Chapter 31
2262words
Lucian Sinclair’s Estate
Almost Midnight
The estate was quiet when they returned as if the house itself sensed the shift in them—and was giving them space to breathe.
They moved without speaking. No need. The car had already said enough. So had the silence between their words.
Lucian unlocked the door. Kristina stepped inside. The soft click of heels on marble. The quiet sound of keys settling on the console table. The faint echo of their steps as they ascended the stairs.
At the landing, they turned—almost in unison—toward Kristina’s room. Muscle memory. Familiar path. A dozen nights and quiet routines burned into instinct.
But halfway down the hall, Lucian stopped.
Kristina felt it immediately—his pause, subtle but unmistakable. She slowed too, turning back slightly.
Lucian wasn’t looking at her.
He was staring down the hall. Toward her door. Then, briefly, over his shoulder. Not at her—but toward his room.
His posture shifted.
Not rigid. Just uncertain. Like someone trying to summon a sentence he wasn’t sure he had permission to say.
“Um,” he said.
Kristina turned to face him fully. “Yes?”
Lucian’s gaze flicked to her. Then dropped. Then back again. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
“I was wondering if… maybe…”
His hand lifted—just barely. A small, almost apologetic gesture toward the direction of his room. Then back to her. Then… nowhere.
Kristina waited.
Lucian’s jaw tightened, frustration flickering beneath the surface—frustration not at her, but at himself. He exhaled, quietly.
“Never mind,” he said. “It’s nothing.”
She didn’t believe him. Not for a second. But she didn’t press.
He stepped forward, walking her to her door like always. Too formal. Too neutral. Like pretending nothing had just happened was easier than naming it.
Kristina reached for the handle, then paused.
She looked at him. Just looked.
But Lucian didn’t say anything.
His expression was composed again—carefully so.
“Good night, Kristina,” he said softly.
Her eyes lingered on his for a moment longer.
“Good night.”
She slipped into her room, the door clicking gently behind her.
And Lucian stood there—still, silent, staring at a door he hadn’t been brave enough to ask her to pass through.
Lucian Sinclair’s Estate | The Master Suite
He didn’t go to bed right away.
Lucian stood in the hallway for a moment, staring at Kristina’s closed door like it had just outmaneuvered him in a negotiation.
“Perfect. Outmaneuvered by a door. Excellent work, Sinclair.”
With a quiet exhale, he turned and walked the rest of the way to his room, shoulders squared like he could somehow recover dignity by posture alone.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Inside, the lighting adjusted—soft, ambient, designed for serenity.
It didn’t help.
Lucian tossed his jacket onto the nearest chair with less care than usual. Loosened his tie. Kicked off his shoes with a little too much efficiency. The second one hit the wall. He didn’t comment.
He paused in front of the mirror. Unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Glared at his reflection.
And muttered, under his breath, “Smooth.”
Then, more sharply, to no one in particular:
“‘Never mind’? Really? That’s what we’re going with now?”
He ran a hand down his face. Sat heavily on the edge of the bed. Let his head fall back for a second.
“I just wanted to sleep,” he muttered. “Not in a metaphorical sense. Not in a biblical sense. Just. Sleep.”
He stared at the ceiling.
“Okay, maybe also the other thing. But that’s beside the point.”
A long, miserable silence.
Then Lucian sat up abruptly and pointed at the air like he was arguing with past-him. “Next time, just say it. Just ask. Use your damn words, Sinclair. You speak eight languages.”
He stood. Crossed to the minibar. Opened it. Looked inside.
Then shut it again with a sigh.
“No. No drunk dialing.”
He returned to the bed. Dropped back onto it. Stared at the ceiling again.
“I should’ve asked.”
This time, the words were quieter. Less biting. More real.
He didn’t say anything else.
Didn’t move again for a while, either.
Just lay there—shirt undone, jaw tense, and every part of him wishing he’d had the nerve to speak three extra words.
Will you stay?
Kristina’s Bedroom
Kristina exhaled the moment the door clicked shut.
Not dramatically—just a quiet breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She leaned back against the door, head lightly touching the wood, eyes closed for a beat longer than necessary.
What just happened?
Or more accurately—what almost happened?
