Chapter 33 Grace
Grace
The new locks gleamed against the chipped white paint of her front door.
Luke opened the door, held it for her, followed her in.
Luke Bennett, inside her house, had always meant one thing.
His hands on her skin. His mouth on her throat. Her back hitting the hallway wall, her spine arching off the bed, her breath catching against the back of the couch.
No future. No promises. Just heat and shadows and need.
And every time, after he'd had his fill, he'd left her.
She watched him now, moving through the rooms. Showing her the new locks. Acting like they were something. Like she was more than just someone he touched in private and ignored in public.
But Grace knew better.
She knew what this was. What she was.
When he finished with the locks, she waited.
This was it. This was the part where he made the pass. Where his eyes would go dark and his voice would drop and he'd step into her space the way he always did.
And she'd let him.
God help her, she'd let him.
Because having him like this—in secret, in the dark, on his terms—was better than not having him at all. Did that make her weak?
Her body remembered his touch, craved it, and her pride had already been shredded. What did it matter if she lost a little more?
She'd sleep with him. She'd take whatever scraps he offered.
And tomorrow she'd hate herself for it.
But tonight—
Luke stepped past her.
Not toward her. Past her.
Grace's breath caught.
He jogged out the front door.
Heat flooded her face. Humiliation, sharp and immediate, burned through her chest.
Oh God.
He wasn't—he hadn't—
She'd been standing there waiting for him to touch her, ready to give in, and he hadn't even noticed.
Or worse: he'd noticed and wasn't interested.
Grace wrapped her arms around herself, mortified, trying to rewind the last thirty seconds in her head. Had she looked desperate? Had he seen it on her face—the willingness?
But before she had time to finish that humiliating thought, he was back. And he had a toolbox in his hand.
Grace stared.
He walked to the sink, opened the cabinet beneath it, and dropped to one knee.
The sink. The one that had dripped for months. The one she'd stopped noticing because what was one more broken thing in a house full of them?
"You're fixing my sink?" she asked, her voice barely steady.
A quiet clank of metal as he reached for a wrench. "Yeah."
"Why?"
He looked up at her then. "Because it's leaking, Gracie."
Grace folded her arms tighter across her chest, trying to hold herself together. Her skin still buzzed with the anticipation of a touch that never came. Her body still knew the press of him, the weight, the heat.
Her pride said: Don't ask for more than he's offering.
Her body whispered: You still want him.
Her heart—God help her—just ached.
"You don't have to," she said quietly.
"I know."
The creak-creak of the wrench echoed through the kitchen. He was tightening something, forearms flexing with every turn.
Grace watched the slope of his shoulders, the concentration on his face. This wasn't seduction. This wasn't a prelude to sex.
This was just... him. Fixing her sink. Like it mattered.
Like she mattered.
"I'm used to it," she said quietly. "I don't even notice it anymore."
A pause. Then, without looking up: "You shouldn't have to get used to things being broken."
The words hit her square in the chest.
He wasn't just talking about the sink.
Her breath caught.
Luke finished the repair, tested the faucet, wiped his hands on the old towel she kept under the sink. Stood slowly.
He looked at her—and there it was again.
Not heat. Not hunger.
Something gentler. Something terrifying.
Care.
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
The question caught her off guard. "I'm fine," she said automatically.
His brow furrowed slightly. He studied her for a moment, like he was deciding how hard to push. "When did you last eat?"
Grace opened her mouth to answer, then realized she couldn't remember. Breakfast? Maybe. She'd been running on coffee and adrenaline since the man showed up at school.
"Let me make you dinner, Grace."
It wasn't really a question.
Grace hesitated. Every instinct told her to say no, to keep the boundary firm, to not let him blur the lines any further.
"Okay," she said quietly.
He'd been in her kitchen before. Plenty of times. But always late, always hungry in a different way. Hands reaching, mouths urgent, clothes discarded on the way to the bedroom.
This was something else.
Grace leaned against the counter and watched as Luke moved through her space. He found a pot, filled it with water, set it on the stove to boil. Opened and closed cupboards until he found a jar of sauce, dried herbs, salt.
He didn't ask where things were. He just looked. Patient. Methodical.
"You don't have to do this," she said.
Luke glanced over his shoulder. "I know."
He worked quietly, efficiently. The kitchen filled with the smell of garlic and tomatoes.
Grace didn't understand what was happening. This wasn't seduction. This wasn't foreplay.
He was just… feeding her.
And it felt more intimate than anything they'd done in bed.
Luke set two full bowls on the small table by the window. Steam rose between them. He sat beside her, close enough that their elbows nearly touched.
Grace picked up her fork.
She was aware of the way he angled his body toward hers.
The pasta was simple. Nothing fancy. Jarred sauce, dried basil, grocery store noodles.
And somehow it tasted like the best thing she'd eaten in weeks.
Maybe because someone had made it for her. Maybe because Luke was sitting at her kitchen table like it was normal. Like they did this.
Like they were something.
When they finished, Luke took the bowls from her hands without a word.
"I've got it," he said.
He washed the dishes while she dried and put them away. Their movements fell into an easy rhythm—pass, dry, shelve. Like it was just a thing he did now.
A thing they did.
This was intimacy, Grace realized. Not the heat. Not the secrecy. Not the desperate touches in the dark.
This.
Standing side by side at her sink. Doing dishes. Being quiet together.
It terrified her more than the sex ever had.
