The space between us

The first thing Emilia Carter noticed when she stepped onto the porch was that the door was unlocked. The second was the low murmur of a man’s voice inside the house. Her fingers tightened around the handle of her suitcase. She pushed the door open slowly, her pulse quickening as the familiar scent of wood polish and coffee wrapped around her—too warm, too lived-in. “Hello?” she called. Footsteps sounded from the kitchen. Then Lucas Hale appeared in the doorway. He filled it effortlessly. Older, broader, his dark hair shorter than she remembered, his shirt sleeves rolled to the forearms she had once memorized. His gaze swept over her in a way that was unmistakably aware—lingering just long enough to make her skin prickle. “You’re late,” he said. The sound of his voice slid straight down her spine. “You’re early,” she replied, lifting her chin. Anything to keep him from seeing how her breath had caught. Lucas’s mouth curved faintly, like he knew exactly what she was doing. “You always say that.” Anger flared, sharp and hot, but beneath it was something far more dangerous—recognition. Familiarity. The ache of a body that remembered before her mind could stop it. “What are you doing here?” she asked. He glanced at her suitcase. At her boots. Slowly, deliberately, his eyes returned to her face. “Living,” he said. Her chest tightened. “This is my mother’s house.” “Yes,” Lucas replied quietly. “It is.” The way he said it—possessive without claiming ownership—made her shift her weight. “How long?” she demanded. Lucas stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking until she was keenly aware of the heat radiating from him. “Three months.” Her breath stuttered. “You’ve been here for three months?” “And you just arrived,” he said softly. The words weren’t cruel. They were worse—true. “I’m here to sell the house,” Emilia said. “Two weeks.” Lucas nodded once. “Then we’re clear.” But the way his eyes dipped briefly to her mouth told her they weren’t.