Chapter 8
EIGHT
ALEXANDER
I watch Lucas eat, almost surprised by how much of a fast eater he is. He had nearly finished the bowl of yogurt before I passed him the breakfast I had made.
His hands move fast, barely giving himself time to breathe as he shovels bagel, bacon, sausages, and egg into his mouth. His shoulders are slightly hunched, his head bowed low, his gaze fixed on the plate like it’s the only thing that matters. He doesn’t look at me, not even once.
I stand across from him, sipping my second coffee just… observing. It’s quiet. Naturally so. Even the usual hum of the city outside is distant, like the penthouse is floating above the world.
I should say something.
But I don’t.
I think about last night. About how I almost missed him. I don’t know if it was luck or fate that made me see him standing there while driving home after work, A lone figure in the downpour, head bowed and defeated.
I had pulled over without thinking. Then I called my housekeeper and told her to prepare the downstairs guestroom and set out spare necessities before I hopped out of the car, taking an umbrella with me.
Lucas had barely hesitated before getting in.
No words. Just a nod, like he didn’t have the energy to argue.
That kind of exhaustion… I recognized it.
And now, here he is, sitting in my kitchen, eating my food like he’s afraid it might be taken away. Something about it makes my stomach twist. I don’t like it. I don’t like the way his shoulders stay tense, like he’s waiting for something to go wrong.
Lucas is a contradiction - features that are both delicate yet sharp, soft yet not fragile. He’s too pretty for someone who hides himself too well. I don’t usually care about people, but I find myself caring about him, and I barely know him.
I set my mug down and grabbed the notebook. If I speak, he will have to look at me, have to focus on my lips, and I don’t want to interrupt whatever fragile peace he’s found in his meal.
Instead, I flip to a blank page and write:
Could you teach me ASL? How much would that cost?
I slide the notebook across the counter and wait. It takes a few seconds before Lucas notices. His chewing slows, eyes flicking down to the words. And then he freezes, his reaction is subtle, but I catch it. The way his fingers tense, the way his breath hitches ever so slightly.
Then, finally, his eyes lift to mine. There’s something wary in his expression, hesitation, and a flicker of doubt. I tilt my head slightly, watching him closer, my patience endless.
He swallows and sets his fork down. His fingers hover over the notebook like he’s debating whether to respond. Like, he doesn’t trust this. Like, he doesn’t trust me.
I tap the counter once, slow, deliberate.
He stares back at the notebook for a long time. Too long.
Then he picks up the pen and writes, his handwriting quick and sharp: Why?
I lift my gaze to him, unreadable. “Why not?”
His jaw clenches. His fingers tighten around the pen, and for a second, I think he might snap it in half. Then he starts writing again, more forcefully this time.
I don’t want your money.
I exhale. “It’s not about money.”
Then what is it about? He scribbles, glaring at me now, tension coiled in his shoulders. I open my mouth to reply, but he’s already scribbling again:
You think I’m a charity case or something?
That makes me pause. Not because I think it’s true, but because he believes it is, my instincts are telling me I probably messed this up by asking him how much it will cost…Maybe I shouldn’t have asked that? Lucas watches me, waiting for my answer.
I set the mug down, resting my hands on the counter, meeting his eyes head-on. “No.” My voice is calm, even. “I don’t.”
He searches my face, trying to find the lie. Then, abruptly, he stands. The scrape of the chair against the floor is sharp in the quiet space between us.
I need to go home. I have to get ready for work.
I study him, taking in the stiffness in his stance, the way his fingers tighten around the pen like it’s the only thing keeping him steady. Then I nod, slow and deliberate.
“There’s a laundry room opposite the room you slept in. Your clothes and shoes are there.”
He doesn’t move right away. He hesitates, shifting his weight like he’s contemplating something.
I tilt my head, waiting.
“Go get your stuff, Lucas,” I say evenly. “I’ll drive you home.”
His grip tightens around the notebook like it’s a shield. Then, after a flicker of hesitation, he scribbles fast, pressing the pen harder than necessary:
I can take myself home.
I exhale slowly. That stubborn streak of his—it’s sharp, unexpected, and already testing the edge of my patience.
Pushing off the counter, I cross the space between us in three measured steps.
Deliberate. Unhurried. I watch the way his spine goes rigid as I near him, the tiny hitch in his breath that he probably doesn’t realize I catch.
He doesn’t retreat, though. That, more than anything, tells me something about him.
