Chapter 3
Maya
The moment Lucas goes to grab candles, I do what any normal, well-adjusted adult would do when left alone in their former crush's loft.
I snoop.
Not maliciously, I tell myself as I feel my way along the exposed brick wall. Just getting acquainted with my surroundings. For safety reasons. In case of emergency evacuation. Totally legitimate.
My fingers trace the rough texture of the brick.
Even in the darkness, I can tell this place has character.
Nothing like the sterile, all-white apartment I shared with Derek in Seattle.
The one that always felt more like a showroom than a home.
This feels lived-in. Real. Like someone actually gives a damn about the space they inhabit.
Lightning flickers outside. Illuminating the room for a brief second. I catch a glimpse of built-in bookshelves along one wall. Books. Lots of them. That's unexpected. The Lucas I remember from high school was more interested in fixing engines than reading novels.
I make my way carefully toward the shelves. Run my fingers along the spines. Even without being able to read the titles, I can tell these aren't just for show. They're worn. Well-read. Arranged with the kind of casual organization that comes from someone who actually uses their library.
"Find something interesting?"
I jump about three feet in the air. Spinning toward Lucas's voice. He's standing behind me, silhouetted by the soft glow of what looks like half a dozen candles in his hands.
"I wasn't snooping," I say quickly, then wince. "Okay, I was totally snooping. But just a little bit. Surface-level snooping."
He laughs—that low, rumbling sound that does things to my ovaries. "Surface-level snooping. Is that like being a little bit pregnant?"
"Hey, there are different levels of privacy invasion." I cross my arms. Trying to look dignified despite being caught red-handed. "I didn't go through your drawers or anything."
"Well, that's a relief." He sets the candles around the room. Warm light begins to chase away the darkness. "Though I have to say, the books are a dead giveaway."
"About what?"
"That I'm not the same guy you remember from high school."
The candlelight reveals his face. There's something almost vulnerable in his expression. Like he's worried about what I might think of the person he's become.
I look around the space properly for the first time.
Take in details I missed in my earlier panic.
The books, yes, but also the way he's arranged everything.
There's a reading chair by the window with a soft throw draped over the arm.
A small table next to it holds a coffee mug with a ring stain—evidence of countless quiet mornings.
The kitchen is spotless but warm. Actual spices in the rack.
It's masculine, absolutely. But there's a thoughtfulness to it. This isn't the apartment of some guy who never progressed past his high school persona. This is the home of a man who's built a life. Who's chosen to stay and make something beautiful out of it.
"You read Stephen King," I observe, squinting at one of the book spines.
"Among other things." He moves to the kitchen. Pulling out what looks like tea bags. "You sound surprised."
"I am, a little." I follow him. Drawn by the domestic normalcy of watching him make tea by candlelight. "You were more of a 'hands-on learning' type in school."
"Still am. But turns out there are some things you can only learn from books." He glances at me over his shoulder. "Like how to run a business. Or how to make your peace with staying in a place everyone else is dying to leave."
Something in his tone makes me look at him more carefully. In the soft glow of the candles, I can see the set of his shoulders that speak of weariness.
"Is that what you did?" I ask quietly. "Made your peace with staying?"
He's quiet for a long moment. Focusing intently on preparing the tea. When he finally speaks, his voice is careful. "Someone had to take over the bar when Dad got sick. Mom couldn't handle it alone."
"And you wanted to?"
Another pause. "I wanted to do what was right."
The words hit home. While I was chasing dreams in Seattle, complaining about small-town life to anyone who would listen, Lucas was here. Taking care of his family. Building on a legacy.
I lean against his counter. Studying his profile in the flickering light. "You know, I always pictured you leaving too. After graduation. Following some girl to college or joining the military or something."
"Some girl." He turns to face me. There's something almost amused in his expression. "What girl?"
Heat creeps up my neck. "I don't know. Someone. You were... you could have had anyone."
"Could I?" The question is soft, but there's weight behind it. Like he's asking something entirely different.
Before I can figure out how to answer that loaded question, he's moving again. Pulling mugs from a cabinet. But I catch the way his jaw tightens. The careful way he's not quite looking at me.
