Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Olivia
Between Boxes and Almosts
I’m not saying I’m on the verge of a breakdown, but I’m currently wearing a full-body wrap of bubble plastic and yelling at a dog with a cardboard box on her head.
So, yes. This is going well.
Perfectly fine . . .
I swear it’s like I moved into a different reality.
“Sarah,” I call out, swatting away a piece of packing tape that’s somehow attached itself to my elbow.
“You can’t just—okay, no, not the shoe bin—ugh, that’s the good pair.”
She barrels past me, tail high, that ridiculous box still wedged over her head as if she’s about to lead a medieval siege.
It’s Lucian’s box, of course, labeled in bold, aggressive Sharpie: L’s Stuff—DO NOT TOUCH.
Well. Oops.
She ricochets off the couch like a pinball with zero remorse, and propels herself into the hallway, leaving a trail of sock carnage and emotional debris in her wake.
I pause. Take a breath.
Pop a piece of bubble wrap against my shoulder with more force than necessary.
Because if I don’t find a release soon, I will definitely start crying.
Not the cute kind of crying either, but the kind where your voice cracks and your eye makeup runs, and everyone starts offering you water and asking if they should call someone.
Moving day is supposed to be exciting.
A new chapter. A fresh start.
Big Cancer energy.
Except for right now?
I look like a marshmallow that got mugged in the bubble wrap aisle.
My hair is hanging on by three bobby pins and a prayer, my shirt has a suspicious peanut butter stain that Sarah refuses to acknowledge, and my sports bra does nothing to hide the fact that I’m sweating in places that should not be sweating.
This is fine.
Totally fine.
Jacob—the ever-confident agent-slash-man who has never packed a box in his life—told me not to worry about anything.
He has people for this kind of problem.
“Everything will be done for you, Olivia. Movers. Storage. White-glove treatment.”
Bless his optimistic, clearly delusional heart.
What he failed to calculate was what it’s like to move into the house of a professional athlete and his emotionally manipulative dog while being sleep-deprived, overstimulated, and hopped up on stale protein bars and a single lukewarm oat milk latte.
Okay, I’m the one who’s overstimulated and all that jazz, not Sarah.
Some days, though, it feels like we’re one person.
My phone dings.
I spin too fast, almost wipe out on a rogue tennis ball, and catch myself on a stack of half-labeled boxes.
Incoming Video Call: Lucian
Of fucking course.
I swipe to answer, already bracing myself for whatever smug nonsense he’s about to unleash.
He appears on-screen like a damn cologne commercial- shirtless, fresh out of the shower, probably.
Hair damp. Jawline carved by the gods.
He has a towel around his neck as if he’s just completed a light jog for the sake of looking hot.
“Hey, Doc,” he says, voice all gravel and grin.
I blink. “You called to check if I’ve finally abandoned your house and fled the state?”
“Tempting theory,” he says.
“But no. I just had a feeling that you were spiraling emotionally in bubble wrap, and wow, would you look at that—I was right.”
I scowl.
“Sarah has a box on her head.”
“I told you she’s theatrical.”
“What kind of thespian monster did you raise?” I huff, as this pup was literally made for Shakespearean plays.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
I’m not. I’m teetering on the brink of a complete meltdown, held together by the delicate illusion of control and the promise of a warm bath—in Lucian’s very fancy, very expensive bathtub.
Lucian tilts his head, that infuriating smirk twitching.
“You look hot.”
“I look like I fought a packing warehouse.”
“And won,” he adds like that’s helpful.
I groan and yank the bubble wrap from my shoulder.
“You’re not helping.”
“Okay, okay.” He holds up a hand.
“Breathe, Liv. I can see the eye twitch from here.”
“There is no eye twitch.”
He squints.
“There it is. Right there. Under your left brow. Your ‘I’m about to snap and kill everyone in a three-block radius’ twitch.”
I inhale through my nose.
“Lucian.”
“Yes?”
“If you say one more word, I will personally drive to training camp and stab you with a spork.”
He grins.
“Hot, but you’ll have to fly to Colorado for that.”
I drop into a chair, exhaling like I’ve just finished a marathon.
Sarah trots back in—box still perched on her head like she’s won something—and flops against my shin with the sort of sigh that speaks volumes: “I’ve had a day, mate.”
“Your dog is broken,” I mutter.
“She’s thriving,” Lucian says proudly.
“So are you.”
“I’m wearing a bra I found in the glove compartment and socks that don’t match.”
“I love a woman in survival mode.”
I glance at him.
Despite everything- the stress, the exhaustion, the fucking box parade—something inside me tugs.
Because he’s here, laughing, watching me unravel as if it’s his favorite sport.
And for some reason, I’m not yelling.
I’m not telling him to back off.
I’m smiling.
Barely.
But still.
“You’re such a menace,” I say.
“And somehow, you still enjoy talking to me,” he says in a low voice, smug as hell, “I mean, you answered my call.”
“I’m starting to regret it.”
“You’re not.”
I’m not.
Not even a little.
