Chapter 16 Melanie
Melanie
The apartment is soft and golden—the tree on its timer, the lemon ornament catching light like a wink—but Lucas is quiet in that way that makes the room feel…
edged. He does his normal sweep—deadbolt, wedge, blinds, glance at the fire escape—and then leans a shoulder against the kitchen counter, eyes far away, thumb worrying the ridge of his knuckle like he’s filing down a thought.
“Hot cocoa?” I offer, rattling candy canes like maracas.
“Always,” he says, automatic, and the smile happens, but the rest of him stays at half-power.
I steam milk, stir in chocolate, crown each cup with a whipped-cream mountain and striped cane.
We sit on the couch. He wraps his hands around the mug like he needs the heat to decide what to say.
I can almost hear the gears. Baby Peanut does a lazy roll, either voting for cocoa or reminding me I’m not the only one listening.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I ask finally, because the waiting is louder than anything he could say. “Should I be scared?”
His eyes lift, steady. “You should be aware, not scared.” He sets the mug down, turns fully toward me.
“Mercer was on us today. We confirmed it. Duke pushed him off near the clock tower, and Gunner shadowed him to the train. We still don’t know who hired him or why he pivoted from the client to us.
He’s not a smash-and-grab guy—he’s a watcher. That’s its own kind of risk.”
My heart does a tight, fast thing. “And me?”
“You’re in our orbit,” he says, honest, not softening it.
“So we tighten the bubble.” He ticks them off, not patronizing—just concrete.
“Vary routes, park under cameras, stairs over elevator when we can, no predictable times. Check-ins. If I’m not with you, I’ll have someone on the block I trust. If anything pings wrong—smell, vibe, pattern—you say gingerbread and we change the plan.
I mean anything, Mel. Your intuition is a sensor. ”
I breathe, slow like Dr. Patel taught me. “Okay.”
“I wish I could say ‘ignore it,’” he adds, mouth flattening. “I can’t. But I can say this: you are not alone in it. We are not reactive. We’re proactive.”
“Proactive and cocoa,” I say, lifting my mug like a toast I’m not quite ready to drink.
He clinks it, eyes warmed by something that isn’t just the chocolate. “Proactive and cocoa.”
We finish the mugs in tandem silence that’s less sharp. He rinses, I dry, and a strange domestic calm slides over the fear like a blanket. Bed sounds good—not as an escape, exactly, but as a place where our breaths line up and the world gets smaller.
He does the last checks with the ritual I now find soothing—the wedge seated, the chain set, the phone faced down on the nightstand. I slide under the duvet and feel him slip in beside me, one arm curving under my neck, the other landing warm and heavy across my waist.
“I’ll always keep you safe,” he says into my hair, as if it’s the simplest fact he knows.
I swallow against the ache that sentence wakes. “How?” I ask before I can pretty it up. “When you’re in Denver.”
The quiet changes shape. Not bad. Not gone. Just honest.
He breathes out against my temple. “I don’t have a press release answer.
” Another beat. “I’m not planning to disappear in January and pretend this was a holiday assignment.
We’ll talk. We’ll make a plan that doesn’t ask you to carry everything, or me to be a postcard.
” A small squeeze. “I’m not leaving you unguarded—in any sense of the word. ”
I nod, but the expiration-date clock I’ve been ignoring lights up again in the corner of my mind, a little red LED blinking after the holidays. I hate it. I also can’t turn it off. The baby kicks low, a firm punctuation.
“I’m sad,” I admit, whispering it to the quilt like a secret. “I like… this. I like you brushing your teeth next to me and your socks under my couch and you yelling at me to drink water. I like it so much it hurts to think it might have a time limit.”
His hand finds mine under the covers, fingers lacing, grip certain. “Then let’s not borrow hurt from a day we haven’t lived yet.” He tips my chin so I’m looking at him. “We do what we’ve been doing. One sandbag at a time.”
The tears come hot and fast in that embarrassing pregnancy way, and he thumbs them away like he’s done it forever. “Okay,” I say, which is not a solution but a truce.
He kisses me—slow, unhurried, the kind that says I’m here now and means I’m not sprinting for the door.
I kiss him back with everything tight in my chest, and it loosens.
The make-out is soft and sweet and a little desperate at the edges, but we keep it where we decided to keep it: a slow yes, not a rush toward a fix.
He’s careful of my belly, my back, my breath, and I’m careful of his restraint, his worry, the way he’s carrying more than he’ll ever say out loud.
We break for air and lie forehead to forehead. The apartment hums—heater, someone’s muffled laugh down the hall, the faraway shush of a car through slush. Peanut decides the moment needs a drum solo and kicks, solid and undeniable, right under my palm.
“Whoa,” I whisper, half laugh, half gasp. “Do you want to—?”
He’s already nodding. I guide his hand to the spot. We wait. One heartbeat, two—and then there it is: another thump, stronger, like a tiny fist knocking from the inside.
Lucas inhales like he’s been punched and blessed at the same time. His eyes go glassy in the low light, mouth parting on a sound that isn’t a word.
