Chapter 32
Chapter thirty-two
The sun is low when the knock comes. The light spills through frosted glass, creating soft shadows on the floor. I open the door in an oversized jumper and socks, hair still damp, face bare. Just me, and somehow that feels like enough.
‘Hey,’ I say, stepping aside.
‘Hey,’ Lucas murmurs, brushing a kiss to my temple as he steps in.
A half-finished tea sits on the bench, my journal open on the coffee table. I curl onto the couch while he settles beside me. We breathe the same quiet for a minute when the words burst out of me. ‘My mum and dad messaged. They want to meet up.’
He shifts so he can see me. ‘Do you want to?’
‘I think I do.’ My voice is steady even as I tug my sleeve. ‘Not because I owe them anything. Rey said something after close about choosing who gets a seat at my table. That I get to invite people in when I’m ready. And…I think I am.’
He nods. ‘Then that’s what matters. Your terms.’
I look down at my phone, thumb hovering. ‘I used to think reaching out made me weak. Now I think not reaching out, when I finally feel strong enough, would be the fear talking.’
He laces our fingers. ‘You’re not the girl who left, Lilah. You’re the one who came back.’
I open Dad’s thread and type:
LILAH: Hi Dad. I got your message. I’m ready to meet, let me know when works for you.
I think of Rey’s words, “you choose who you invite in,” and hit send.
‘You’ll come over after?’ I ask.
He hesitates, opening his mouth. He shakes his head and smiles. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘We’ll order pizza and pretend we don’t know how brave you are.’
I smile. ‘Deal.’ I rest my head on his shoulder. ‘Also…I started planning the ice cream window on my break. I think we need a name, got any ideas?’
His mouth curves. ‘I love that. What about something simple, The Little Scoop.’
‘The Little Scoop, I like it.’
I bump his knee. He squeezes my hand. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.’
I tilt my head. ‘Yeah?’
‘Tess stopped by the shop.’
A laugh slips out. ‘What’s she plotting now?’
‘She pitched author events at Inkwell & Ivy, readings, workshops, launches.’ He shrugs, a little shy. ‘I said yes. I want it to be a space for stories that are still being written. Especially the ones without a machine behind them.’
My throat tightens in the good way. ‘You’re building something special.’
‘So are you,’ he reaches for my hand. ‘I want the store to reflect that. To reflect you.’
Warmth blooms in my chest. ‘You’re turning that place into a home.’
‘That’s the goal,’ he says, brushing his lips to my hair. ‘It’s what Carol would’ve wanted.’
I whisper, ‘I’m proud of you, too.’
He glances down at me. ‘Yeah?’
‘For opening the door,’ I say. ‘And letting people in.’
The apartment is quiet, save for the hum of the kettle and the soft creak of the floorboards beneath us. Lucas stays, not out of obligation, not even because I ask, but because he wants to. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to be alone either.
We don’t say much after dinner. We just curl up together under a blanket on the couch, a book open between us that neither of us is really reading. Eventually, even the pretence of reading slips away. He sets the book down, shifts towards me, and the space between us vanishes.
His kiss starts softly. Just the press of his lips against mine, a silent question. But when I answer, fingers sliding into his hair, mouth parting beneath his, something in both of us comes undone. He lifts me into his lap like I weigh nothing and carries me to bed.
His hands skim under my shirt, reverent but hungry. I tug his t-shirt over his head, my fingers tracing the ink on his skin, the curve of his shoulder, the line of his jaw.
I want all of him, his weight, his heat, his breath against my neck as he whispers my name like it means something. We don’t rush, he undresses me slowly, like he is learning me by touch alone taking his time at every clasp, every sigh, every inch of skin.
When he bends his head to kiss along my collarbone, then lower, I let myself feel everything. The want, the ache, and the tenderness of being seen like this.
His mouth moves lower, tongue tracing lazy circles across my belly before settling between my thighs. I gasp, my hands fisting in the blanket as he licks me with slow, deliberate strokes that make my hips lift off the bed.
‘Lucas,’ I moan, breathless. ‘Please.’
He takes his time, drawing it out until I am shaking. Begging. Unravelling.
When I climax, it isn’t quiet. There is a sound that comes from someplace deep, from being touched like I matter. Like I am allowed to take up space and feel good without apology.
But I’m not finished with him, I push him back, a wicked smile tugging at my lips as I climb over him, trailing a path of kisses down his chest, and settling between his legs.
He looks at me like he is trying to memorise every second. ‘You don’t have to,’ he starts, but the words break off when I take him in my mouth.
Moving slowly at first, savouring the taste of him on my tongue, the way his breath caught, and his hips twitched beneath my hands. I want to ruin him, I want him wrecked and breathless, and desperate just like I had been.
‘Fuck, Lilah,’ he groans, head dropping back against the pillow, one hand buried in my hair, the other fisting the sheets. I don’t stop, I hollow my cheeks and tighten my grip, dragging him closer to the edge with each stroke.
His muscles tense, every sound he makes going straight to the fire already smouldering low in my belly again. When I feel him start to lose control, I pull off with a teasing lick and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
He looks at me in a daze, wrecked in the best way and I love that I have done that to him.
He flips me onto my back with a growl and kisses me like he needs to taste himself on my tongue.
Then he thrusts inside me in one deep, hungry stroke that almost has me crying out all over again.
It isn’t slow this time. He drives into me hard and deep.
‘Lilah.’ My name falling from his lips like a prayer.
My nails scratch down his back as my legs lock tighter. Our bodies meet with breathless, slick rhythm. I bite his shoulder to muffle a scream. When he hits that spot again, and again. ‘You feel, fuck, Lilah, you feel so good,’ he pants, his pace rough, relentless.
I match him thrust for thrust, not just taking. Claiming. Full of need and burning. When we come together it is wild, messy, and loud.