Chapter 6: Distance Between Us
1153 Words
I avoided Lucas Blackwood for three days.
Not because I wanted to—but because I needed to.
Christmas passed in a blur of polite smiles and careful distance. I stayed mostly in my room or the garden, bundling myself against the cold, letting the winter air numb the ache that refused to leave my chest.
Invisible.
That was the word he had chosen.
And somehow, it hurt more than rejection.
On the fourth morning, I woke before dawn, restless and exhausted all at once. The house was quiet, wrapped in a soft stillness that only existed before the world remembered itself. I pulled on a coat and slipped outside, my breath fogging in the cold.
The snow crunched beneath my boots as I walked toward the far edge of the property, where the trees thinned and the city lights glittered faintly in the distance.
I didn’t hear him approach.
“Aria.”
I froze.
Lucas stood a few feet behind me, dressed casually, hands in his coat pockets. His hair was slightly undone, like he hadn’t slept well.
Neither had I.
“I didn’t know anyone else was awake,” I said quietly.
“I could say the same.”
Silence settled between us, thick and fragile.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I laughed softly, without humor. “For what? Being careful? Protecting yourself?”
“Protecting you,” he corrected.
I turned to face him. “By pretending I don’t exist?”
Pain flickered across his face. “That wasn’t my intention.”
“But it was the result,” I replied.
The wind stirred, sending a flurry of snow into the air between us.
“I meant what I said,” he continued. “About caring for you.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s the problem.”
He looked at me sharply.
“If you didn’t care,” I went on, “this would be easier. But you do. And you’re still choosing distance.”
“Because caring isn’t enough,” he said.
“Isn’t it?”
He hesitated.
“I spent my life keeping promises,” he said quietly. “Being the man people rely on. If I fail at that—even once—I lose everything I’ve built.”
“And what about what you feel?” I asked.
His voice dropped. “That’s the one thing I don’t trust myself with.”
The honesty stripped something raw inside me.
“I don’t need protection,” I said softly. “I need truth.”
His gaze searched mine, intense and conflicted.
“You’re staying,” he said. “At least until New Year’s.”
It wasn’t a question.
“I know.”
“Then let me do this right,” he said. “Let me be… careful.”
I nodded, even though my heart protested.
“Careful,” I repeated.
---
The next few days were torture disguised as calm.
Lucas was everywhere and nowhere at once.
He made sure my favorite tea appeared every morning. Left a blanket by the window seat where I liked to read. Asked the staff to prepare meals he knew I enjoyed.
But he never stayed.
Never lingered.
Never looked at me the way he used to.
It was kindness without closeness.
And it hurt.
On New Year’s Eve, the house prepared for another gathering—smaller, quieter, but no less elegant. I dressed slowly, choosing a simple deep-green dress that hugged my waist and fell softly around my knees.
When I descended the stairs, Lucas was already in the living room.
He looked up.
For a moment, the mask slipped.
Something dark and hungry crossed his face before he composed himself.
“You look… lovely,” he said.
“Thank you.”
We stood there, uncertain, until someone cleared their throat nearby and the moment dissolved.
The night unfolded predictably—soft music, champagne, laughter drifting through the rooms. I spoke to guests I barely knew, smiling when expected, nodding politely.
But my awareness never left him.
I watched the way he held himself—controlled, distant, like a man balancing on the edge of something dangerous.
At midnight, the countdown began.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
The room filled with voices.
Seven.
Six.
I glanced at Lucas.
Five.
He was already looking at me.
Four.
Three.
My heart pounded.
Two.
One.
Cheers erupted. Glasses clinked. Fireworks burst in the distance.
I didn’t move.
Neither did he.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just us.
Then he turned away.
I exhaled shakily and slipped out onto the terrace, the cold air biting instantly. Fireworks painted the sky in gold and white, reflections dancing across the snow.
Footsteps sounded behind me.
“I hoped you’d come out here,” Lucas said.
“Careful,” I replied softly. “People might talk.”
“I don’t care,” he said.
I turned to face him. “You do. You always do.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I’ve been careful my entire life.”
“And are you happy?” I asked.
The question hit its mark.
He looked at the sky, jaw tight. “Happiness isn’t something men like me chase.”
“But maybe it should be,” I said.
He looked at me then—not as a guardian, not as a billionaire—but as a man stripped of his defenses.
“I can’t promise you certainty,” he said. “I can’t promise this won’t be messy.”
“I’m not asking for perfect,” I replied. “I’m asking for honest.”
His hand lifted, hovering near my face—hesitating.
“I’m afraid,” he admitted.
“So am I,” I said.
The wind carried the distant echo of celebration.
Slowly, carefully, he brushed his thumb against my cheek.
“I don’t want to hide anymore,” he said. “But if we do this… it has to be on our terms.”
I swallowed. “Then stop deciding for me.”
His breath hitched.
“You deserve a choice,” he said. “And I’ve been stealing it from you.”
He stepped back slightly, giving me space.
“I won’t touch you,” he said. “Not unless you ask me to.”
My heart raced.
The moment stretched, fragile and electric.
“Lucas,” I said quietly.
“Yes?”
“I’m asking you to stay.”
He didn’t move for a long second.
Then he nodded. “I can do that.”
We stood together on the terrace as the fireworks faded, shoulder to shoulder, not touching—but closer than we’d been in days.
It wasn’t a kiss.
It wasn’t a confession.
But it was a beginning.
And for the first time since returning home, hope stirred quietly in my chest.
Because distance had taught us something important.
Love wasn’t the danger.
Silence was.
- Writer