The hallway had been silent. His voice, hesitant. The way he shifted, glanced toward his room like it might help him finish a sentence he’d clearly lost halfway through…
Her lips tugged upward—just slightly.
He hadn’t said it. But he’d wanted to. Badly.
She let her head fall gently to one side against the door, as if listening for footsteps. Nothing. Just quiet. The kind that settled into the walls after something important didn’t happen.
Kristina opened her eyes.
“Well,” she muttered, “that was tragic.”
She pushed off the door and walked toward the nightstand, tugging her hair with one hand.
It wasn’t disappointment she felt—not exactly. More like… an ache wrapped in amusement. Like watching someone trip on the last step and keep walking like it was part of the plan.
Lucian Sinclair. Sharpest mind in any room. Took apart global threats like puzzles.
Couldn’t ask a woman to stay the night.
Just sleep, she corrected in her head. Definitely just sleep. Not that she would’ve said no. Probably. Maybe.
She pulled open the drawer, grabbed a hair tie, and paused halfway through twisting it into place.
What would’ve happened if he’d asked?
She didn’t let herself answer.
Instead, she crossed to the window, the hem of her dress whispering across the floor as she moved. The estate grounds stretched quiet and still beneath the moonlight, the city lights distant behind the trees.
She stood there for a long moment.
Not waiting.
Just wondering.
Lucian hadn’t moved from the bed.
He was still lying there, shirt half-unbuttoned, one arm draped over his eyes like he’d died of emotional embarrassment. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in that position. Long enough for his pride to file for retirement.
So when someone knocked, he nearly jolted upright.
Another knock—softer this time.
He sat up quickly, running both hands through his hair, then grabbed a throw pillow and stared at it like it might help him brace for humiliation. “Yes?” he called, trying to sound normal. It came out as a croak.
The door opened—slowly, carefully—and Kristina peeked in.
She wasn’t smiling. But she wasn’t not smiling, either.
“I need clothes,” she said, tone completely neutral. “Everything I own is still at Papa’s house.”
Lucian blinked. Several times.
“Yes,” he said, standing so quickly he nearly tripped over his discarded shoe. “Of course. Yes. Uh, just—wait—don’t move.”
Kristina leaned casually against the doorframe. “Not going anywhere.”
Lucian crossed to the wardrobe like a man retrieving a defibrillator. He opened one of the drawers and pulled out a black T-shirt, then hesitated. Grabbed sweatpants too. Then paused. Looked back at her. Then panicked and grabbed a hoodie, a second T-shirt, and—why not—a pair of socks.
He turned around with a full stack.
She blinked. “Planning to dress me for a week?”
“I didn’t know what you’d want,” he said, too fast. “I don’t—just pick.”
Kristina stepped inside. Slowly. Took everything—soft, worn-in, unmistakably his. She glanced at them, then at him.
He cleared his throat.
And then—because the universe sometimes favored the brave and the desperate—Lucian found his moment.
“You could stay,” he said. Too fast. Too casual. Like it was an item on a grocery list.
Kristina tilted her head. “In your room.”
“Just to sleep,” he clarified instantly, palms slightly raised like he was fending off an arrest.
“Literally sleep. Nothing else. No agenda. No—intent.”
Kristina looked at him for a long second. Long enough that Lucian genuinely considered hiding behind the door.
“Do you usually clarify that much when asking people to sleep in your bed?”
“Only when it sounds this suspicious,” he muttered.
She took another step forward, arms folded loosely, the clothes still in hand. “So. Just sleep.”
“No hidden clauses.”
She arched a brow. “Not even a conditional hug?”
Lucian blinked. “I—I can waive that. Unless it’s non-negotiable.”
Kristina laughed once—soft and low. Then she moved past him, toward the bed.
Lucian didn’t breathe until she sat down.
She crossed her legs, holding the clothes in her lap. “I’ll change in your closet.”
“Of course. Take your time.” A pause. “Do you want water? Tea? Blanket inventory?”
She gave him a look.
He backed off with both hands raised again. “Right. Sorry. Closet’s yours.”
Kristina disappeared into the closet, the door clicking shut behind her.
Lucian stood frozen in place, hands awkwardly half-raised like he didn’t know what to do with them. He glanced at the closed door. Then at the floor. Then at his bed. Then back at the door.
