The rest of the morning slipped away in lazy, stolen pieces.
Lucas left just before ten—kissed her slow and deep at the door, promised he'd text when he got off the site, then disappeared down the stairwell with one last look that made her thighs clench all over again. Emma stood there in nothing but his Henley for a full minute after the door clicked shut, feeling the ghost of his hands on her skin.
Work was torture.
The coffee shop was slammed—Monday rush, everyone desperate for caffeine before another week of spreadsheets and stand-ups. She smiled too brightly, frothed too aggressively, spilled oat milk twice. Her coworker Mia noticed immediately.
"You're glowing, bitch," Mia said during a rare lull, hip-checking her behind the espresso machine. "Spill."
Emma wiped her hands on her apron. "Nothing to spill."
"Liar. You've got that post-dick glow. Who is he?"
Emma felt her face heat. "Just… someone."
Mia's eyebrows shot up. "Someone we know?"
"No. Yes. Neighbor."
Mia let out a low whistle. "The hot construction guy? The one with the arms and the permanent stubble?"
Emma didn't answer. She didn't have to. Mia cackled.
"Girl, yes. Get it. But be careful—he looks like the type who breaks hearts for sport."
Emma's stomach did a small, uneasy flip. She pushed it down. Lucas hadn't felt like a player. He'd felt… solid. Real. The way he'd looked at her this morning—like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing—didn't match Mia's warning.
Still. Doubt is sticky. It clings.
She checked her phone obsessively between orders. Nothing yet. He was probably covered in dust and drywall mud, yelling over power tools. Rational. Normal.
But by four o'clock, when her shift finally ended, the silence on her phone had started to feel loud.
She walked home in the late-afternoon gray, hoodie up against the wind off the water. The building smelled like someone had burned popcorn again. She climbed the stairs, legs heavy.
When she reached their floor, the hallway was quiet except for the low hum of someone's music leaking under a door.
His door.
She paused outside 4B, heart doing that stupid fluttery thing. Should she knock? Text first? Pretend she wasn't dying to see him?
Before she could decide, the door swung open.
Lucas stood there in a clean black t-shirt and jeans, hair damp like he'd just showered. A faint line of white dust still clung to one eyebrow—he'd missed a spot.
"Hey," he said, voice warm enough to melt the last of her doubt.
"Hey." She smiled, suddenly shy.
He stepped aside. "Come in. I was hoping you'd stop by."
She did.
His place was sparse but not empty. Exposed brick on one wall, a big leather couch that looked well-loved, framed black-and-white photos of city skylines and old bridges. A guitar leaned in the corner—acoustic, beat-up, strings slightly out of tune. It humanized him in a way nothing else had yet.
"Want a beer?" he asked, already heading to the fridge.
"Sure."
He cracked two, handed her one, then tugged her down onto the couch beside him. Their thighs pressed together. Heat radiated off him like a furnace.
"Long day?" she asked.
"Brutal. Site manager's on a power trip. But I kept thinking about this morning." His fingers found hers, laced them together. "Kept me sane."
She swallowed. "Me too."
He studied her face for a beat. "You okay? You seem… somewhere else."
Emma hesitated. Then decided fuck it. Honesty had gotten her this far.
"Mia at work—she knows about us. Sort of. She warned me you might be… I don't know. Trouble."
Lucas's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his eyes. Not anger. More like resignation.
"She's not wrong to wonder," he said quietly. "I've got history."
Emma's pulse kicked up. "What kind?"
He took a long pull from his beer, set it on the coffee table. "I was married. Five years. Ended two years ago. Not pretty."
She waited. Didn't push.
"She cheated," he continued. "With my best friend at the time. Found out on my birthday, of all fucking days. I left the same night. Moved here. Started over."
Emma's chest ached for him. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It needed to end. But it left me… careful. I don't jump into things lightly anymore." He turned to face her fully. "That's why I said I don't do casual half-assed. Because the last time I trusted someone completely, it nearly broke me."
She searched his face. No bullshit. No rehearsed lines. Just raw honesty.
"I'm not her," she said softly.
"I know." His thumb brushed her cheek. "But I still get scared sometimes. That I'll fuck it up. Or that you'll realize I'm not worth the risk."
Emma set her beer down. Moved to straddle his lap, knees bracketing his hips. His hands settled automatically on her waist—big, steady.
"You're worth it," she told him. "At least so far."
A small, crooked smile. "High praise."
She kissed him then—slow, searching. Not the frantic heat of last night or this morning. This was different. Deeper. Like they were tasting trust.
His hands slid under her hoodie, palms warm against her bare back. She rocked against him gently, feeling him harden beneath her. A soft groan rumbled in his chest.
"Emma…"
She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "I want you. Right now. No games. No doubts."
He searched her face for a second longer—then nodded.
They moved together like they'd done this a hundred times instead of twice.
Clothes came off slow. Deliberate. Her hoodie, his shirt. Her bra unhooked with reverent fingers. His jeans shoved down just enough.
When he finally pushed inside her—bare this time, both of them tested and clean from a conversation they'd had that morning on the couch—she gasped at the difference. Hot. Velvet. Nothing between them.
He held still, letting her adjust, forehead pressed to hers.
"You feel…" He swallowed hard. "Fuck. Perfect."
She rolled her hips experimentally. They both moaned.
He started moving then—long, rolling thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside her. She clung to his shoulders, nails biting skin. His mouth found her throat, sucking a mark she knew she'd have to hide at work tomorrow.
One hand slipped between them, thumb finding her clit. He circled with the exact pressure she liked—firm, steady, relentless.
"Lucas—"
"Come with me," he murmured against her skin. "Want to feel you."
She was already close—had been since she climbed into his lap. The combination of his thickness filling her, the perfect friction on her clit, the way he looked at her like she was everything—it tipped her fast.
She shattered around him with a choked cry, pulsing hard. He followed seconds later, burying deep and coming with a low, broken groan, spilling inside her in hot pulses that made her shiver.
They stayed locked together afterward, breathing each other in.
His arms wrapped around her, holding her against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat—fast, then slowing.
"Stay tonight?" he asked quietly.
She nodded against his neck. "Yeah."
He kissed her temple. "Good."
Later—after they'd cleaned up, ordered Thai, eaten cross-legged on his living room floor in nothing but underwear and one of his flannels—she curled against him on the couch while some old crime show played low in the background.
His fingers played idly with her hair.
"Tell me something real," she said.
He thought for a moment. "I still check her Instagram sometimes. Not to get back together. Just… to make sure she's miserable."
Emma laughed softly. "Is she?"
"No. She's engaged. Looks happy."
"Does that hurt?"
"Sometimes. Less than it used to." He kissed the top of her head. "Your turn."
She hesitated. "I've never had anyone stay. Not really. Guys either ghost after a few weeks or I push them away before they can."
"Why?"
"Scared they'll see the mess underneath and leave anyway."
He tightened his arm around her. "I see the mess. I'm still here."
She turned her face into his chest. "I know."
They fell asleep like that—tangled, warm, the city humming beyond the windows.
For the first time in a long time, Emma didn't feel like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
She felt like maybe—just maybe—it wouldn't.