoing in my head.
I’d stay. If you asked.
I didn’t ask.
But God, I wanted to.