“Hi,” he says, so softly I feel it more than hear it. His palm spreads, thumb trembling just once. “Hey there, Peanut.” He laughs, a shaky, disbelieving thing. “Permission to lose my mind a little?”
“Granted,” I whisper, and now I’m crying again, but in the good way, the way that feels like a pressure valve releasing.
We lie there with his hand on our child and my cheek wet against his shoulder, and the world—the case, the train, the wedge, the after-New-Year blinking—tips a little out of frame. What stays in focus is simple: his hand, that kick, this room.
“I didn’t know,” he says, voice rough. “I mean—I knew. But I didn’t know like this.”
“Me neither,” I say. “Every time it feels new.”
He presses a kiss into my hair, then another, like he’s saying thank you without words.
We fall quiet. After a while he starts talking low and ridiculous to my belly—about cocoa, and how he overcooked the green beans by exactly one minute, and how he’s buying noise-cancelling headphones for the first six months so it can cry as much as it wants.
I laugh, and the baby does a slow roll like their version of applause.
Things take a turn a few minutes later when he kisses my forehead, and then the tip of my nose. His eyes land on mine, and then the next thing I know we're kissing. We’re kissing and not in the PG type of way. This is purely R rated.
His tongue matches mine, and his grip on me tightens. I lean into him, wanting more than anything to have this man once again. To be able to feel him inside me. One more time. Even if it’s only for tonight. Even if it’s just this once.
I need him and my body recognizes his. Like it remembers as well as I do. That one night that changed everything.
I don’t feel sexy at all, but the way Lucas stares at me makes me question if he’s seeing me differently right now. “I feel ugly,” I tell him, my hormones a complete mess.
Lucas only gazes at me, his mouth hanging slightly open as he sucks in a breath. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” His hand roams over my body, across my belly, between the middle of my thighs.
My breath hitches. “Are you sure?” I ask him, because like I said… I do not feel sexy right now.
But then… I look into Lucas’s eyes. I see the want swimming behind his irises. The way his breath hitches, matching mine. Is he as turned on as I am?
“I’ve never been more sure in my whole fucking life, Mel.” And then he kisses me.
Again.
And it’s so naughty that it pushes every thought about babies, pregnancy, hormones completely out of my mind. The only thing left is pure lust.
He slides my yoga pants down my legs, and I help him by kicking out of them. He tosses them onto the floor, and then smiles up at me. “You’re feisty.” His smile grows. “I love it.”
“It’s been a long time,” I say, and then my thoughts crash. Has he been with anyone since me?
He must be able to read my mind because he stalls, his eyes growing serious. “It’s been the same amount of time for me too.”
My sigh of relief is so loud we both start laughing a little. “I haven’t wanted anyone else,” I tell him.
He cradles my face with his hands. “I haven’t wanted anyone but you since the first moment I saw you stranded on the side of the road. There’s no way I could have drove on by without stopping.”
My face heats. “I want you, Lucas,” I whisper, and I don’t mean sexually. Well, I do, but it’s so much more than that. I want this man by my side forever. I want him raising my baby with me. Our baby.
His eyes search mine, and then he leans in slowly and kisses me. This kiss is so different. There’s everything we both want to say to one another without all the words.
He removes the rest of my clothing as reverently as he can. Like he’s worshipping me. Like he’s never seen anything so sacred.
He kisses all over my skin, causing goosebumps to rise in their wake. He undresses himself like he’s trying to beat the high score in Pac-Man.
He positions himself between my legs, fisting his dick with one hand. “I’ve been dreaming about this for so long. I haven’t stopped thinking about you, Mel.”
“You have me,” I tell him, meaning it deep down into my soul.
He slides into me, and our eyes connect. “You feel better than I remember.” He keeps pushing as he rests his forehead against mine. Our breaths intermingle, and I lean in to kiss him once more.
I can’t get enough of his lips. I could kiss him forever. But that may not be in the cards for me, so I'm going to take advantage while I can.
He keeps moving inside me, making me forget my own name. I squeeze my eyes shut as we continue to breathe each other’s air. Stars line my vision as I move in rhythm with him. My heartbeat kicks up as my orgasm slowly crests over the horizon.
“I’m so close,” I tell him, my body heating up all over the closer and closer I get to my release.
“Me too, Melanie.” He picks up speed, bucking his body against mine.
I hold onto him, never wanting to let him go. “Oh, Lucas," I whisper as my orgasm crashes down all around me.
He chases my orgasm with his own. “You own me so good,” he says as he empties himself into me.
We hold each other close, our bodies trying desperately to catch up. As soon as we’ve calmed, he moves like a man on a stealth mission, cleaning me up and making sure I get my sleep clothes back on.
We lie together, my head resting on his chest as I draw lazy circles along his hardened abs.
“You okay?” he asks me.
“Yeah. Better than okay.”
Eventually, he shifts, and tucks me closer. “Sleep,” he murmurs. “I’m on watch.”
“Always?” I ask, not because I want to catch him—because I want to remember how this feels.
“Always,” he says, and it lands not like a promise he can’t keep but like a thing he intends to build.
Between fear and future, I pick now. I tuck into the space under his chin, let the baby drum once more against his hand, and sleep in the safest place I’ve ever known.