Chapter 8: The Morning After Nothing Happened
Morning came like it always did—too bright, too early, and completely unforgiving.
I woke up with swollen eyes and a headache that pulsed behind my temples, the kind that came from crying too much and sleeping too little. For a few seconds, I lay still, staring at the ceiling, hoping the night before had been a dream.
It wasn't.
I could still hear Lucien's voice in my head.
I'm already there.
My chest tightened.
I dragged myself out of bed and went through my routine on autopilot. Shower. Uniform. Hair pulled back. Ring slid onto my finger without thinking. When I caught my reflection in the mirror, I barely recognized the girl staring back.
She looked older. Quieter.
I opened my door and froze.
Lucien was standing in the hallway, already dressed, tie perfectly straight, expression carefully neutral. It was like he had rebuilt every wall overnight.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning," I replied, my voice steady despite the storm inside me.
For a brief moment, neither of us moved. The air between us felt unfamiliar, stretched thin by everything we hadn't said.
"I'll make breakfast," he added, turning away.
"I'm not hungry."
He paused, then nodded. "I'll drive you to school."
The ride was silent.
Not the comfortable silence we used to share, but a brittle one that felt like it might shatter if either of us breathed wrong. The city blurred past outside the window, but I barely noticed it.
When we stopped in front of the school, I reached for the door handle.
"Arielle," Lucien said.
I turned, heart jumping despite myself.
"About last night," he continued, carefully controlled, "we should agree to move forward."
Move forward.
"As in forget it happened?" I asked.
"As in respect the boundaries we set," he said.
I nodded slowly. "Right. Boundaries."
He searched my face for something—pain, anger, regret—but I gave him nothing. I couldn't afford to.
"I'll see you later," I said, and got out of the car before he could say anything else.
School was worse than usual.
My head was foggy, my emotions raw. I missed questions in class, zoned out during lectures, and snapped at Nina when she asked if I was okay.
"You're acting weird," she said, frowning.
"I'm fine," I lied.
But I wasn't.
Everywhere I went, I felt like I was carrying a secret too big for my body. A truth that pressed against my ribs and made it hard to breathe.
By the time the final bell rang, I was exhausted.
Lucien wasn't waiting by the car.
For a moment, panic flared in my chest, sharp and irrational. Then I told myself it was better this way. Distance. Boundaries. Control.
I walked home.
When I finally stepped inside the house, it felt emptier than it ever had before. The lights were on, but the warmth was gone.
Lucien was in his office.
The door was closed.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at it, then turned away and went to my room.
That evening, we existed in the same space like strangers.
Dinner was left on the counter, untouched. I ate alone in my room, scrolling mindlessly through my phone, avoiding photos, avoiding memories. I could hear Lucien moving around the house, the sound of his footsteps a constant reminder of how close and how far he was at the same time.
Later, I heard a knock.
I stiffened. "Yes?"
"It's me," Lucien said.
I opened the door.
He stood there holding a small paper bag. "You didn't eat much today."
I stared at it. "I said I wasn't hungry."
"I know," he replied. "You still need to eat."
Something inside me cracked.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked quietly.
"Doing what?"
"Caring," I said. "You said we needed boundaries. You said we needed to move forward."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "Boundaries don't mean indifference."
"They feel the same," I snapped.
He flinched, just slightly. "I'm trying to protect you."
"From what?" I demanded. "From feeling something real?"
"Yes," he said honestly. "From getting hurt."
I laughed bitterly. "That ship sailed a while ago."
Silence fell between us.
Lucien exhaled slowly. "I won't cross any lines."
"I'm not asking you to."
"Good," he said. "Because I don't trust myself if I do."
The admission sent a shiver through me.
"I'll leave the food here," he added, setting the bag down. "Goodnight, Arielle."
"Goodnight," I replied, though it didn't feel good at all.
He walked away, and I closed the door, sliding down against it as soon as I was alone. My chest hurt in a way that felt physical, like something had been torn and left exposed.
That night, I dreamed of almosts.
Almost kisses. Almost confessions. Almost love.
I woke up before dawn, tears drying on my cheeks, realizing something terrifying.
Nothing had happened.
And somehow, that hurt more than if it had.
Because now we both knew exactly what we were denying.
And denial, I was learning, was its own kind of heartbreak.