Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
Lucian
The Part Where One Leaves and One Stays
The guest room is quiet.
Too quiet, considering my extended family is currently scattered around the estate like they’re filming some bizarre crossover between Succession, Survivor, and Monopoly: Hostile Takeover Edition.
Last I checked, Scottie was accusing Killion of dealing cards with his feet, and Kade had declared a hunger strike unless someone whipped up a batch of brownies.
Love my family, but sometimes we can be a lot when we’re together.
Meanwhile, Greyson’s sulking in whatever dark corner he’s claimed for himself this trip, brooding through his last year of college, trying to pretend that the whole maybe-never-getting-drafted thing isn’t eating him alive.
I feel for him. The fact that our parents didn’t allow him to go to Canada when he was sixteen or even be part of the draft before he finishes college.
That’s exactly what they did to me.
Either you finish college or there’s no going pro.
Now that I’m older, I get it.
I wasn’t ready. Too cocky, too inexperienced and too .
. . me to have survived if I had started younger.
When I told Greyson of course he said I was an idiot and he couldn’t compare us.
And what about our parents?
Dad and Papa are actively plotting to escape to Manhattan under the flimsy excuse of “checking on Luna.” Let’s be real- this means they want baby cuddles without the responsibilities of being a parent.
Luna has replaced all of us, and honestly, I understand why.
She’s tiny, majestic, and already runs the family like a benevolent monarch.
We’d all die for her.
Olivia, however, is not in the room where I hoped I would find her so we could .
. . I’m not sure if I just want to kiss her or maybe fuck her so she doesn’t forget she belongs to me.
I glance out the window, arms crossed, my eyes scanning the estate.
The gardens glow in that late-afternoon golden-hour light that would make even the most hardened cynic consider taking up poetry.
Somewhere past the pool, just beyond the manicured rows of hydrangeas, I glimpse the stables.
Wide open, horses likely fed, content.
Yet, no Olivia in sight.
Which means she’s still out there.
With Sarah. And Buster.
That smug, retired show pony who, I’m now convinced, is actively trying to steal my girl.
Okay, he’s a horse, and .
. . Olivia is technically not my girlfriend.
She’s my cohabitant, my contractually entangled, benefits-optional neighbor.
She also happens to be the only woman I’ve ever thought about when my pillow smells like citrus shampoo and my chest feels—fuck, too tight—for no logical reason.
I rub the back of my neck, trying to knock the thought loose.
I’m not allowed to spiral.
I’m tired. Post-family-game-shenanigans defeated.
Emotionally waterlogged by extended family energy and too many rounds of Cards Against the Crawfords.
Okay, that’s not a game, but it’s how it felt.
Instead of sitting here like a lovesick idiot, I head to my room, debating whether I should grab my overnight bag and sneak it into Olivia’s room.
On my way down the hall, I spot Dad and Papa, posted near the fireplace like they’re debriefing some post-game.
“You two aren’t playing anymore?” I ask, tilting my chin toward the living room.
Dad shrugs. “Kill and Camille went home early. Kade and Val hitched a ride with them. No reason to use two helicopters. Your brother and sister are down at the stables, ensuring your girl is still alive and that Sarah hasn’t released the horses again.”
I huff out a laugh, but they really bought the whole “I’ll supervise the dog-horse playdate” excuse to escape the Crawford madness.
It’s sweet, really. The way Olivia cares for Sarah, as if she owns her.
Maybe, like we’re hers.
“So. . . the doctor,” Dad trails and looks at Papa.
“She’s more than your neighbor, right?” Papa asks because maybe this is how they rehearsed it.
My breath stalls for half a beat.
This is worse than their interrogation tactics during my adolescence.
At least then I had good excuses.
Now, I just don’t know if I want to tell them about her because there’s not much I can really say.
“I mean, you didn’t tell anyone, but it’s written all over your face,” Dad adds, like it’s nothing.
Like it’s obvious.
I press a hand to the back of my neck again.
“It’s . . . complicated.”
Papa’s brow lifts, but it’s Dad who speaks next.
“That sounds like something someone says when they’re scared it’s real.”
I don’t answer.
Because yeah. It’s real.
Too real.
“I know what happened with Ingrid fucked with your head,” Papa says, not unkindly.
