After Lucas disappeared into his room, the apartment settled into a quiet rhythm—comfortable, familiar, almost domestic, like they'd been doing this for years.
Bella stayed at the table, rereading her notes and making small corrections, her handwriting neater now that her nerves had settled. Somehow, the faint trace of his cologne lingering in the air made the morning feel less lonely.
She smiled to herself, shaking her head. Ten minutes, huh? He'd sat there with her for almost an hour.
A few minutes later, she heard the soft creak of the bedroom door and the steady rhythm of footsteps returning. Lucas reappeared, laptop in one hand and a pen tucked behind his ear.
"Wi-Fi's stronger here," he said simply, though his tone carried that faintly amused edge that told her he hadn't really left to check the connection.
He sat beside her on the sofa instead of at the far end, his presence filling the space easily. The quiet between them wasn't awkward—it hummed, steady and alive. Bella tried to focus on the words in front of her, but every time he shifted, the scent of coffee and his aftershave brushed against her concentration like a whisper.
Lucas began typing, his fingers moving fast, efficient. The glow from his screen reflected faintly in his eyes, but she could tell he wasn't nearly as focused as he pretended to be.
"Working," he muttered, without looking up after catching her quick glances.
"Uh-huh," Bella murmured, her lips twitching. "Or pretending?"
That earned her a quiet chuckle. "Multitasking."
She looked at him fully now, one brow raised. "Is staring part of your CEO duties?"
He didn't deny it—just leaned back slightly, eyes glinting with quiet amusement. "Only when my employee is this distracting."
Bella let out a small laugh, shaking her head. "You're impossible."
"I've been told that before," he said easily, a half-smile tugging at his mouth.
For a few heartbeats, silence returned—only the soft clicking of his keyboard and the scratch of her pen filling the air. Their movements seemed to fall into rhythm, as though the room itself had decided to breathe in time with them.
Lucas eventually leaned over, glancing at her notebook. "How's it going?"
"Almost done," she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Except for a few questions that don't feel right."
"Nothing's impossible," he murmured, taking her pen before she could protest. His fingers brushed hers—light, brief—but enough to send a strange flutter through her chest. "Show me."
She pointed to the page. "'Describe a situation where you overcame a challenge at work.'"
He hummed, close enough for her to feel the vibration of his voice. "That's easy." He paused, just long enough to make her look up. "Say, 'I married Lucas Costanzo.'"
She gaped at him, half-exasperated, half-laughing. Her face still carried a red tint as she scolded, "You're no help at all."
"On the contrary," he said, handing her the pen back. "I'm the best kind of help."
"The annoying kind," she muttered.
"The effective kind," he countered, deadpan.
She shook her head, fighting a smile. There was something disarming about him when he was like this—unarmored, easy, teasing without the weight of his usual composure. She liked this side of him more, approachable, gentle, full of laughs and mischief.
When she looked back down at her notes, Lucas quietly stood, stretching his arms and walking to the kitchen as though he'd been planning it all along. A few moments later, the soft hiss of the coffee machine filled the air. She assumed he was refilling his cup until he came back with two mugs, placing one gently beside her notebook.
Her gaze flicked up, surprised. "You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to," he said simply, shrugging one shoulder before taking his seat beside her again.
That quiet sincerity did something strange to her chest—an ache, soft and full, that she didn't have words for.
"Thank you," she said, her voice a little quieter than before.
He just nodded, his eyes holding hers for a beat longer than necessary before turning back to his laptop.
Come to think of it, I had never really taken care of anyone before. Never cared about what another person wanted, never prioritized their comfort. But with Bella… I just know. I can tell when she is happy or about to cry, when something bothers her or when she needs space. It's like I can feel her discomfort, her pain, her joy. Maybe it's because we have been living together for almost a month. Or maybe it's just her. I like seeing her happy. I like her smile. I like her.
The room slipped back into calm—his steady typing, her pen gliding across the page, the faint hum of the city outside. It felt like something small and ordinary—something they hadn't known they were missing until it settled between them.
A morning that didn't need fixing.
Until the doorbell rang.
Bella blinked, startled. "Who could that be?"
"I'll get it," Lucas said, setting his laptop aside and heading toward the door.
She followed a moment later, wiping her hands with a towel from the counter. But the second she stepped into the hallway, her breath caught.
Because standing there—her familiar kind eyes wide with disbelief—was Gabrielle.
"Aunt…" Bella's voice faltered, half a whisper. "You're here—"
But before she could finish, Gabrielle's gaze lowered—to the soft curve beneath Bella's loose shirt, the one that wasn't as easy to hide anymore. She wanted to hide, to cover herself, but her legs wouldn't move. The air shifted. This wasn't how she imagined it. She wanted to tell her—but not like this.
Lucas felt Bella go still beside him, every muscle in her body tightening as if bracing for impact. Gabrielle's expression flickered—surprise, confusion, disappointment, realization—all passing too quickly to name.
"Bella…" Her voice trembled. "You—"
Bella swallowed hard, her fingers twisting in the towel. "I was going to tell you, Aunt. I promise." But no matter how much she explained now, it all felt wrong—like she was only trying to cover what she hadn't said sooner.
And just like that, the warmth of the morning wavered—turning delicate, fragile—like glass balanced on the edge of breaking.