15. Lucian
LUCIAN
I wake up to the soft, gray light of morning filtering through the blinds.
For a moment, I’m disoriented—this is my bed, but something’s distinctly different—and then I feel Neesha’s warmth next to me and my mind replays last night when I asked her to stay.
She must have fallen asleep too, despite insisting she was going to sleep on the couch.
She shifts against my arm, her body curving into mine in a way that’s so perfect, I don’t want to mess it up.
Her head rests on my shoulder, her dark hair spilling across my chest. Sometime during the night, we shifted from her intentionally measured distance to this —tangled together like we’ve been sleeping this way for years.
Henry is sprawled across our feet, snoring softly like we’re one big happy family.
This is bad. She’s going to panic when she realizes where she is… and who she’s with.
I should move before she wakes up and realizes we’ve been snuggling all morning, because this will definitely scare her—the intimacy, the vulnerability of sleeping next to a hockey player.
If she realizes I’ve been holding her like she’s mine, she’ll bolt faster than someone ghosting me after a we need to talk text .
But when I move, every muscle in my body protests in pain. Last night’s hit has left me aching in places I didn’t even know could hurt. I don’t need a mirror to know I look like I’m a real live example of why parents everywhere tell their kids to stick to board games.
I breathe her in, the scent of vanilla buttercream always lingering on her skin, and then, very slowly, I attempt to disentangle my arm from beneath her. Henry immediately lifts his head, shooting me a look that says, Must you disturb my sleep, human?
Yeah, I don’t want to move either.
Not when she looks this peaceful, without all those walls she puts up.
As she nuzzles her face into my shoulder, there’s a softness to her expression, a look of contentment that I wish I could capture.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand, taking in her serene smile and the way the morning light makes her look otherworldly.
I take the quietest photo I can just to remember this moment, but when I try to set the phone back down, it slips from my fingers and crashes to the floor.
Neesha’s eyes flutter open, and I watch in real time as she processes our current situation—her head on my chest, my arm around her, our legs completely tangled together.
And then her eyes widen.
She jerks upright quickly, a blush spreading across her cheeks like spilled wine. “Did we—? I mean, how did I—?” She scrambles away from me like she just woke up in a bed of poison ivy. “I’m so sorry, Lucian. I’m used to having the bed to myself.”
I hold up my hands, trying not to wince as every movement reminds me I’m basically one giant bruise. “Hey, it’s okay. Nothing happened other than you fell asleep next to me. Henry was a good chaperone and kept everything strictly professional.”
She circles the bed slowly, her eyes wild, looking adorably rumpled in her t-shirt and pajama pants.
“But I don’t usually do that. ”
“You mean, fall asleep at your neighbor’s house?” I tease. “Neesha, it’s fine,” I say, trying to crawl out of bed while my body feels like it’s been hit by a bus.
She frowns, watching me move. “Oh my word, how are you feeling? I’m so sorry. Here I was having a full panic attack about this , and you’re literally broken.”
I carefully stand, wincing as I straighten my back. “Like I went ten rounds with a Marvel villain, but I’ll live.” I must look terrible to her, but I don’t want her to leave yet. “Stay for breakfast?”
She wrings her hands. “Oh, I’ll just head back to my place and have cereal like a responsible adult.”
“So responsible adults eat cereal, huh? Personally, I prefer waffles. Homemade ones with fresh fruit, Nutella, chocolate sauce, and whipped cream.”
“That sounds almost illegal,” she says. “But you can’t cook in the state you’re in.”
“I’m just sore, not broken,” I say. “And I make a mean waffle. I’d let you try one, but apparently your cereal is better?”
“Lucian.” She uses that tone that probably works on Henry when he’s being stubborn. “You nearly passed out from pain last night.”
“That was before the soup and…” I pause, because mentioning that we slept in the same bed will definitely send her running for the hills. “Everything else.”
She crosses her arms, and even with her unbrushed hair and makeup-free face, she looks like someone I could wake up to for the next fifty years.
“If you insist on being stubborn, we’ll make breakfast together,” she says. “But I’m ordering you to sit on a stool or I’ll kick you out of the kitchen.”
“You’re going to banish me from my own kitchen?”
“I absolutely will, and don’t think I won’t follow through.”
“Deal,” I say, trying not to show how much I love her taking charge. Last night she could barely look at me after learning I’m a hockey player, and now she’s bossing me around in my own house. Maybe getting my face rearranged was worth it if it means she’s comfortable enough to tease me again.
