Chapter 8
1602 Words
The Way It Feels Now
Rhea POV
Three months had passed since the crash. Since the quiet beeping of machines and the smell of sterile bedsheets. Since the moment Lucian first said her name with an anchor in his voice.
And in that time, something in Rhea softened. Not all at once. Not dramatically.
But gently.
Like breath returning to a body that had forgotten how to breathe.
She and Asher were still married—technically. Still tied by ink on paper and photos she hadn’t bothered to archive. But what once held her together had unraveled without a sound. Now she found herself pulled into orbit around someone else. Someone steady. Someone who looked at her like she was still whole.
Lucian.
They never defined what they were. They didn’t need to.
They met often. Cafés, street food stalls, bookstores with crooked floors and sleepy jazz. He sent her articles about typography. She sent him memes he pretended not to understand until he laughed two minutes later. They were easy.
And Rhea hadn’t known how badly she’d craved easy.
On Friday night, they met Shirley and Avelyn at a speakeasy tucked behind a fake laundromat. All black tile and mood lighting, with jazz playing softly and candles flickering in cut-glass tumblers.
Lucian blended in too well—rolled sleeves, confidence, that slight tilt of his head when listening. He looked like a man who knew how to exist in the shadows without needing to be seen. But the moment his hand brushed hers when passing the drinks, Rhea's pulse stuttered.
“You’re glowing,” Shirley whispered when he stepped away. “Like, second-summer-in-Europe glowing. That’s Lucian light, honey.”
Rhea rolled her eyes but smiled into her mocktail.
“I’m serious,” Avelyn added, nudging her under the table. “Your eyes don’t look tired anymore. And your back isn’t carrying the emotional weight of a cement truck.”
“He’s a friend.”
“Mmhmm. Sure,” Shirley said. “And I’m a minimalist.”
Avelyn leaned closer. “Rhea. Hear me. If something does happen between you two… no one here will judge you. We’ve watched you bleed quiet for years. You deserve every drop of peace he gives you.”
Rhea looked down. Her glass was sweating in her hand. She didn’t say anything, but something inside her loosened.
Just then, Shirley’s gaze drifted toward the bar.
Lucian turned. Two drinks in hand. His eyes scanned until they found Rhea’s.
And stayed.
“God,” Shirley murmured. “Look at how he watches you.”
Avelyn smiled. “Like you’re a song he already knows the lyrics to. You don’t even need to speak. You’re already in sync.”
They shared a glance.
“They look better together than Rhea ever did with Asher,” Avelyn added. “It’s not even close.”
Rhea didn’t argue. Because she didn’t feel the need to.
Lucian returned and rested a casual hand on the back of her chair. His fingers brushed her shoulder, featherlight.
And she didn’t move.
If anything—she leaned in.
Later, after the laughter faded and their friends drifted to their Grab rides, Rhea and Lucian lingered on the sidewalk outside.
“Want a ride or feel like walking?” he asked.
She looked up at him. “Walk. That drink was way too sweet.”
They wandered down the quieter stretch, warm streetlights glowing like constellations above. Their hands didn’t touch. But their steps matched. Their breathing synced.
“So…” Lucian began. “Six months from now. What does life look like?”
Rhea hesitated. Then: “Hopefully sun-drenched. Font-filled. Far from people who make me question if I’m too much, or not enough.”
Lucian didn’t answer at first.
But his jaw tightened.
“You deserve all of that,” he said. “And more.”
Rhea looked over. The light hit his profile like it was trying to memorize him. She reached up instinctively to brush away a tiny mark near his brow—smudged powder from a crowded hallway.
Her fingers paused. Lingered.
Lucian caught her wrist gently, his thumb pressing into the soft skin of her pulse.
Their eyes locked.
“Rhea,” he said, voice low, thick. “Tell me to back off.”
She stared at him.
Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t say anything at all.
Because she couldn’t.
His gaze dropped, just briefly, to her lips.
