The next few days settled into something dangerously close to routine.
Mornings: Lucas slipping out of her bed (or hers out of his) at stupid-o'clock to hit the site before the foreman started screaming. Quick, sleepy kisses that tasted like toothpaste and coffee grounds. Promises whispered against necks—"Text me when you're up," "Don't work too hard," "Miss you already."
Evenings: One of them knocking on the other's door around seven. Sometimes takeout, sometimes her attempting to cook (he never complained when she burned the garlic), sometimes just collapsing on the couch together, too tired for anything more ambitious than lazy making out that inevitably turned into slow, unhurried sex on whatever surface was closest.
It felt easy. Too easy, maybe.
By Friday night Emma was starting to notice the small silences.
They were lying in his bed after round two—sheets twisted around their legs, the ceiling fan clicking lazily overhead. His arm was heavy across her waist, fingers tracing idle figure-eights on her hip. She stared at the faint water stain on the ceiling she'd never noticed before.
"You're quiet," he murmured, lips brushing her shoulder.
"Just thinking."
"About?"
She rolled onto her side to face him. In the dim light from the hallway his eyes looked almost black.
"About how fast this is happening," she admitted. "And how much I like it. And how that scares me."
He didn't flinch or pull away. Just watched her with that steady gaze that always made her feel seen instead of judged.
"Scared of me?" he asked.
"No. Scared of… me. Of screwing it up. Of getting used to this and then waking up one day and you're gone."
He exhaled through his nose, a small, almost amused sound.
"I'm not going anywhere, Emma."
"You say that now."
"I mean it now." He propped himself on one elbow, looking down at her. "Look—I know what 'gone' feels like. I lived it. I'm not doing that to you. Or to myself."
She searched his face. "Promise?"
"Promise." He leaned down, kissed her slow and deep—less heat this time, more weight. When he pulled back he rested his forehead against hers. "Your turn. Promise me something."
"What?"
"Tell me when the scared part gets loud. Don't just sit with it. Talk to me."
She swallowed. Nodded. "Okay."
"Good girl."
The words hit her low and warm. She laughed softly, shoved his shoulder. "Don't start that again or we'll never sleep."
"Too late," he growled, already rolling her underneath him.
They didn't sleep for another hour.
Saturday morning she woke to the smell of bacon and the sound of him humming something old and bluesy in the kitchen. She padded out in his discarded t-shirt, hair a wreck, and found him at the stove—shirtless, jeans unbuttoned, spatula in hand.
"Jesus," she muttered, leaning in the doorway. "You trying to kill me before noon?"
He glanced over his shoulder, grinned. "Thought you might be hungry after last night."
"Starving." She crossed to him, slid her arms around his waist from behind, pressed her cheek to the warm skin between his shoulder blades. "But not for food."
His laugh rumbled through his back. "Food first. Then dessert."
She nipped his shoulder. "Spoilsport."
He plated eggs and bacon, poured orange juice she didn't remember buying. They ate standing at the counter like they'd done it forever—her perched on a stool, him between her knees, feeding her bites of crispy bacon between kisses.
After breakfast they showered together.
It started innocent—him washing her hair, her soaping his chest—but innocence never lasted long with them.
Soon she was on her knees again, water streaming over them both, his cock heavy on her tongue. He braced one hand on the tile wall, the other gentle in her wet hair, guiding without forcing. She took him deep, throat relaxing, eyes watering from the angle and the heat. His groans echoed off the walls.
"Fuck, baby… just like that."
When he got close he pulled her up, spun her to face the wall. Hands planted beside hers. He kicked her feet apart, slid inside her from behind in one smooth stroke. No condom this time—they'd had the talk, the tests, the trust. Just skin on skin.
He fucked her slow at first—long, deliberate drags that made her toes curl against the wet floor. Then harder. Faster. One hand snaked around to rub her clit while the other cupped her breast, pinching the nipple until she whimpered.
"Say my name," he rasped against her ear.
"Lucas—"
"Louder."
"Lucas!"
She came first—shuddering, knees buckling. He caught her around the waist, held her up as he chased his own release. A few more deep thrusts and he buried himself, groaning long and low as he spilled inside her.
They stayed like that until the water started turning cold.
Later—dressed, hair still damp—they walked to the farmers market a few blocks over. Hand in hand. Normal. Domestic. It felt surreal.
They bought peaches, fresh bread, a bouquet of sunflowers she insisted on carrying. He teased her about being a romantic. She told him to shut up and buy her coffee.
