Lucas Vale

She was already in the living room when Lucas arrived.

She didn’t turn around at first. She heard him—always did. The familiar pause at the doorway, the way he hesitated like he expected resistance.

“You’re early,” she said.

Lucas shut the door behind him. “You always said I lacked discipline. Thought I’d surprise you.”

She faced him then. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes lingered longer than they should have.

“You didn’t come here to prove a point,” she said.

Lucas stepped closer. “Neither did you.”

Silence pressed in around them. Years of rivalry sat heavy between every breath.

“You know,” Lucas said, voice lower now, “what happened to us.”

“What do you mean” she replied. “Nothing about us actually changed.”

“That’s not true,” he said. “You started looking at me differently.”

Her jaw tightened. “You wanted that.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I just stopped pretending I didn’t notice you.”

That did it. She laughed softly—once, sharp.

“You noticed me,” she said. “You were too busy trying to beat me.”

“And you were too busy making sure I never did.”

They were close now. Too close to pretend it was accidental.

Lucas spoke quietly. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

She held his gaze. She didn’t step back.

“You’re not,” she said.

The admission hung between them—dangerous, irreversible.

“I hated you,” Lucas said. “For how calm you were. For how much space you took without asking.”

“I hated you,” she answered. “For how easily you were forgiven.”

Another pause. This one felt different. Charged.

“What do we do with that?” Lucas asked.

She swallowed. “We stop lying about it.”

His hand brushed her arm—not deliberate, not innocent either. She didn’t pull away.

“That’s a bad idea,” he said.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It is.”

Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.