And in the space between one heartbeat and the next, Rhea felt the weight of everything they weren’t saying press against her chest like a secret that desperately wanted to be spoken.
A car honked somewhere down the street.
They both flinched slightly, just enough to blink the tension away.
“I should get home,” she whispered.
Lucian nodded once, slowly, pulling his hand back like it hurt to do it. “Yeah. I’ll call you tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” she said, soft.
Tomorrow.
It wasn’t a promise.
But it was hope.
And as she walked away, the air still clinging to her skin smelled like warm asphalt, rain in the distance… and him.
For the first time in months, she didn’t feel married.
She felt alive.
—
Lucian POV
He knew better.
He knew what boundaries were. Knew how to respect them, knew how to wait. He had built an empire on patience, precision, power measured in silence and restraint.
But Rhea?
Rhea unraveled all of that with the way she looked at him. The way she tilted her head when he made her laugh. The way she never asked anything from him but somehow made him want to give her everything.
He wasn’t the kind of man who needed someone. But with her—he wanted. Fiercely. Helplessly. Desperately.
Not just her laughter or her sharp, beautiful mind. Not just her body, though God, the curve of her collarbone beneath her blouse was enough to make him lose focus mid-conversation. It was the way she carried pain like poetry—quiet, dignified, never once asking to be rescued. But all Lucian wanted was to drag her from the fire and wrap her in something solid and sure and his.
She was still married. He reminded himself of that daily. He reminded himself when she laughed at his dumb jokes, when she sent him playlists late at night, when she brushed his arm a second too long as they reached for the same coffee cup.
She didn’t belong to him.
But his heart didn’t seem to care.
Because every time Rhea said his name with that soft lilt—Lucian, like a confession—it echoed through his bones like a vow. He knew the moment he’d fallen for her. Not when she cried. Not when she leaned on him. But when she was radiant in her aliveness again—when she smiled without apology. That’s when he lost the last piece of himself he’d been guarding.
And Asher?
Lucian’s jaw clenched just thinking of him.
His PI had sent everything—photos of Asher kissing someone else in his car, hotel receipts, text logs, timestamps. The kind of betrayal that wasn’t accidental. It was routine. Rehearsed. Heartless.
And still, Rhea defended him in silence. Still, she wore the ring sometimes like it was heavy, not sacred. Because she hadn’t seen the whole picture yet.
Lucian had the truth.
He had the evidence to break her open.
And part of him—a dark, selfish part—wanted to. Wanted to show her the photos. Wanted to watch her disbelief crumble and gather her up in his arms and never let her go again.
If he followed his instincts, he’d have kissed her on that park bench two weeks ago. He’d have asked her to run away tonight. He’d have found her old key in his drawer and said, “Here. No more waiting.”
But he didn’t.
Because she had to choose him. Fully. Freely.
Still, the possessiveness lived just under his skin.
When he saw her talking to another guy at the café last week—even though it was her old uni friend—Lucian had gritted his teeth so hard his temples ached. He didn’t say anything. Just placed her coffee down with a smile and a joke. But inside, all he could hear was mine.
Tonight, as they walked past the sculptures—her hand brushing the back of his lightly when she pointed to one that looked like two people nearly touching—Lucian felt it again.
This need.
This craving to pull her in. Claim her. Keep her.
He glanced at her as she laughed, wind nudging her hair into her eyes, and he had the strangest thought:
I could build a life for her. Right now. In a heartbeat.
A flat with floor-to-ceiling windows. Sunday mornings filled with mismatched mugs and shared playlists. A studio corner where she could create. His arms around her waist as he kissed her shoulder while she sipped her coffee.
She'd belong nowhere else but there—with him.
He swallowed the urge.
Because tonight wasn’t about declarations.
Tonight was about the ache of what he couldn’t yet have.
But one day?
He’d tell her everything.
And when she knew—when she really knew—he’d be ready to give her not just the truth.
But the future too.
One she didn’t have to survive alone.
One with his name folded into every part of it.
And this time, no one—not even Asher—would get in the way.
- Writer