On the walk back, her phone buzzed.
She glanced at the screen—missed call from "Mom." Then a text.
Mom: Hey sweetie. In town this weekend for a conference. Dinner tonight? Bring anyone special if you want. Miss you.
Emma stopped walking.
Lucas noticed immediately. "Everything okay?"
"My mom's in town. Wants to do dinner."
He raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"She said I could bring someone special."
A slow smile spread across his face. "Am I special?"
She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were warm. "You know you are."
"So… do you want to?"
She bit her lip. "It's fast. Meeting parents. Or parent, singular. My dad's been gone since I was twelve."
"I know." He squeezed her hand. "We don't have to. No pressure."
She looked up at him—sunlight catching the gold flecks in his eyes, the scar on his jaw she'd kissed a dozen times already.
"I want to," she said quietly. "If you're okay with it."
He lifted her hand, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "I'm okay with it."
Her stomach flipped—nerves and excitement twisting together.
"Okay," she breathed. "Then… yeah. Let's do it."
He grinned, tugged her closer, kissed her right there on the sidewalk like no one else existed.
Dinner was at seven at that little Italian place near the water. Neutral territory. Safe.
Emma spent the afternoon panicking quietly while Lucas napped on her couch like the whole thing was no big deal.
She changed outfits three times.
Finally settled on dark jeans, a soft green sweater that made her eyes pop, and the silver hoop earrings her mom had given her for graduation.
When Lucas woke up he took one look at her and whistled low.
"You trying to make me behave in front of your mom?" he asked, voice still rough from sleep.
"Maybe."
He stood, crossed to her in two strides, backed her against the wall. Kissed her until her lipstick was ruined and her knees were weak.
"Too late," he murmured against her mouth. "I'm already thinking about getting you home later."
She laughed, breathless. "Be good."
"I'll try."
They walked to the restaurant holding hands.
Her mom was already there—blonde hair pulled back, same green eyes as Emma's, same nervous smile when she spotted them.
"Sweetheart!"
Hugs. Kisses on cheeks. Then the inevitable turn toward Lucas.
"Mom, this is Lucas. Lucas, my mom—Claire."
Claire's eyes flicked over him—appraising, not unkind.
"Nice to meet you, Lucas."
"You too, ma'am." He offered his hand, then—when she took it—covered it with his other one in that warm, sincere way of his. "Emma talks about you all the time."
Claire's smile softened. "Does she?"
"All good things," he assured her.
They sat. Ordered wine. Made small talk about the conference, the weather, the menu.
Then Claire leaned forward slightly.
"So. How did you two meet?"
"Across the hall," Emma said quickly. "Neighbor thing."
"Power went out one night," Lucas added, deadpan. "We kept each other company."
Emma choked on her wine.
Claire's eyebrow lifted. "I see."
Lucas just grinned, completely unrepentant.
Under the table his hand found Emma's thigh—squeezed once, reassuring.
The rest of dinner went smoother than Emma expected.
Claire asked questions—gentle ones. What he did for work. Where he grew up (Spokane, originally). Whether he liked dogs (yes, had one as a kid, missed having one now).
Lucas answered easily, asked questions back. Listened when Claire talked about her job (high school counselor—hence the endless patience). Laughed at her stories about Emma as a teenager.
By dessert Emma realized she was breathing normally again.
When they walked out into the cool night air, Claire hugged her tight.
"He seems… solid," she whispered in Emma's ear.
"He is," Emma whispered back.
Claire pulled back, looked between them. "Bring him to Thanksgiving if you're still doing this in November."
Emma laughed. "Mom."
"What? I'm allowed to hope."
Lucas shook Claire's hand again. "I'd like that, ma'am."
Claire smiled—real this time. "Good."
They watched her get into her Uber, then turned toward home.
Halfway there Lucas stopped under a streetlamp, pulled Emma into his arms.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah." She tipped her head back to look at him. "Really okay."
He kissed her forehead. "Proud of you."
"For what?"
"For letting me in. For not running when it got real."
She wrapped her arms around his waist. "I'm not running."
"Good." His voice dropped. "Because I've got plans for you when we get home."
Her body responded instantly—heat pooling low.
"Oh?"
"Mmm." He nipped her earlobe. "Gonna take my time. Make you come so many times you forget how to be scared."
She shivered. "Promise?"
"Promise."
They barely made it through the door.