When they finished, they stood there for a moment, neither of them moving. The kitchen was clean. The locks were new. The sink no longer dripped.
"I should go," Luke said quietly.
She nodded. Followed him to the front door.
The front door.
Not the back. Not slipping out into the alley like a secret.
Luke paused with his hand on the doorknob.
Turned to her.
Their eyes met.
His eyes dropped to her mouth. Just for a second. Then back up.
"Grace." Her name, low and careful. Almost a question.
She swallowed. "Luke—"
He lifted his hand, and she felt it stop just short of her face. Hovering. Waiting.
She could have stopped him. The words were right there—Just go—simple and clean and safe.
She didn't speak.
His hand curved against her jaw, thumb brushing her cheekbone, and he leaned in slowly enough that she could have turned away at any point.
The kiss was soft at first. Slow. Testing—like they were learning each other again.
Then her fingers curled into the front of his shirt and the feel of him—solid and familiar and God, she'd missed this—
His other hand found her waist. Pulled her closer. She went willingly, eagerly, rising onto her toes to press herself against him.
The door met her back. His body met her front.
His hands slid under her shirt, warm palms against bare skin, and she gasped into his mouth. His lips moved to her neck, hot and open, and her head fell back against the door.
This. This was what she knew. This made sense.
Her fingers tangled in his hair. His thigh pressed between her legs. A sound escaped her throat—half gasp, half plea—and she felt him respond, his grip tightening, his breathing ragged against her collarbone.
She felt his fingers slide beneath her waistband.
Felt herself arch into him, chasing the touch, a sound escaping her throat that was all need, all want, all yes.
And then—
Three sharp knocks on the door.
They froze.
Breathless.
Luke's hand still at her hip. Her shirt rucked up. Her heart hammering so loud she was sure he could hear it.
Luke pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closed, breathing hard.
But Grace was already pushing him back, giving herself room to tug her shirt down.
Grace was still breathless when she pulled open the door.
“Eli!”
He stood on her porch, shoulders hunched. His split lip was already swelling. One eye was bruising dark beneath the skin, and he favored his left side. He shifted his weight, his hand pressed to his ribs.
“Oh my God,” she breathed.
“Hey, Gracie.” He smiled, but his voice was rough.
Luke moved. He stepped past her without hesitation, one hand steadying Eli’s elbow.
“Come on,” Luke said, calm and low. “Inside.”
Eli’s gaze flicked to Luke. Recognition flared there immediately—tight, wary.
“Well,” he muttered. “If it isn’t Officer Bennett.”
Luke didn’t react to the tone. He guided Eli inside instead, pausing every time Eli sucked in a breath.
"Easy," Luke murmured, slowly steering him toward the couch. He lowered Eli down, until he was fully seated. Eli hissed softly through his teeth, instinctively curling forward.
“Ribs?” Luke asked.
Eli nodded jerkily.
Luke turned his head slightly. “Grace, could you make us some tea, please?”
Grace blinked. This was her house. Her brother. Her mess.
And yet—
“Okay,” she said.
She went to the kitchen, hands shaking as she filled the kettle. From there, she could still see them—Luke crouched slightly in front of Eli, voice low, posture steady.
“So,” Luke said. “What happened?”
Eli huffed a humorless laugh. “You really want me to answer that?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t,” Luke replied.
“The guys I was working with,” Eli said after a beat. “Not exactly the type you give two weeks’ notice to.”
Luke tilted his head. “You told them you were done.”
“Yeah.”
“And they didn’t take it well.”
“No.”
The kettle screamed. Grace flinched, turned it off.
She carried the mugs back on a tray, heart pounding.
Luke took one, passed it to Eli carefully. “Slow.”
Grace set the tray down and folded her arms, bracing herself.
“He’s not a criminal,” she said sharply. “If that’s where this is going—”
Luke looked up immediately. “It’s not.”
She swallowed. “Because he’s my brother.”
“I know.”
Luke stood and crossed the room. He stopped in front of her, so close that she had to tilt her head to look at him. One hand came to her waist.
“Yes, I’m a cop,” he said. “But I’m not your enemy here.”
Eli scoffed weakly. “That’s usually how it goes.”
Luke glanced at him. “Not anymore.”
He looked back to Grace. His thumb brushed a small, absent circle against her hip as he gazed down at her.
“He’s your brother,” Luke told her seriously. "That means he's under my protection too."
Grace’s breath caught. Under my protection too.
Which meant she already was.
Eli shifted carefully on the couch. “I’m not trying to drag you into my bullshit, Grace,” he said. “I just didn’t know where else to go.”
“You don’t have to handle this alone,” Luke said. “I’ve got connections. I can help.”
She leaned into him before she realized she was doing it.
“You’re sure?” she asked softly.
Luke didn’t hesitate. “I’m sure.”
Eli blew out a breath, shaking his head. “Guess Crystal Lake finally surprised me.”
Grace laughed weakly, then pressed a hand to her mouth when it turned into something dangerously close to a sob.
Luke noticed.
“Hey,” he said, gentler now.
He pulled her against his chest, his arms wrapping around her. He held her.
Grace’s forehead pressed into his collarbone. His hand spread warm and solid between her shoulder blades, anchoring her in place.
She hadn’t realized how much she needed it until her body gave in all at once.
Safe.
Protected.
Held.
Luke didn’t let go. He just stayed, breathing slow and steady, a solid wall between her and everything else in the room.
“You’re not dealing with this alone. Not anymore.”