Chapter 50
Chapter Fifty
Olivia
There’s a specific panic that hits when your phone buzzes during a rare, blissed-out moment of peace.
Do not panic over danger.
It’s not an end-of-the-world panic.
Just the kind that makes you pause mid-sip of tea and think, “Oh great, what fresh fuckery is this?” No one should blame me for my reaction.
It’s been almost twelve weeks since I moved next door to start my dream, and, well .
. . things haven’t gone as I expected, have they?
I’m curled up on Lucian’s couch, legs tucked beneath his ridiculously soft fleece blanket that smells like his laundry, fall weather, and the vague comfort of a dog who thinks she owns the place.
Sarah’s snoring beside me, twitching like she’s chasing squirrels in her sleep, and I’m sipping chamomile like a fully functioning adult with her shit together.
Which is obviously when my phone rings.
I glance at the screen and groan loud enough to wake the dead—or at least make Sarah grunt in protest.
Lucian walks in shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, a towel around his neck, and enough smug athleticism to qualify as a personal crisis.
He raises an eyebrow.
“Is that the sound of doom, or are you finally reacting to my abs the way I deserve?”
“It’s Mike,” I mutter, eyeing my phone as if it might bite.
“He’s either about to tell me the inspection passed or that my clinic is now an unintentional indoor pool.”
Which is something I can’t handle.
I’ve finally hired enough people to run the clinic.
Aspen lent me some money to ensure the operation will run smoothly, and my boyfriend is giving me a little push with the marketing.
His agent is complaining about it, but Lucian insists it’s an investment toward his retirement.
The moment his body gives out, I’ll be the breadwinner of this house.
Not that we’ve talked about forever or living together or .
. . we’re still in a temporary situation because I freak out.
Lucian collapses onto the couch next to me, snatches the phone from my hand as if I’m some skittish intern he’s mentoring, and answers without a moment's hesitation.
“Hello? This is Dr. Halston’s emotional support human. She’s currently too neurotic to speak but has authorized me to receive all emotionally destabilizing updates.”
I smack his arm. “Lucian.”
He winks. “Relax. It’s Mike. He knows I’m authorized.”
He listens, nodding once. “Got it. Thanks, man. I’ll let her know.”
He hangs up.
I stare at him, suspicious. “Well? Are we floating away on a raft of liability paperwork or?—?”
“Inspection passed. Everything cleared. They’re starting final prep next week.”
I blink. “Wait. Really?”
“As real as these abs.” He leans back, arms folded behind his head as if he’s posing for Smug & Sexy: The Calendar Edition. “You’re about to open that clinic. . . and on time, Doc.”
I sit there like someone has just announced I’ve won the lottery but only in feelings. My mind stutters. “I’m really doing it.”
“You are. You’re about to become the boss of your own place. A woman with a nameplate. Perhaps even a small fridge for those weird health drinks you keep pretending are edible.”
“I don’t know what to do with that information.” My voice is tight. “I’ve been in limbo for so long that I started to think it was permanent.”
He reaches for my hand, threading his fingers with mine as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Want me to tackle you? Bring you down a little?”
I snort. “You always want to tackle me.”
He shrugs, totally unapologetic. “Yeah, but now it’d be celebratory. Think of it as victory foreplay.”
He tugs me closer until I’m sprawled halfway across his chest, my cheek resting against his bare skin, my fingers curled into the blanket that still carries his scent. His hand drifts lazily through my hair. I could fall asleep like this. Or do decidedly non-sleep activities.
The peace lasts all of ten seconds before I ruin it.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
His fingers pause, just for a second.
“Of what?”
“That I’ll screw it up. That I’ll finally have something good and not know how to keep it.” I tilt my head, meeting his gaze. “The clinic. The house. You.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t joke or try to deflect. Just watches me with this quiet intensity, like I’ve said something simultaneously sacred and completely ridiculous.
“You know what I think?” he says, brushing a curl away from my face with a touch that makes my breath stutter. “We keep acting as if this is temporary. Like we’re just one well-timed panic attack away from blowing it all up.”
I don’t deny it. It’s true.
“I hope the house situation is temporary,” he continues. “Because I want you to move in with me. But we’ve gotta stop acting like one of us is gonna pack up and vanish.”
“Isn’t that what happens, though?” My voice is barely above a whisper. “Eventually?”
“No,” he says, firm and sure in a way I’ve never been about anything. “Not this time.”
My throat goes tight, but I don’t look away.
Lucian sits up, keeping me wrapped against him like I’m not going anywhere. He presses a kiss to my forehead, then looks around the room like he’s inviting me to do the same.
“You see this place?” he asks, gesturing to the living room, kitchen, and hallway that leads to his room. “It’s yours, or we can move to your place. I don’t care. As long as I can fall asleep with your cold-ass feet stealing my heat and wake up to your conspiracy theories about who Sarah is trying to push off the bed at night.”
I let out a laugh that cracks at the edges.
He lowers his voice, a rare seriousness threading through his words. “I don’t want to be without you, Olivia. Not in this house. Not in this life. You’re my home.”
I close my eyes.
And when I open them, something inside me has shifted. He’s my home. Mine.
