Chapter 13
Maya
I wake to soft morning light filtering through gauzy curtains and the profound sense that I'm not alone. For a moment, I'm disoriented. This is Harper's guest room, my room, and there's a presence nearby that sets my heart racing before my brain fully engages.
Then I remember. Evan. The assault. Lucas promising to keep watch outside my door.
I slip out of bed as quietly as possible, bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. When I crack open the door, there he is. Slumped in the chair with his long legs stretched out and his head tilted back at an angle that's going to give him the worst crick in his neck.
He stayed. All night. In an uncomfortable chair in a narrow hallway, away from his own bed, his own space, his own life, because I was scared.
The overwhelming surge of emotion that hits me is complex and terrifying. Gratitude, yes, but so much more. Something that feels dangerously close to the L-word I've been avoiding since our conversation night before last.
Lucas Mason spent the night protecting me. Not because he had to, not because anyone asked him to, but because he wanted to. Because he cares about me enough to sacrifice his own comfort for my peace of mind.
I step into the hallway, studying his sleeping face. Up close, I can see the exhaustion written across his features—the tight lines around his eyes, the way his jaw is clenched even in sleep, the careful way he's positioned himself so he'd wake at the first sound from my room.
Without thinking, I reach out and gently touch his cheek. His skin is warm, slightly rough with stubble, and I find myself tracing the strong line of his jaw with my fingertips.
His eyes flutter open at my touch, immediately alert despite having been deeply asleep moments before. "Maya? You okay?"
The first thing he does is check on me. Not complain about the uncomfortable chair or ask what time it is or grumble about being woken up. He asks if I'm okay.
"I'm perfect," I whisper, and I realize I mean it. For the first time in months, maybe years, I feel genuinely protected. Cared for.
"Good." He starts to sit up straighter, wincing slightly as his neck protests the awkward sleeping position.
I immediately feel guilty. "Lucas, this is insane. You can't sleep in hallway chairs because I'm scared."
"I'm fine." His hand comes up to cover mine where it still rests against his face. "And yes, I can."
"Did you sleep at all?"
"Some." His eyes are serious, intense. "Enough."
"This is crazy. You can't spend every night in a chair because I'm afraid of a phone call or a shadow at the window."
"Watch me."
The quiet determination in his voice makes my heart somersault. "You'd really do that? Give up your sleep, your comfort, your life, to babysit my neuroses?"
"They're not neuroses, Maya. You have a legitimate stalker who put his hands on you yesterday. And yes, I'd really do that." His thumb brushes across my knuckles. "I'd do anything for you."
The simple sincerity cracks me open. Because this isn't some grand romantic gesture designed to impress me. This is Lucas being Lucas—steady, protective, quietly devoted.
"You must have a terrible crick in your neck," I murmur, still touching his face like I can't quite believe he's real.
"Worth it." His smile is soft, sleepy, and so beautiful it makes my heart stutter. "Hearing you sleep peacefully? Completely worth it."
I sink down to sit on the edge of the chair's arm, bringing us to eye level. "Come inside. Please. Just to stretch out properly for a few minutes."
"Maya—"
"I'm awake now. I'm safe. And you look like you're about to fall over." I stand and offer him my hand. "Five minutes. Let me take care of you for once."
He looks at my outstretched hand for a long moment, then takes it, letting me pull him to his feet. "Five minutes," he agrees, and follows me into the room.
We settle on the edge of the bed, and I watch him roll his shoulders, trying to work out the kinks from sleeping in an awkward position.
"Better?" I ask softly.
"Much." His smile is grateful, tired, and so genuine. "Thank you."
"Good morning," I whisper.
"Good morning, beautiful."
Sitting here in the soft morning light with Lucas beside me, both of us rumpled and tired but safe, I realize something has shifted. The walls I've spent years building around my heart have been quietly dismantled, brick by brick, by this man who sleeps in hallway chairs and calls me beautiful.
"I need to tell you something," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Okay." He turns to face me fully, giving me his complete attention in that way he has that makes me feel like the most important person in the world.