“Let me at least show you where things are,” I say, heading to the kitchen. I pull out the ingredients from the pantry and start measuring the dry goods.
“You have this recipe memorized?” she asks, surprised. “How often do you make these?”
I pull up a stool next to the counter so I can sit while mixing things up. “My grandpa’s doing,” I explain, cracking eggs one-handed into the mix. “Every Saturday morning he made waffles. He said someday I’d thank him for teaching me the secret to impressing women.”
She cocks her head while handing me a measuring spoon. “And how many women have fallen victim to your legendary waffles?”
“You’re my first. If this fails, I’m switching to cereal like all the other responsible adults, and accepting my fate as a failed waffle chef.”
“No pressure, then,” she says.
“I actually work better under pressure. Most hockey players do.” I pause, watching her reaction, but she doesn’t seem as guarded about my job. Maybe this is progress?
“So your dates never made it to breakfast?” she asks, her voice laced with curiosity.
“If you think I’ve had a revolving door of overnight guests, the answer is no.
The truth is, I don’t do the casual-dating thing.
Never have. I’m more of a ‘find your person and never let them go’ kind of guy.
” One more thing I don’t say: I’m the kind of man who wants to wake up next to the same beautiful face and never grow tired of it.
She glances over at me for a second before turning back to the waffle mix. “Is this the same grandfather who taught you how to fix things?”
I nod as I add the last of the ingredients.
“He and Grandma helped raise me after my parents divorced when I was young. When Mom was married, she always missed the small town where she and Dad grew up—the people, the connections, the way everyone comes together to help each other. But Dad didn’t want anything to do with it, probably because he had made things awkward with Grandpa.
So he chose his business over family.” I reach for the waffle iron on the top shelf and immediately regret it as my ribs throb.
“Here, let me,” Neesha says, stepping next to me. When she reaches for the waffle maker, her body bumps against mine for the briefest second.
“That must have been hard,” she says, handing me the waffle iron. She doesn’t look nearly as affected as I am about our brief touch. Maybe it’s because I’m the one who woke up to the vision of her next to me—a memory I’m not going to get over anytime soon.
“I learned a good lesson: Grandpa always said some people build bridges, and others burn them. It’s clear which one my dad was. But he also taught me that the best things in life are built slowly. And they can be torn down in seconds by one bad decision.”
“Your grandfather sounds really wise,” she says, then watches me as I plug in the waffle iron. “You know, for a guy who got bodychecked on the ice last night, you’re surprisingly functional.”
“I told you, I don’t get hurt much.”
She snorts a little. “Says the man covered in bruises.”
“I’ve been told scars are sexy,” I say with a half-smirk.
“Who said that? Your teammates with missing teeth?”
I laugh, then instantly regret it as my ribs protest again. “Okay, new rule: no making me laugh. It hurts too much.”
“I wasn’t aware I was funny,” she says, pouring batter into the waffle iron. “Just honest.”
“That’s what makes you dangerous, Neesha,” I murmur. “ Truth is the funniest kind of comedy. And I like talking with you. It makes everything hurt less.”
Her hand pauses on the waffle iron, just for a second. But she doesn’t say anything.
The timer beeps, breaking our moment, and I open the lid. The waffle is golden brown and smells delicious.
I put it on a plate and hand it to Neesha before pouring more batter into the iron. Then I pull out all the toppings. Fresh strawberries and blueberries, chocolate sauce, Nutella and whipped cream.
She piles the toppings on her hot waffle before taking her first bite. “Lucian—these are actually incredible.”
“Don’t sound so shocked,” I say. “Told you Grandpa’s recipe was legendary.”
“I just…” She bites her lip. “I thought you were overselling your skills to get me to stay.”
“Is it working?” I ask.
She props an elbow on the counter like we’ve been eating breakfast together for years. “A guy who cooks breakfast and doesn’t burn the house down? I mean, that’s basically husband material right there.”
I grin. “Keep talking like that and I might end up suggesting matching outfits and a Costco membership.”
She laughs, and I’m reminded how much I love the sound of it—especially in my house, where she seems to put her guard down. I like that she’s comfortable here, that she can be herself and let me make her breakfast.
She takes another bite. “Hate to disappoint you, but I will never do coordinating outfits, Lucian.”