“We’re each other’s home.” He gives me a loving and reassuring smile.
And just like that, everything clicks.
We kiss. Slowly at first—like we’re both savoring the future. Then deeper, more desperately, with his fingers in my hair and my hands beneath his waistband because emotions make me grabby, apparently.
When we finally pull apart, flushed and breathless, I press my forehead to his.
“I’m still scared,” I whisper.
He grins, cocky and full of sin. “Good. Fear makes the orgasms better.”
“Lucian.”
“What? It’s science.”
I chuckle against his chest, already picturing the battle we'll have over closet space and whether Sarah will take the guest room now that I’ll stop pretending I’m just a guest.
We’re not perfect.
We’re not bulletproof.
But we’re us.
And right now?
That’s more than enough.
Lucian taps my knee.
“Okay, serious part over. Now I have questions.”
I groan.
“Why do I feel like I’m about to regret this?”
“Because you have excellent instincts.” He shifts beneath me until I’m flat on my back and he’s hovering above me like a Greek god with the world’s worst attention span.
“Question one: how do you feel about holiday-themed dog sweaters?”
I blink.
“Excuse me?”
“Sarah. She needs one for the clinic’s soft opening. I’m thinking something that says, ‘I’m a working woman but I also love nutmeg.’”
I laugh, half in disbelief.
“That’s not a sweater, that’s a novel.”
“Question two,” he continues.
“If I offered to be your receptionist-slash-maintenance-man-slash-cheerleader, would you pay me in peanut butter pretzels and mild praise?”
“You already do that,” I point out.
“Correct. I just wanted to hear you say I’m underpaid.”
I roll my eyes, grinning.
“Question three,” he says, voice softening.
“What happens now?”
I pause.
“What do you mean?”
“With us,” he says, tapping my chest with one finger.
“You, me, the house, the clinic. This thing we’ve been dancing around like we’re afraid to name it.”
I look up at him.
His hair’s a mess. He still has a smear of Sarah’s fur on his sleeve.
He smells like sun, cedarwood, and the candle I made fun of him for but now light when he’s gone.
He’s mine.
God help me.
I think I’ve known it since he licked peanut butter off his thumb while explaining his fantasy football league like it was a sacred text.
Maybe even before, but I just plan on looking forward.
“I don’t know,” I say quietly.
“I never get past the three-week mark.”
He nods.
After a long pause he says, “Okay, how about this.”
I brace myself.
Because with Lucian, “this” could be anything from a kitchen renovation to a spontaneous road trip to Idaho.
He sits up, tugging me with him, then grabs his phone from the coffee table.
“I need you to listen carefully. This is important.”
I squint.
“Is this where you ask if I want to share a Costco membership?”
“Better.” He opens the notes app, scrolls, and then clears his throat.
“I’ve been working on a thing.”
“A thing,” I repeat slowly.
“A plan,” he says. “Like a rough draft of . . . our next chapter.”
I stare at him.
“I’m not proposing,” he adds quickly.
“Not yet. I know you’d panic and hide behind a houseplant. But I wanted to show you I’m thinking about the future. Our future. Not just in a ‘I’ll sleep on the couch when we argue’ kind of way, but in the ‘I want to build something with you’ kind of way.”
He reads from his phone.
“Item one: I keep making you breakfast until you admit my eggs are better than yours.”
I scoff.
“They’re not.”
“Item two: You make me go to bed at a reasonable hour before games, but I’m allowed to grope you once while brushing my teeth.”
“Generous.”
“Item three: We take Sarah to the beach every summer, even if she hates the wind and you complain about the sand in your bra.”
“Okay, now you’re just reading from my memoir.”
“Item four,” he says, slowing down.
“I help you run the clinic—maybe not as a vet because I fainted watching you lance a cyst that one time, but I’ll do the books during my off days. I’ll fix the pipes—okay, I’ll call Mike. If I'm available, I’ll be the guy who brings you tacos on hard days. If not, I’ll have someone drop them.”
I blink fast.
“Item five,” he says, eyes on mine now. “I love you. And if you let me, I’ll keep loving you. On Tuesdays. On all the messy, boring days that don’t look like a movie. On the days we argue about Sarah’s bedtime, who finished the cereal or how I keep leaving my socks on the stairs. I’ll still pick you.”
Silence.
Warm.
Unbearable.
Beautiful.
“I’m probably screwing this up,” he adds. “But I wanted to say it out loud, even if it terrifies you. Especially because it terrifies you.”
I reach for his hand, lacing our fingers together.
“I love you,” I say. “I love you so much that I will . . . I will spend all that time with you. I might even consider the proposal and everything that comes after that.”
It all spills out before I can stop it before I can build a wall, throw a joke at it, or pretend it’s not true.
His eyes widen. “Yeah?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
He exhales. Like he’s been holding his breath since before we met.
“Okay,” he says, voice rough now. “Cool. Casual. Just confirming. Should we celebrate with a spontaneous make-out session or a joint bank account?”
I laugh through the tears threatening to spill. “Let’s start with tacos.”
He kisses my knuckles. “Tacos now. Love always.”
And just like that, it’s real.
It’s ours.
No contract. No plan B.
Just this moment.
The start of everything.