Chapter 44
Chapter Forty-Four
Olivia
This was a bad idea.
Which part, exactly?
Hard to say.
It could be the part where I moved to Bridgemont, Pennsylvania.
It could be the part where I agreed to a neighbors-with-benefits situation with Lucian Crawford, which wouldn’t absolutely torch me from the inside out.
The hallway seems longer than usual.
I’m not being chased, but I’m definitely running—for my life, my sanity, or maybe just my dignity.
Maybe it’s panic.
Maybe it’s because I’m walking too quickly in very soft socks while trying not to cry in someone else’s ancestral mansion.
Perhaps it’s the echo of Lucian’s voice in my head.
Or maybe it’s Sarah—the furry traitor—following me as if I’m not actively spiraling.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, pushing open the guest room door as if it insulted me in a past life.
“This is fine. Everything is fine.”
It’s not.
I don’t even bother turning on the light.
Just keep going, out through the sliding glass doors that lead to the backyard.
The cool night air hits my skin like a slap and a kiss all at once.
I cross the stone patio, bypass the loungers, and collapse onto the cushioned outdoor couch near the pool.
The one that looks like it belongs in an Architectural Digest spread titled “Hot People Who Have Their Shit Together.”
The door clicks behind me a second later.
I exhale.
Then inhale.
Then exhale again—less yoga, more like stepping into a chamber filled with stinking corpse lilies and titan arums.
Lucian said I scare him.
Said I came in and flipped his life upside down like I’m some charming natural disaster.
And then—then—he said he wanted to try.
Emotionally. With me.
As if I haven’t been emotionally ducking commitment since I was old enough to understand that vows don’t mean shit if no one stays to keep them.
My stomach twists, tight and nauseating.
I stare up at the stars like they owe me answers.
Sarah trots out a second later—somehow having figured out the patio handle like she’s a sassy Lassie—and settles beside the couch with a little huff.
“Wow, so the escape rumors are true.” My voice comes out flatly.
“Great. I love that for you, we need to work on not heading to the stables, girly. But I’m not emotionally available for codependence right now.”
She whines, resting her chin on the cushion, and lets out a long sigh as if we’re in this existential crisis together.
I don’t deserve her.
I don’t deserve anyone.
Especially not Lucian Crawford, who just told me he wanted me—really wanted me—without saying “I love you,” but somehow still managed to make it sound like a fucking marriage proposal.
What am I supposed to do with that?
Be brave?
Open my heart like it hasn’t been duct-taped shut since college?
Risk everything on someone who sees me as the best thing that ever happened to him, even when I’m concealing my true self behind sarcasm and ancient trauma?
I grab my phone.
I need backup.
I need someone who knows every horrible part of me and still picks up anyway.
I call my sister.
Aspen picks up on the second ring.
“Well, well, well,” she says.
“Look who finally decided to call me after cowardly ghosting everyone for a whole week. I needed a name and you coward couldn’t face the truth.”
“What do you mean?” I ask hoping she doesn’t know about Lucian and me.
“Hailey just called.” Her tone becomes overly smug.
“Apparently, my sister—My. Sister. Are you hearing this? I had to learn from someone else that you are the one who moved in with Lucian Crawford. And are sleeping with him.”
My jaw opens.
Then closes. Then opens again, like a goldfish mid-breakdown.
“How did she?—?”
“What happened?” Aspen interrupts, switching tones like a pro.
“You don’t sound okay. Are you okay? If he hurt you?—”
“I think I broke him,” I whisper.
“I think I broke a man who actually cares about me.”
“Oh,” she utters.
One simple word.
Because she gets it.
Because we were raised by a mother who cried behind closed doors and a father who vanished into the arms of someone younger.
We were taught to be skeptical of love—to wait for the other shoe to drop, then check the closet for the next pair.
“What did he say?” Aspen asks, her voice gentler now.
I sit up on the couch, pulling one of the large outdoor pillows to my chest as if it might prevent my heart from crumbling.
“He said he’s not asking for forever. He just wants me to try. And that he wants me anyway. Like as-is. No warranties.”
She whistles.
“Damn.”
“Right?”
“And you panicked.”
“Like a squirrel on espresso,” I admit.
“I said I needed air and ran.”
Aspen doesn’t judge.
She simply breathes with me on the line, as if she understands the silence is sacred right now.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I say after a beat.
“Not like this. Not when it’s real. Not when I could actually break something that matters.”
Aspen hums. “You always say you’re afraid of being left.”
“Because I am.”
“But maybe,” she says carefully, “you’re more afraid of being loved.”