“But Lucian, that was never love. That was a performance.”
“Still felt real when it ended,” I mutter.
“When she walked away like I was a business deal she’d flipped.”
“And that’s why you treat this or any other relationship like something you can schedule and manage,” Dad says.
“Olivia doesn’t seem to want your money. Doesn’t care about your name. She’s the only woman I’ve seen who looks at you like you’re human, not a headline.”
That lands.
Hard.
Because it’s true.
She didn’t fall for the brand.
Or the game stats. Or the pedigree.
She fell into my life with her sarcastic one-liners, her stubborn need to do everything herself, and her inability to resist Sarah’s pout and her antiques.
“She scares the fuck out of me,” I admit.
“But I’d be more afraid if she walked away.”
Papa smiles, soft and knowing.
“Then give yourself the chance to try. No prenups, no exit strategies. Just the truth.”
A door opens down the hall.
Footsteps. A bark. Sarah barrels in, tongue lolling and tail wagging, announcing Olivia’s return like she’s royalty.
And just like that, everything settles.
Not because I’m calm.
Not because I’m confident.
But because she’s here.
And that’s enough.
For now.
“I come bearing news,” she announces, dropping a bag by the door and kicking off her boots as if she owns the place.
“Sarah made two new friends. One licked her face, and the other allowed her to sniff his tail for a full twenty seconds. A record.”
“That sounds serious.” I watch her walk in as if she’s not casually setting fire to my entire life.
“Should we notify the press?”
She shrugs out of her jacket and tosses it over the arm of the couch.
“We should get her a certificate. No horses escaped, no one got trampled, and she didn’t cause a single stampede.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“In what? ‘Did not bite her equine acquaintances’? A participation award for not being a menace?”
Olivia grins, then flops onto my bed like it’s hers.
Which, at this point, it sort of is.
“You laugh, but it was a big day. She even shared her treat.”
“With the horse?”
“With another dog. Small. Judgy. Name was Lancelot. It was a whole vibe.”
I sit beside her, careful not to close the distance too quickly.
She smells like hay and sunshine and the complete ruin of my emotional self-control.
“Now I know you’re making shit up. There are no other dogs here.”
She shrugs, half-yawning.
“Did I miss anything?”
“Scottie tried to blackmail Kade, Papa made everyone do toasts for no reason, and I was called soft four times. Once by a seven-year-old.”
She arches a brow.
“Okay, Greyson’s twenty-one. But emotionally? He’s seven and a half, max.”
Her laugh is lazy.
She’s pretty tired. “And did you cry?”
“Almost,” I admit.
“Mostly because you weren’t there.”
She falls silent, and I gaze at her.
Truly gaze. At the way one leg is tucked beneath her as if she’s trying not to occupy too much space.
At the faint mark on her temple where her braid has been pulled too tightly.
At the crease between her brows that she believes no one notices when she’s pretending everything’s fine.
“You okay?” she asks, suspicion bleeding into her voice.
“No,” I say. “Not really.”
She straightens a little.
“Did something happen?”
“Yes.” I look at her.
“You. You entered my life and knocked me upside down and downside up.”
Her throat moves around a swallow, her eyes narrowing like she’s trying to decode me.
“Lucian . . .”
“I’m not saying it to be dramatic,” I cut in before she spirals.
“And I’m not trying to make a move. I just . . .” I drag a hand through my hair, and exhale.
“I don’t know how to do this when it’s not a joke. When I’m not hiding behind innuendo or sarcasm. When it’s actually real.”
She looks down.
And I fucking hate that.
I reach over and tap her knee.
“Hey. Look at me.”
She does.
Slowly. Like it costs her something.
“Earlier, when I was surrounded by family, I still felt like something was missing. It wasn’t about who got the last brownie or who brought up who cheated on who. It was you. Not being there.”
Her eyes are wide, uncertain.
“Lucian, we said?—”
“I know what we said. I know the deal. Hell, I wrote that ridiculous agreement, remember?” My smile is crooked.
Small. Honest. “But now . . .”
Her silence stretches between us like barbed wire.
She leans forward, elbows resting on her knees, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.
“I’ve never been good at this,” she says at last. “The feelings thing. Letting people in. I usually get close enough to joke about it and then bail before anyone notices I was even there.”