"I lied to you. The other night when I said I've had feelings for you since junior year." I take a shaky breath. "It was before that. It was the first day of freshman year, when Brad Hutchinson was giving me grief about my thrift store backpack, and you told him to knock it off."
Lucas's expression softens. "Maya—"
"No, let me finish. I need to say this." I twist my hands in my lap, nervous energy making it hard to sit still.
"You probably don't even remember, but after Brad left, you asked if I was okay.
Not if I needed help, not if I wanted you to do something about it.
You asked if I was okay. Like my feelings mattered more than the problem. "
"I remember," he says quietly.
"You do?"
"I remember thinking you were the bravest person I'd ever met. Standing up to Brad like that, chin up, ready to fight even though he was twice your size." His mouth curves into a small smile. "I remember wanting to protect you and being impressed that you didn't need protecting."
"But I did need protecting. I needed someone to see me, to care whether I was hurt or scared or just tired of being different." I look down at my hands. "And you saw me. You always saw me."
"Maya." His voice is gentle, understanding.
"In chemistry class, when you'd explain molecular bonds or help me with stoichiometry, you never made me feel stupid for not getting it immediately." The words are pouring out now, years of feelings I've never been able to articulate. "You made me feel safe in a way I'd never experienced before."
"You were safe with me. You always will be."
"I know that now. But back then, I was so scared of ruining our friendship that I never said anything. And then I left for college and convinced myself it was just a teenage crush, that I'd outgrow it." I finally look up at him. "But I never did, Lucas. I never stopped—"
"Loving me?" he finishes softly.
I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, about to jump without knowing if there's water below.
"Yeah," I whisper. "I never stopped loving you."
For a moment, we just look at each other. Then he reaches over and takes my hand, threading our fingers together.
"I wrote you letters," he admits. "In college. Probably fifty of them over four years. Never sent a single one."
"What did they say?"
"That I missed you. That I was proud of everything you were accomplishing. That I hoped you were happy but secretly hoped you'd come home." His thumb traces across my knuckles again. "That I loved you and probably always would."
"Why didn't you send them?"
"I didn't want to be the small-town guy trying to hold you back."
My heart breaks a little at the thought of him writing letters he never sent, loving me from a distance while I was in Seattle convincing myself I was meant for bigger things than this town, this life.
"I wasn't happy. I was successful, but I wasn't happy.
I spent ten years trying to become someone else, someone who belonged in boardrooms and networking events, someone who wore the right clothes and said the right things.
" I squeeze his hand. "But that person wasn't me.
And deep down, I think I knew the real me was still here, waiting for you. "
"The real you is perfect," he says, and there's such conviction in his voice that I almost believe him.
"Even broken and scared and running from a stalker?"
"Especially then." He brings our joined hands up to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to my hand. "You're not broken. You're healing. And you're not running anymore."
"No," I agree, looking into his eyes and seeing my entire future reflected there. "I'm not running anymore."
I realize that this is the moment. This is when I stop being afraid of what I want and start reaching for it instead.
"I'm done being careful," I say softly, and something in my voice makes his eyes go dark.
"I'm done overthinking. I'm done waiting for the perfect moment or the right circumstances.
" I shift closer to him on the bed, close enough that our knees touch.
"I want you. Not because I'm scared or lonely or running from something else.
I want you because you're you, and I love you, and I can't imagine being anywhere else. "
His breath catches.
"You said when we do this, I need to know it means everything to you." I reach up and cup his face in my hands. "Well, I’m ready for this. For us. You mean the world to me Lucas"
For a moment, we just look at each other, and I can see him processing what I'm saying. Then his hands come up to frame my face, mirroring my gesture.
"Are you sure?" he asks, and his voice is rough with want and restraint. "Because once we cross this line—"
"We can never go back," I finish. "I don't want to go back."
That's all the permission he needs. His mouth comes crashing down on mine, and this kiss is different from the tentative exploration we shared in this same room two nights ago. This is hunger and the release of years of pent-up longing.
I make a soft sound against his lips and press closer, my hands sliding from his face to his shoulders to tangle in his hair. He responds by deepening the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips until I open for him.
The taste of him makes my head spin. I've kissed other men—Derek, a few others in college—but none of them ever made me feel like this.