I blink.
“Liv,” she says, softer now, “he sees you. That’s terrifying. And intimate. And rare. And I get it.”
“Do you?” I ask.
“Because you’re in love with a man who resembles a villain from a noir film and builds you greenhouses for fun. Still, I don’t see you two walking off into the sunset or getting married.”
There’s a pause.
“It’s because I haven’t had time to plan the wedding I want.”
I freeze.
“Wait, what?”
“I’m not avoiding commitment,” she says.
“I just want my dream wedding, and I haven’t had the capacity to pull it off yet.”
“But I thought . . .” I trail off.
“I thought you were, you know, like me.”
“I’m not afraid of commitment, Liv. I’m afraid of settling for a ceremony that isn't what I want. Maybe I’ve witnessed too many weddings in my lifetime that make me desire this huge extravaganza, but . . . I’ll do it soon. You . . . You’re afraid of being abandoned, of being loved.” Aspen’s voice softens. “And those are different monsters.”
I go quiet.
“You love him, don’t you?” she asks.
I swallow. “I don’t know.”
“Do you want him to hold your hand when you’re scared?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want him to be the person you call when everything goes to shit?”
“Yes.”
“Do you imagine waking up next to him for reasons other than sex?”
My heart stumbles, like it’s trying to trip over its own denial. “Yes.”
“Then maybe you’re in love,” she says, like it’s not a complete unraveling. Like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world. “And maybe that’s okay.”
I blink fast. “It doesn’t feel okay.”
“No,” she agrees. “It feels like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff and someone’s asking you to jump.”
I nod, tears pricking hot in my eyes. “Exactly.”
“But what if he’s at the bottom?” she whispers. “Waiting to catch you? What if he’s actually gliding, falling and waiting to hold your hand so you can do it together?”
And fuck.
That’s it.
That’s the thing.
Lucian, with his cocky smirk and unholy mouth and his ability to ruin my day simply by being too handsome near coffee—he’s been waiting. Not pushing. Not asking for anything I’m not ready to give. Just there.
Loyal. Kind. Slightly unhinged.
And maybe he’s also mine.
Mine.
“I have to go,” I say, suddenly breathless.
Aspen laughs like she’s been expecting this. “Go get your man, Olivia.”
I hang up with shaking hands.
Then I run.
Upstairs, down the hall, past Sarah—who gives me a lingering look that could be either judgment or encouragement, but remains unclear.
I don’t knock.
I don’t pause.
I open his door.
And there he is.
Still sitting on the edge of the bed, like maybe he hasn’t moved since I left. Like maybe he’s been waiting, too scared to hope, too stubborn to leave.
His head lifts, eyes finding mine.
I walk in.
Close the door behind me.
And say, “If I try—if I really, really try—not to mess this up . . . will you catch me?”
Lucian stands.
One step.
Then another.
Until he stands before me, close enough for my pulse to react in that strange way it does when I forget how to act cool around him.
His eyes are stormy—moody, beautiful, and slightly dangerous—and his jaw tightens as if he’s holding something back.
He lifts a hand to my face, brushes my cheek with the backs of his fingers. Then cups my jaw gently and reverently, as if I’m some fragile thing he’s afraid to touch too hard.
And then he nods.
“Every time,” he murmurs. “Because I’m sure I’ll fuck up too. Probably quite a bit. Spectacularly.”
He tips my chin with his finger, holding me there.
“I love you so fucking much, Olivia. I have no idea what you did to me. You make me lose my fucking mind. You stole my dog. You argue with me about everything. You give me panic attacks every time you use a butcher knife to cut bread. You tease me about the way I sleep. And still—somehow—you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
A breath escapes my lungs. It’s not relief. It’s not even clarity. It’s just . . . surrender.
“I love you,” I whisper. “I believe I’ve loved you since the day you offered me a large muffin and said I looked like I’d lost a fight with the creatures inside my wall.”
He laughs, low and rough, like it’s breaking something open inside him.
And then he kisses me.
It’s not sweet.
It’s not soft.
It’s all tongue, heat, and desperation—like he has been yearning to taste this moment, afraid it might never arrive. Like he needs to commit every fucking second to memory before it fades away once more.
I kiss him back with everything I’ve got. No more holding back. No more pretending it’s merely sex, convenience, or survival.
It’s love. Messy and beautiful and flawed.
When we finally pull apart, breathless, his forehead rests against mine.
“Say it again,” he whispers.
“I love you.”
And then he’s kissing me again.
And I let him.
God, I let him.
Because this time, I’m not afraid of falling.
He’s already caught me.