And that’s a problem I don’t have time to unpack—especially not when Sarah launches herself into my lap like a missile of need and judgment, all forty-something pounds of gangly limbs and guilt-ridden sighs.
I groan. “Get off me, you emotionally manipulative monster.”
Lucian’s laughter crackles through the speaker, low and entirely too amused.
Despite myself, I laugh too.
After all, he finds this entertaining.
He’s probably lounging somewhere serene, drinking an overpriced protein shake while I’m buried under bubble wrap and dog fur.
Yeah. This is a fucking disaster.
He watches me struggle—bubble wrap crackling, Sarah unwilling to be anything less than a stage-five clinger—and finally says, “You need help.”
“Oh, now you offer help,” I snap, yanking the box off Sarah’s head, only to get a full-faced, peanut-breath thank-you kiss.
“Where was this energy when she brought three different sticks into the house and tried to hide them in my purse?”
“I was conditioning,” he replies, feigning innocence and smugness.
“Core strength. Abs. Glutes. The usual. Also, I’m a few states away.”
I narrow my eyes.
“You know what’s better than abs?”
“Please don’t say emotional maturity.”
“Emotional maturity.”
He groans.
“God, you’re so predictable.”
“I’m practical,” I shoot back.
“You’re adorable,” he says too casually.
The words slide into my ears before I can block them, and suddenly my pulse forgets how to behave.
Adorable. Not a word I ever thought Lucian fucking Crawford would throw in my direction, let alone while I’m covered in plastic and dog drool.
And yet, here we are.
Do I want to keep it?
Maybe frame it in cursive?
Yes. Yes, I do.
He leans closer to the screen.
“How’s it going over there? Really.”
I let out a breath.
“It’s . . . a lot,” I admit.
“The movers mislabeled everything, so now my bras are in the pantry, my dishes are in the guest room, and Sarah keeps climbing into your hamper like it’s a portal to Narnia. Also, all my coffee mugs have vanished. Like, vanished. I’m drinking out of one of your fancy ones.”
His smile shifts—loses its smirk, softens into something quieter.
“You okay?”
“I will be,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m one bad IKEA screw away from unraveling.
He doesn’t push. Just waits.
“I didn’t expect it to feel like this,” I add after a moment.
“Being here, moving- it’s as if I’m borrowing a life that doesn’t quite fit. It feels like I’m playing house, but the furniture still remembers someone else.”
Lucian’s eyes stay on mine through the screen.
He doesn’t joke this time.
Doesn’t smirk.
“You’ll make it yours,” he says simply.
“You already are.”
“I found three of your socks under Sarah’s bed.”
“See?” He grins.
“This arrangement is already working. You’re recovering my lost treasures.”
I laugh.
Lightly. And then, because my filter’s been broken, I blurt, “Do you ever think about what it’ll be like when you’re back?”
His posture shifts.
Not tense, just . . .
more alert. More tuned in.
“You’re going to come home to a vet who thinks your throw pillows are overcompensating and your pantry needs color-coded bins.” I attempt to sound breezy, while trying to ignore the crackle of nerves in my own voice.
Lucian’s voice drops.
“Yeah. I think about that.”
My throat tightens.
“Like what, exactly?”
He rubs the back of his neck—classic Lucian move when he’s about to say something that feels like I’ve swallowed a solar flare.
“You’ll be in the kitchen wearing something ridiculous. Not bubble wrap this time—my hoodie. The one you keep stealing. Sarah will be passed out in the laundry basket, and we’ll argue over dinner until we give up and eat popcorn in bed.”
I stare at him.
“Popcorn?” I manage, voice not cooperating.
He shrugs, expression gentler now.
“It’s a gateway snack. Leads to movies. Cuddling. Confessions.”
My heart .
. . does something. Not a leap, not a flutter.
Something deeper. Something that suddenly makes it hard to breathe.
I glance down at Sarah, who is, of course, curled at my feet like she hasn’t been emotionally terrorizing me all morning.
“What kind of confessions?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Lucian grins. “Like, maybe I prefer the left side of the bed. Or the way your nose scrunches when you’re trying to organize drives me fucking wild—in a good way.”
“That’s not a confession,” I say softly.
“That’s flirting.”
His grin turns slow and sure.
“Yeah. It is.”
We stare at each other for a moment too long.
I don’t breathe. He doesn’t, either.
It seems that everything we’ve been pretending to laugh off just crystallized between us.
One big, inconvenient truth that neither of us knows how to handle.
Eventually, I clear my throat.
“Sarah says she expects a welcome-home party when you’re back.”
Lucian’s mouth twitches.
“Just Sarah?”
“She specifically requested a charcuterie board.”
“Of course she did.”
“With cheese shaped like tiny squirrels and a peanut butter fountain.”
“Fine, we’ll create whatever she wants. I’ll bring wine. You bring the bubble wrap.”
“Deal. And the healthy treats she hates, just to remind her who’s in charge.”
Lucian leans back against something I can’t see, a smile still playing on his lips.
“It’s a date.”
I should say no.
Should remind him this is all temporary.
Nah, why break the illusion when reality hits both of us pretty soon?