A R I A
By the time I get back to the house, my nerves are trying to crawl out of my skin.
It’s not guilt exactly. It’s the weight of knowing something’s changed, something big—and pretending like it hasn’t is going to take a hell of a performance. My hair still smells like Lucian’s shampoo. My hoodie is still his. My skin is still warm from the way he looked at me when I walked out the door.
I close the front door behind me quietly, hoping to avoid—
“Look who finally came home.”
Damn.
I turn and find Oliver leaning against the kitchen counter, coffee in one hand, raised eyebrow doing most of the talking.
My voice is casual. Too casual. “Hey.”
He lifts his cup in mock salute. “Hey. Where’ve you been?”
“Out.”
“Ah, yes,” he says, nodding seriously. “The famous, detailed, completely
