Section 30
After
Lucky
I wake up before she does because my body has never trusted peace.
Also because the chair the other day and the bed last night are having a disagreement about my spine, and my spine lost.
I stay still anyway.
Gia is warm. Solid, present, her weight tucked against my side like she decided I was a nice pillow and claimed me.
I have the insane thought that if I move, she’ll vanish.
So I don’t.
Morning light cuts through the room in careful stripes, catching on the edge of the dresser, the floor, the half-empty glass of water I definitely forgot to put away. The city outside is waking up in that slow, creaky way, like it needs coffee and better life choices.
I breathe.
In. Out.
This—whatever this is—feels fragile. Delicate in the way glass is delicate: strong right up until you mishandle it.
Gia shifts slightly, forehead pressing into my shoulder. I feel it everywhere. Chest. Throat. Places I don’t have good names for.
Don’t fuck this up, Lucky, I tell myself.
I’ve had sex before. Plenty of it. I’ve woken up next to people and felt… fine. Or relieved. Or ready to leave before conversation happens.
This is different.
This feels like a thing that could last longer than the morning.
Which is, frankly, terrifying.
She murmurs something I can’t quite catch and exhales, slow and steady. I glance down and catch sight of my own arm around her, scars faintly visible. Pale lines against darker skin. Old damage. Nothing dramatic from this angle.
Still.
My instinct is to hide it. Always is. Years of helmets and long sleeves and careful angles have trained me well.
Instead, I stay.
My stomach growls, traitorously loud.
Gia’s eyes open immediately.
“Was that you,” she asks, voice rough with sleep, “or the building settling.”
“Could be either,” I say. “Chicago’s an old city. So am I.”
She snorts softly and lifts her head, blinking at the light. For a split second, she looks unguarded. Just a woman waking up in someone else’s bed and assessing the situation.
Her gaze tracks down my chest. Pauses at my arm.
I brace without meaning to.
She doesn’t comment.
Instead, she shifts closer and tucks her chin against me again like she’s made a decision.
“Morning,” she says.
“Morning.”
We lie there for another minute, neither of us rushing to name what happened or what comes next. A ceasefire.
Eventually she exhales and sits up, stretching with zero concern for my ability to function afterward. My brain politely blue-screens.
“I need coffee,” she declares.
“Good news,” I say. “Coffee’s my love language.”
She swings her legs off the bed, stands, and steals my shirt off the back of the chair without asking.
“Bold,” I comment.
“It fits,” she says, and that’s a lie but a flattering one.
I drag myself upright and follow her into the kitchen.
Diablo is already awake. He looks from her to me, pleased, then lays back down with a satisfied huff.
“No caffeine for you, bud,” I tell him, and he seemingly raises an eyebrow at me before flopping onto his side. I work my magic with the machine (which isn’t so much magic as it is figuring out the beans to water ratio after countless cups).
Gia pours herself a cup like she owns the place.
She takes one sip, pauses, and makes a face. “I hate when you’re competent.”
“Get used to it.”
She leans against the counter, mug cradled in both hands, eyes flicking around the room.
“Not a chance.”
There’s a quiet beat where nothing bad happens.
I let myself believe, just a little, that this could be real. That I could wake up like this again. That proximity doesn’t have to end in fallout.
Gia looks at me over her mug. “You’re thinking.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
I shrug. “Dangerous habit.”
She studies me for a moment, then reaches out and taps my arm, right where the scars are.
“Not exactly pretty, right?” I say with a snort. Nobody’s seen my bare back for… a long time. But here I am, turning slightly so she can see the full extent of my damage.
“You survived. That’s what matters in our world.”
“That’s dark.” I don’t quite manage to lighten the mood with my comment.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Gia says. “But you can.”
I swallow. Nod once.
I hold her gaze for a second longer than I mean to.
If anyone gets that story, it should be her.
Just… not today.
“Later,” I say, and pull on a new shirt. Show over.
“Later,” she agrees.
The phone rings.
We both freeze.
The sound slices through the calm like a blade.
Gia taps the screen once and sets the phone down on the counter between us.
“Speaker,” she says calmly. “Go ahead.”
This is new. I shouldn’t read too much into it. I definitely read too much into it.
There’s a pause on the other end. A smile I can hear without seeing.
“Well,” Frank says. “Morning, Gia.”
Her expression doesn’t change. “You have thirty seconds.”
“Still efficient,” he replies. “That’s always been your problem.”
I watch her jaw tighten with restraint.
“I heard you made a statement,” Frank continues. “Strong one. Very… decisive.”
“I don’t do vague,” she says. “Get to it.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“I was hoping we could talk,” Frank says lightly. “Clear the air. There’s been… confusion.”
“There hasn’t,” Gia replies. “You acted without my authorization.”
“And you survived,” he says. “Seems like a win.”
My hands curl slowly into fists.
Frank keeps going. “I just wanted to make sure you’re not feeling… exposed.”
Gia’s eyes flick to mine for half a second. Then back to the phone.
“Explain,” she says.
A soft chuckle. “You know how it is. When people see a crack, they start wondering what else might give. Who else might be… close.”
The word lands heavy.
“Careful,” Gia says. “You’re almost threatening me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t,” Frank replies. “I’m just observant. For example—I didn’t realize you had company.”
Diablo growls low, sensing it before I do.
Frank’s voice drops, just a notch. Still smooth. Still smiling.
“Tell your friend,” he says, “that helmets don’t hide patterns. And dogs don’t hide loyalties.”
Gia’s hand tightens on the counter.
“You’ve made your point,” she says.
“Good,” Frank replies
The line goes dead.
Gia reaches out and turns the phone face-down.
“Get dressed,” she says. “We’re done being reactive.”