I stop close. Closer than necessary. Close enough to see the faint scatter of freckles across his pale skin, the slight flush blooming beneath them, the tremor in his throat when he swallows.
His eyes tilt up to me, guarded but unsteady, and I nearly smirk at how small he looks—five-eight at most. At six-four, I tower over him, and yet…
something about the way he stands his ground twists a spark low in my chest.
I lean down, just enough for my voice to drop lower, softer, though it cuts with finality.
“Lucas,” I say, drawing his name out slowly, watching his lashes flutter as he follows the movement of my mouth. “I will take you home.”
His lips part a fraction, like he wants to say something but can’t. His gaze lingers too long on my mouth, then drags back to my eyes. The small, shaky breath he takes feels louder than the quiet around us.
My chest tightens in response, heat flickering unbidden under my skin. It’s Dangerous. His reactions coil something inside me I shouldn’t let unwind, but I hold his stare until he finally dips his chin, a trembling nod breaking his resistance.
“Good.” The word leaves me low, edged, heavier than it should be. I don’t move right away. I let it hang between us, let him feel the weight of my gaze a moment longer, long enough for him to know he’s been seen.
Then I straighten, turning away before I let myself sink further into whatever this is. My steps are steady as I head upstairs, but every nerve in my back is alive with the burn of his stare following me, searing into me, refusing to let me go.
* * *
The drive is silent. And I can feel his eyes on me. The quiet weight of his gaze, the way it lingers and shifts, like he’s trying to figure me out without being obvious about it, but he’s not very good at hiding it.
The first time I catch him, he looks away quickly, pretending to focus on the city outside the window. But I know better. It happens again a few minutes later, and again after that.
It almost makes me smirk. Almost.
I say nothing about it. Instead, I focus on the road, fingers tapping absently against the wheel.
He’s not wearing his hearing aids. I think he lost the left one yesterday, and the right is either damaged or low.
Which means the silence in this car must be suffocating for him.
But he doesn’t write anything. Don’t try to break it.
I don’t either.
When we finally reached his apartment building, the morning light had started to creep in, slipping through the windshield, the pavement still wet from the night’s rain.
I park, then let the engine hum for a moment. Lucas doesn’t move right away. Instead, he reaches for the notebook and pen I left on the headboard, flips to a blank page, and starts writing. The scratch of his pen is quick and decisive. Then, after a beat, he turns the notebook toward me.
I should be surprised you know where I live, but I’m not.
I read it. Let the words sit between us. Then, I look at him. He watches me expectantly, like he’s waiting for an explanation. Like he thinks I’ll give him one. I don’t.
He exhales, shakes his head, and starts writing again.
How did you know I was at the bus stop last night?
This time, I take my time. Rest an elbow on the console, let my fingers tap idly against my knee. Then, I glance at him and say, “Would you believe me if I said it was a coincidence?”
Lucas stares at me. His lips part slightly, then press together.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he shakes his head. A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, and I don’t confirm or deny it.
He doesn’t look away
I don’t either
There’s an undeniable tension between us.
The way he’s staring at me now—something hesitant, uncertain, but searching.
His mouth part slightly, like he wants to ask or say something but isn’t sure if he should.
I watch him lick his lips; they’re plump, pink, and so beautifully shaped, it takes all the strength to drag my gaze back to his.
Then, he does something unexpected.
He speaks so softly and quietly, I almost miss it
“…Thank you.”
His voice is quiet. Rough. It scrapes against the silence in a way that gets to me. This is the second time I have heard him speak, and it catches me off guard again.
I don’t move.
“For yesterday….The breakfast…And… bringing me home.” He says the sentence so slowly, like he’s forcing it out from somewhere deep inside him, almost like he finds talking too difficult.
I should say something.
But I don’t.
I watch him instead.
Because something about him unsettles me in a good way, his voice gets under my skin like a soft, lingering sensation. I want to hear more of him. fuck, I want him to speak to me again.
Then, for the first time since I met him, he smiles.
It’s small. Barely there. But it still does something to me.
Before I can figure out what to do about it, he’s already reaching for the door, slipping out of the car.
I watch him walk toward his building, the sunlight catching in his damp curls, his frame slim and delicate, but nothing about him is weak.
Then, when he disappears inside, I drag a hand down my face, lean my head back against the seat, and close my eyes. No one has left me this speechless in my entire life.
I’m so fucked.