She was in his closet.
She’s in my closet.
Wearing his shirt. Or about to.
He dragged a hand over his face.
What was the protocol for this?
Was there a protocol for this?
Probably not one that involved standing in the middle of the room having an internal crisis while the woman you may be in love with changed clothes ten feet away, using your wardrobe.
He paced. One step. Two. Stopped.
Did she want tea? Was tea too much?
He spun around and stared at the door again.
Be normal, he told himself. Act normal. This is fine. People sleep. People borrow shirts. This is fine.
Kristina stepped into the walk-in closet and closed the door quietly behind her.
It was… impressive. Predictable, but impressive. All sharp lines and order. Rows of slate, charcoal, and midnight suits like soldiers on silent formation. Shoes aligned with clinical precision. Ties color-coded. Everything was so… Lucian.
She turned slowly, scanning the space.
This is what it’s like inside his mind, she thought. Expensive. Intimidating. Very grey.
Kristina placed all the clothes Lucian had grabbed for her earlier—sweaters, lounge pants, even a pair of socks—neatly on the bench by the mirror. They were clean, high-quality, and completely useless. His pants would fall right off her. The shorts might as well have been pillowcases. And there was absolutely no way she was belting a pair of men’s slacks to sleep in.
Which left her one option.
She reached out and ran her fingers along a row of pressed dress shirts. One of them still faintly smelled like his cologne—something clean, sharp, quietly commanding.
Kristina stared at it for a second too long.
“Absolutely not,” she muttered.
Then, five seconds later, “Okay, maybe just this one.”
She pulled it off the hanger and held it up. It was too big. Obviously. The sleeves would swallow her. The hem would reach her thighs. She was going to look ridiculous.
She put it on anyway.
When she stepped back into the bedroom, barefoot and half-drowned in crisp, black cotton,
Lucian looked up.
And then blinked.
And then stopped functioning entirely.
Kristina stood there in his shirt—just his shirt. The hem hit mid-thigh, the sleeves hung long and loose, and the top two buttons were still undone. Bare legs. Bare feet. Barely legal levels of composure.
Lucian’s brain made a sound like static.
Okay. Okay. This is fine. This is—no, this is not fine. This is the opposite of fine. This is a test. A hallucination? A karmic punishment for all my sins?
She tugged one sleeve higher, casually, like she wasn’t detonating all rational thought within a ten-foot radius.
Do not stare. You are staring. Don’t look at her legs. Oh my god, her legs.
He looked at the floor. The lamp. The window.
He briefly considered throwing himself out of it.
Kristina tilted her head. “Something wrong?”
Lucian opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “No.”
His voice cracked slightly. He coughed. “None whatsoever.”
She padded across the room with infuriating calm, pretending not to notice how his gaze kept darting away—like looking directly at her would short-circuit something in his frontal lobe.
“I’m taking the left side,” she said, climbing onto the bed like she’d been doing it for years.
Lucian turned slightly. “That’s my side.”
She looked him dead in the eye. “I know.”
A beat of silence. Then Lucian slowly walked to the other side and sat down like a man experiencing a small existential crisis.
He didn’t move to lie down yet. She noticed.
Kristina leaned back against the pillows. “You can relax, you know.”
Lucian glanced at her. “I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
She tilted her head, amused. “Lucian. I am wearing your shirt. In your bed. I’m already committing to the bit.”
He hesitated. “Right. But still. I meant what I said. Just sleep. I swear.”
Kristina nodded. “Of course. No touching. We’ll behave.”
They both lay down. Awkwardly.
Ten seconds later, their arms brushed.
Neither moved.
Kristina smirked. “Great job behaving.”
Lucian stared at the ceiling. “That was an accident.”
“You’re on my side.”
“You took my side.”
Kristina shifted slightly—closer, not farther.
“Still an accident?”
Lucian swallowed. “Highly debatable.”
A pause. Then Kristina laughed—quiet, real, and far too pleased with herself.
Lucian exhaled slowly. “We’re never going to survive this night, are we?”
Kristina pulled the blanket up and closed her eyes, smiling.
“Not without casualties.”
If staying was a choice, she’d already made it.
—To be continued.