“I noticed,” I say, my voice low.
“I always notice.”
She swallows hard.
“I used to think I’d end up alone,” she murmurs.
“By choice. Because it was easier.”
She exhales.
“You want forever, and I don’t even know if I’m built for Tuesday.”
I blink.
“Tuesday’s a solid day. Underrated, even.”
She snorts, but it’s brittle.
“I’m serious,” she says.
“You want someone who can come to dinner and talk about feelings, maybe raise a couple of rescue dogs and do Sunday brunch. I don’t do brunch. I leave before brunch. I ghost after midnight. I joke through trauma and avoid hard conversations by starting debates about glitter glue.”
“I like glitter glue,” I say softly.
“Also, I’m fairly sure brunch is just breakfast with anxiety.”
She doesn’t smile.
“I mean it, Lucian. You need to understand that I can’t be like that.” Her fingers tighten in her lap.
“You want happy and my family doesn’t do happy. It’s maybe a curse. Mom couldn’t love anyone else after the divorce. Dad just kept changing to younger models until he died, and you know who took care of him when he died?”
She takes a deep breath.
“No one because he was estranged from his daughters, and his last wife decided to leave his sorry ass when she learned his will only included Aspen and me.” She scoffs.
“Aspen, who’s the most amazing sister but she can’t commit to a man who can hang the moon for her and steal the sun if she asked for it. We’re a disaster.
“This isn’t cute.
This isn’t quirky. This is me telling you that if we keep doing this, I will mess it up.
I will say the wrong thing or push you away or laugh when I should apologize.
I’ll turn something gentle into a punchline because that’s how I cope.
It’s how I survive.”
She looks up.
Her eyes are glassy, but not teary.
Like she’s doing everything she can not to care.
I want to pull her into my chest and tell her she doesn’t have to survive me.
That I’m not her parents.
That love doesn’t have to be collateral damage.
But instead, I nod. “Okay.”
Her eyebrows lift.
“Okay?”
“I’m not going to chase you out of the room, Liv. If you need space, take it. But I can't pretend I don’t want more with you. And I won't let you pretend you don’t want it too.”
She swallows hard.
“We don’t have to name it. We don’t have to call it love. Hell, we can call it ‘strategic mutual vulnerability’ if that makes it easier for you. But I’m not going anywhere. So when you decide you want to try—even just a little—I’ll be here.”
Her mouth opens.
Then closes. Then opens again.
And then she stands.
“I need air,” she mumbles, brushing past me toward the door.
I don’t stop her. I don’t reach for her wrist or call her name.
I just sit there in the quiet, listening to her footsteps fade down the hall, and I remind myself this isn’t over.
I now understand why the scary, tall man is not married to Aspen.
He loves her too much to pressure her into doing something that is apparently scarier than life itself.
Love.
I get it.
I fucking get it.
So if this is what she needs—if pretending for the next fifty years that I’m merely the flirty neighbor who makes innuendos over morning coffee and speaks filth when it’s convenient—then fine.
I’ll play the part.
I’ll be the guy she texts when her sink clogs or when Sarah eats another sock.
I’ll be the guy who stays up past midnight because she can’t sleep and needs someone to talk to, even if she won’t admit it.
I’ll be the guy who memorizes her coffee order, her allergy meds, and that weird thing she does where she smells books before reading them.
I’ll be that guy.
Even if she never calls me hers.
Because I already am.
Because the truth is, I’ve already memorized her.
The shape of her laugh.
The way she curls into herself when she’s overwhelmed.
The low, breathy sound she makes when I kiss the spot behind her ear.
The taste of her—coffee, sugar, and a hint of fuck-you-I’m-fine.
I’d let her break my heart one thousand different ways just to hear her call me at two in the morning and say, “Hey. You up?”
I’d burn for her.
Quietly. Patiently. Completely.
So no, this isn’t over.
It’s just intermission.
And I’ll wait.
Not because I’m weak.
But because I fucking love her.
And when she’s ready, when she finally turns around and sees me not just standing here, but staying—I’ll be right here.
No pressure. No demands.
Just me. The man who’s been hers since the moment she mocked my playlist and then offered me a bite of her muffin as if that wasn’t a goddamn declaration of war and devotion all in one.
Yeah.
I’ll be here.
Even if it kills me.