Bella busied herself in the kitchen, pretending she wasn't still replaying his words on loop.
"Just don't be surprised when I ask for rent."
She grabbed a pan, turned on the stove, and reached for the eggs. Her fingers trembled just slightly, betraying her otherwise calm expression. His shirt still clung to her faintly, like a second skin, and with every movement she was reminded it wasn't hers. It was his. And it still smelled like him.
She wasn't sure what was worse, the silence itself, or how charged it felt.
A moment later, Lucas appeared beside her—already bathed, sleeves rolled up, hair still slightly tousled from the morning—as if looking that effortlessly good had taken no effort at all. He opened the fridge, pulled out a packet of cheese, and leaned casually against the counter. Too close for just casual.
"You want help with that?" he asked, voice lower than usual.
Bella shook her head quickly. "I've got it."
He didn't move away. The next time she reached for a bowl, his hand brushed hers. Not on purpose. But not entirely by accident, either.
The tiny contact sent a current up her arm, making her fumble the bowl slightly. He caught it with one hand, steady and calm, and placed it gently in front of her.
"Careful," he murmured.
'How can I be careful, when everything here is making me reckless? Your shirt. Your cologne. Your voice. You.' Her inner voice screamed to tell him all of it, but her lips stayed still.
She shook the thought off and reached for the salt, but Lucas suddenly moved behind her — and then stopped.
He didn't touch her right away. She could feel his warmth at her back, the faint brush of his breath as he leaned in. Then… one strong arm slid around her waist, fingers grazing the hem of the shirt she wore.
Her breath hitched. The pan sizzled.
"This okay?" he asked softly, unsure if she'd let him stay this close. Last time, she hadn't.
Bella nodded, though she wasn't entirely sure what she was agreeing to. Maybe just the fact that he was standing there, wrapping himself around her without explanation. Or maybe to the way his arms made her feel like the ground beneath her didn't matter anymore.
He rested his chin gently on her shoulder, quietly pleased she hadn't pushed him away —pleased that he was allowed to hold her like this.
They both stared at the pan. Neither moved. Neither spoke. But the tension between them crackled like the oil in the skillet. Simmering. Low. Dangerous if left unattended too long.
Lucas wasn't smiling anymore. His eyes stayed fixed on the cooking, but his grip never left her waist. He didn't let go. And Bella didn't ask him to.
She stirred the eggs slowly, her other hand resting lightly over his where it pressed against her middle. Not quite holding him. Not quite pushing him away.
He was everywhere and nowhere all at once.
Finally, Lucas broke the silence, voice a low murmur in her ear. "Still thinking about that actor?"
Bella blinked. 'Forget the actor. I can't even stop thinking about you.'
"No," she muttered, nudging him lightly with her elbow.
"Good," he whispered. "Because I'm starting to like the view better from here."
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. They didn't move closer, didn't touch more than they already had, but the air thickened — warm, heavy — and neither dared to name it.
Just as Bella reached for a plate to serve the eggs, a sharp knock echoed through the apartment.
Lucas's arm stiffened around her waist. "Ignore it," he murmured against her shoulder.
Another knock, more insistent. "Damn it," he muttered, pulling away with visible reluctance.
Bella stepped aside, watching as his warm presence left her side. She wasn't sure if she missed it or if she was just too aware of how empty the space suddenly felt.
Lucas reached the door, annoyance sharp in his stride, and yanked it open.
"What the hell, Mark?"
Before he could say more, Mark strode in like he owned the place — leather jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes bright, phone still in hand.
"I had to come. There's something—"
"You couldn't call?" Lucas's jaw tightened.
Bella peeked around the corner, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.
"Mark!" she greeted, surprised but cheerful. "Good morning."
She smiled — that kind, open smile she always had. The one that made people feel like they belonged. Even Mark paused for a beat, his expression softening.
"Hey, Bella." He gave a small nod, gaze flicking briefly to the oversized shirt she wore — Lucas's shirt.
Lucas saw the glance. Something shifted in him. His broad frame moved subtly in front of Bella, blocking her from Mark's view.
Mine.
The word echoed in his head like a drumbeat.
His hand reached back instinctively, curling around her wrist — gentle, but firm. A silent reminder. To her. To Mark. To himself.
Bella blinked up at him, surprised at the sudden touch, but Lucas didn't look at her. His eyes locked on Mark — unsmiling, unmoving, polite in the most dangerous way.
"You were saying?" His voice had an edge now, more warning than irritation.
Mark blinked, sensing the shift.
"Right. Yeah. I, uh, brought the files you asked for. Just didn't want to send them over text."
He held out the USB. Lucas didn't take it.
"Leave it on the table."
Bella gently tugged her wrist free, and Lucas let her go — but not before brushing his thumb along her palm. Deliberate. Possessive. Soft in touch, hard in meaning.
"I'll get you coffee," she offered to Mark, trying to ease the tension she didn't quite understand.
Mark nodded. "Thanks. That'd be great."
Lucas followed her toward the kitchen, his hand resting lightly on her lower back — a territorial gesture disguised as tenderness.
She's wearing my shirt. She made me breakfast. She smiled at you… but she's mine.
Lucas didn't need to say it. His silence screamed it louder than any words could.