CHAPTER ELEVEN - I'm not Done
1102 Words
Lucas’s POV
I knocked twice.
Soft and controlled.
Because if I knocked any louder, it would betray how not calm I actually was.
Five-thirty on the dot.
I had been standing outside her door for a full three minutes before that, trying to steady my breathing like this was a job interview instead of dinner.
The door opened.
And for a second, my brain just… stopped.
Naomi.
She was in a brown dress. Soft fabric that moved slightly when she shifted her weight. Gold hoops catching the light from the hallway. Her hair fell perfectly around her shoulders like she hadn’t just brushed it three times.
She froze.
So did I.
I knew she was pretty.
I live with her.
I see her in oversized hoodies, messy buns, and sleepy eyes.
But this?
This was deliberate.
She dressed like she knew someone was looking.
And that someone was me.
My eyes betrayed me first. They dropped—slow, instinctive—then came back to her face.
She noticed.
Of course she did.
“You look nice,” I said.
Nice?
Idiot.
She blinked. “Nice?”
I let the smile out. “You look really pretty, Naomi.”
Her reaction was subtle.
But it was there.
That tiny breath. The way her fingers tightened slightly on the door handle. The quiet, soft “Oh.”
Yeah.
This wasn’t practice.
The drive was quiet because if I opened my mouth, I might say something reckless.
Like how I almost turned around twice before coming upstairs.
Or how I changed shirts three times.
Or how I chose that restaurant because three weeks ago she said she liked quiet places, and I memorized it without meaning to.
She kept looking at me when she thought I wasn’t looking.
I caught her reflection in the window.
Every time our eyes met, she turned away like the streetlights were fascinating.
It made something warm settle in my chest.
At the restaurant, I pulled out her chair.
She hesitated.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.”
I wanted to.
There was a difference.
Dinner was easy.
It was too easy.
We slipped into something comfortable and unfamiliar at the same time.
Not roommates.
Not friends.
Not fake.
Just… us.
She laughed at something I said, and I caught myself staring at her mouth.
I looked away immediately.
Focus.
Her hand rested on the table near mine.
Close enough that if I moved an inch...
I didn’t.
Because if I touched her, even accidentally, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to pretend anymore.
“You’re quiet,” I told her when she drifted into her head.
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s always dangerous.”
She exhaled slowly. “This doesn’t feel like preparation for Saturday.”
Good.
“It’s not.”
Her eyes flicked up to mine. “Then what is it?”
I could lie.
Say it was just dinner. Say I didn’t think about it. Say this was still fake.
But I was tired.
So I told the truth.
“It’s the part we skipped.”
Understanding hit her immediately.
We skipped the beginning.
We went straight into living together. Into fake dating. Into blurred lines and shared space and late-night conversations.
We never did this.
I watched her fingers shift on the table.
Mine moved before I consciously decided to.
Closer.
We're still not touching.
The air felt heavy. Charged.
“This was a bad idea,” she whispered.
Every muscle in my body tensed.
“You want to leave?” I asked.
If she said yes, I would.
If she said yes, I’d drive her home and pretend this never happened.
She shook her head instantly. “No.”
And that one word?
That one word did something permanent.
Dinner ended too quickly.
Outside, the air was cooler.
The street was quiet. Soft lights. Distant traffic.
We walked side by side toward the car.
Not touching.
But our arms brushed once.
Neither of us moved away.
I opened the door for her again.
She paused before getting in.
“Lucas?”
“Yeah?”
“Are we still pretending?”
I should have answered.
I should have said something safe.
Instead, I looked at her.
And let the silence say it for me.
No.
We’re not.
Because pretending doesn’t make your chest tighten when she smiles.
Pretending doesn’t make you memorize the way she takes her coffee.
Pretending doesn’t make you terrified of the day this ends.
She got into the car with her heart beating visibly in her throat.
The drive home was quieter than before.
Not tense.
Just… aware.
When we pulled into the driveway, neither of us moved immediately.
The engine was still running.
The music was low.
She unbuckled her seatbelt slowly.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“For?”
“For tonight.”
I swallowed. “There’s more.”
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “More?”
I turned off the engine.
The sudden silence felt loud.
“I’m not done.”
Her breath hitched.
Good.
Mine did, too.
Because dinner wasn’t the point.
This wasn’t about one night.
This was about the fact that somewhere between fake dates and shared groceries and arguing over whose turn it was to wash dishes
I stopped pretending.
And I don’t think she has been either.
I just want her to be aware of that.
I stepped out of the car and walked around to her side.
Opened the door again.
She looked up at me, cautious.
Curious.
Hopeful.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
I offered my hand.
“Trust me.”
She stared at my hand for half a second too long.
Not because she didn’t want to take it.
But because she understood what it meant.
If she took it, this wasn’t pretend anymore.
Slowly, she placed her hand in mine.
Her fingers were warm.
Soft.
They fit.
And the second they curled around mine, something in my chest settled in a way that scared me.
I tightened my grip just slightly enough for her to feel it.
She didn’t pull away.
We stood there like that for a moment longer than necessary, headlights from a passing car sliding across her face.
“You’re quiet,” she said.
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s always dangerous.”
I stepped closer without meaning to.
“Naomi,” I said quietly, “if we keep going like this…”
Her breath caught.
“…it’s not going to be fake anymore.”
Silence.
Then, barely above a whisper—
“Maybe it already isn’t.”
- Writer