"Your apartment in Seattle," he says. Changing the subject with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. "Was it nice?"
I think about the pristine white walls. The furniture Derek picked out because it was "investment quality." The way it always felt like I was living in someone else's idea of success.
"It was expensive," I say finally. "And very clean."
"That's not the same thing as nice."
"No," I admit, looking around his warm, lived-in space. "It's not."
Lucas hands me a steaming mug. Our fingers brush as I take it. The contact sends me into a tizzy, especially with the way he's looking at me in the soft glow.
"Chamomile," he says. Like he needs to explain. "Figured you might need help winding down after the day you've had."
I take a sip. It's perfect. Not too hot, with just a hint of honey. Of course he remembers that I like honey in my tea. Of course he pays attention to details like that.
"Thank you." I cup the mug between my hands. Letting the warmth seep into my fingers. "For all of this. I know it's complicated."
"Is it?" He leans against the counter across from me. The candlelight catching the blue of his eyes. "Seems pretty straightforward to me. You needed help. I helped."
"Since when is anything with us straightforward?"
The words slip out. I see something flicker across his face. Surprise, or recognition.
"Fair point." He pushes off from the counter. Moving toward a hall closet. "Let me get you some blankets. That couch gets cold at night."
I watch him rummage through the closet. Pulling out what looks like half his linen collection. He's being so careful. So deliberately helpful. It's making me feel all warm and fuzzy. When's the last time someone took care of me like this? Derek never seemed to go out of his way for me.
But here's Lucas, anticipating my needs before I even voice them.
"Here." He emerges from the closet with an armload of blankets and pillows. "This should keep you warm."
He starts arranging them on the couch. Fluffing pillows. Testing the softness of the cushions. Making sure the throw blanket is within easy reach.
"Lucas." I set down my tea and move closer. "You don't have to—"
"Yeah, I do." He looks up at me. There's something almost fierce in his expression. "You're in my space, which means you're my responsibility."
"I'm not your responsibility."
"Tonight you are."
There's something protective in his tone. Something that makes me feel both safe and entirely off-balance.
"Is this a small-town thing?" I ask. Trying to inject some lightness into the moment. "This level of hospitality?"
"No." He straightens up. Suddenly we're standing very close. Close enough that I can smell him. "This is a you thing."
My breath catches. "A me thing?"
"You think I'd do this for just anyone who showed up at my bar soaking wet and clearly running from something?"
No, I don't think he would. Lucas has always been kind, but this feels different. More intentional. More...
"I don't know what I think anymore," I admit quietly.
Something in his expression softens. "That's okay. You don't have to figure everything out tonight."
He reaches past me to adjust one of the pillows. His arm brushes mine. Neither of us moves away. For a moment, we just stand there. Caught in this strange moment. Rekindling friendship and whatever this magnetism between us is.
"The storm's getting worse," he observes. His voice husky.
Outside, the wind has picked up. Howling around the building like something alive and angry. But in here, with the candlelight dancing across his face and the scent of chamomile tea warming the air, it feels like the safest place in the world.
We settle onto opposite ends of the couch. The space between us feels both charged and careful. I tuck my legs under me. Wrap my hands around the warm mug.
"So," Lucas says, cradling his own tea. "Seattle tech scene. Living the dream?"
I let out a bitter laugh. "Living something. Turns out changing the world is harder when you're debugging legacy code sixty hours a week."
"That doesn't sound like the Maya I remember. She would have told them exactly where they could shove their ad revenue."
"Maybe that Maya got tired of being difficult."
The quiet observation cuts deep. I look up to find him watching me with an intensity that makes me squirm.
"Maybe she did," I admit. "God, Lucas, I used to be so sure. I had plans. Goals. I was going to prove leaving was worth it."
"And instead?"
"Instead, I became exactly what I used to mock. Corporate drone pretending a good salary makes up for selling your soul." The words pour out. Years of frustration I've never voiced. "I finally admitted none of it was making me happy."
"What would? Make you happy, I mean."
The question catches me off guard. "I don't know. I feel like I've been pretending for so long that I don't remember who I actually am."
"I remember."
The words are soft and touching. Lucas leans forward. Those blue eyes serious.