Just For Now

CHAPTER SIX - Before Noon

Naomi's POV

I woke up before my alarm.

Not because of noise or sunlight, but because my mind refused to stay quiet.

For a few seconds, I lay still, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out why my chest felt tight in that way that wasn’t panic exactly—but wasn’t calm either. Then it hit me.

Brunch.

I exhaled slowly and rolled onto my side, checking the time on my phone. Too early. I could’ve slept for at least another hour if my thoughts had given me the courtesy.

My mom was meeting us today.

Us.

I sat up, rubbing my face, trying to shake the nervous energy already buzzing under my skin. This wasn’t our first public appearance together. We’d done this before—briefly, strategically, when it was required.

But today wasn’t quick.

Today was prolonged conversation, shared space, observation.

My mom didn’t interrogate. She didn’t accuse. She simply watched. And somehow, that was worse.

I pushed myself out of bed and padded into the bathroom, splashing cool water on my face. The girl staring back at me in the mirror looked composed, but I knew better. I tilted my head, studying myself critically.

You’re not lying, I reminded myself.

You’re just… simplifying the truth.

That thought should have helped. It didn’t.

By the time I stepped out, the apartment was already awake. The soft clatter of movement drifted down the hallway—drawers opening, footsteps, the low hum of the kettle.

Lucas.

Of course.

He always woke up earlier on days that mattered, even when he didn’t admit they did.

I hesitated outside my bedroom door for a second longer than necessary before stepping into the living room. He was at the counter, back to me, wearing a simple T-shirt and jeans, sleeves pushed up as he poured hot water into two mugs.

He glanced over his shoulder when he sensed me there.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning.”

My voice sounded steadier than I felt, which was a small win.

He slid a mug toward me without comment. Tea. The same way he’d made it yesterday. The same way he always did now.

“Thanks,” I said, wrapping my hands around it.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The apartment felt quiet but not tense—more like a held breath.

“You okay?” he asked eventually, not looking at me directly.

I nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“About today?”

I shot him a look. “Was it that obvious?”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “A little.”

I sighed and leaned against the counter. “She’s not scary. She’s just… perceptive.”

“That’s worse,” he said mildly.

I laughed despite myself, the sound easing something tight in my chest.

We fell into an easy rhythm after that—him rinsing dishes, me scrolling through my phone, pretending I wasn’t rereading my mom’s messages for the tenth time.

Don’t forget to be here at noon.

I’m excited to finally spend time with you both.

That last part lingered.

“You don’t have to do anything extra,” I said suddenly.

Lucas looked up. “Extra?”

“Like—overperform. She notices when people try too hard.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“And don’t let her rush you into answering questions you’re not comfortable with.”

Another nod. “Got it.”

I hesitated, then added quietly, “Thank you. For doing this.”

His expression softened, just slightly. “You don’t have to thank me.”

But I did.

I just didn’t say it again.

Getting ready took longer than it should have. Not because I didn’t know what to wear—but because everything suddenly felt too deliberate.

Too casual looked careless.

Too dressed up looked suspicious.

I finally settled on something simple: a soft blouse, jeans, comfortable shoes. Something that said effort, but not performance.

When I stepped out, Lucas was waiting by the couch, jacket in hand. He looked… nice. Not polished. Just himself.

And for reasons I didn’t fully understand, that made my stomach flip.

“You ready?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

The walk to the restaurant was quiet but not awkward. The late morning air was warm, the streets busy in that relaxed weekend way. At some point, our arms brushed, and neither of us moved away.

I told myself not to read into it.

The restaurant came into view, familiar and understated. My mom liked places like this—warm lighting and neutral tones, somewhere you could talk without shouting.

I spotted her through the window almost immediately.

She was already seated.

And she was watching the door.

My steps slowed instinctively.

Lucas noticed. “Hey,” he said softly. “It’s fine.”

I inhaled, then nodded. “I know.”

We stepped inside together.

My mom’s face lit up when she saw us, and for a second, all my careful preparation unravelled. She stood, arms open, and pulled me into a hug that smelled like her perfume and familiarity.

“There you are,” she said warmly. Then she turned to Lucas. “You must be Lucas.”

He smiled politely. “Yes, ma’am.”

She laughed. “Oh, don’t do that. I’m not that old.”

I watched closely as they exchanged greetings, my chest tight for reasons I didn’t want to name. Lucas was calm, respectful, and easy. He met her gaze without flinching and answered her questions without rushing.

She noticed.

I could tell.

As we sat down, Lucas pulled out my chair without making a show of it. It was small. Automatic.

My mom’s eyebrow lifted—just slightly.

I pretended not to see it.

Conversation flowed easily at first—classes, schedules, the usual safe topics. I chimed in where appropriate, but mostly I observed.

Lucas didn’t exaggerate. He didn’t perform.

He was just… present.

At one point, my mom reached for her water and glanced between us thoughtfully.

“So,” she said, smiling, “how did you two meet?”

There it was.

I answered smoothly, the rehearsed version rolling off my tongue. Lucas picked up where I left off without missing a beat.

Too well.

That realization unsettled me more than if he’d stumbled.

As the minutes passed, something shifted.

I stopped feeling like I was managing the situation and started feeling like I was inside it. Like this wasn’t a story I was telling—but one that was unfolding without my permission.

My mom laughed at something Lucas said. I caught the way she looked at me afterward—not suspicious, not doubtful.

Satisfied.

That should have relieved me.

Instead, it scared me.

Because if she believed this so easily… what did that say about how real it looked?

Or how real it felt?

Lucas’s knee brushed mine under the table as he shifted. The contact was brief, accidental—but grounding.

I didn’t move away.

I told myself it was fine.

This was the point of the arrangement, after all.

Still, as I met my mom’s knowing smile across the table, a quiet thought settled in my chest, heavy and undeniable.

If this kept going...

if we kept blurring lines this naturally,

I wasn’t sure who would be able to tell where pretending ended anymore.

That realization followed me long after the menus were set aside, and brunch officially began.