Moonlight spilled across the rumpled bed sheets, where your bare leg tangled with his. His arm laid heavy over your waist, grounding you. Anchoring you. As if letting go might undo what just happened between you. Lucas’s chest rose and fell against your back, slow and steady. Like nothing had changed. You swallowed the lump in your throat, eyes fixed on the cracked ceiling. “Are you awake?” you asked softly.

“Yeah,” came his voice, gravelly and low. You felt his fingers flex slightly where they rested on your hip. Possessive and thoughtless, like he didn’t even realize he was holding on. You could have stayed in that silence forever. But you’d already given him your body, and if you didn’t speak now, you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to. So you inhaled, heart pounding like it knew this would ruin the peace. And you asked it anyway.

“Am I just something you come back to when the world gets too loud?” Lucas didn’t answer right away. You felt the tension in his body. The subtle pull of distance, like he wanted to pull away but didn’t know how without unraveling what was left between you.

“Why would you ask that?” he said eventually, low and cautious.

You rolled onto your back, pulling the sheet up more out of defense than modesty. “Because you only show up when something goes wrong. Or after a fight. Or when you think tomorrow might not come.”

He was watching you now, propped on his elbow, moonlight catching the edge of the scar beneath his collarbone. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” you challenged, voice trembling despite your best effort. “You don’t call. You don’t stay. You show up in the middle of the night with blood on your knuckles and guilt in your eyes and you-” You swallowed hard. “-You look at me like I’m the only peace you’ve got. But when the smoke clears, you always disappear.”

His jaw tightened. “I didn’t think you wanted strings.”

“I didn’t think I had to say it,” you whispered.

Lucas sat up then, running a hand through his hair, tension rolling off him in waves. “You know who I am. What I’ve done.”

“I don’t give a damn what you’ve done.” You sat up too, your voice cracking. “I care about what we’ve been doing. And I need to know if this is just comfort to you. Or if it’s something real.”

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted finally. His voice was quiet. Wrecked. “I never stayed long enough to figure it out. Not with anyone since...” Your breath caught. “But you’re not just comfort.” He looked down, then back at you. “You’re the only thing that doesn’t make me feel like a ghost in my own life.” You blinked, stunned by the honesty in his voice.