Mia and Lucas returned to the clinic just after dawn, having managed only a few restless hours of sleep at Mia's apartment, both of them too wired and too frightened to have actually stayed apart. The drive over had been quiet, neither of them fully rested, both running on the specific, brittle energy of people who had survived something frightening together and hadn't yet processed what surviving it had cost them individually. Barnaby was awake when they arrived, alert enough to meow indignantly at the sight of them, clearly displeased with his overnight accommodations and eager to communicate exactly how displeased in the loudest terms available to him.
"He sounds like himself again," Mia said, relief washing through her at the familiar, aggrieved sound, a small, involuntary smile breaking through despite everything unresolved still sitting heavy in her chest from the night before.
"He's demanding to go home. That's an excellent sign, all things considered." Lucas's voice carried real warmth now, some of the previous night's rawness finally settling into simple, uncomplicated gratitude for a cat's stubborn, ordinary bad mood.
They sat together in the small recovery room while a technician finished the discharge paperwork, both of them worn thin from exhaustion and adrenaline crash, the charged, unfinished quality of last night's conversation still hovering unaddressed between them. Mia had hoped, foolishly, that morning light and a healthy cat might simply dissolve it. It hadn't. If anything, the exhaustion made everything feel closer to the surface, less padded by politeness, more likely to slip out unfiltered, the careful buffers both of them usually relied on worn thin by a night neither had really slept through.
"Can I ask you something," Mia said, watching Barnaby groom himself with theatrical, wounded dignity in his kennel, her voice quieter and more hesitant than usual. "Last night, in the waiting room. What you said about carelessness. Were you talking about me?"
Lucas didn't answer immediately, and the silence stretched long enough that Mia already knew, before he said anything, that the answer wasn't going to be a simple no.
"I don't know," he said finally. "I think I was talking about the situation. The yarn being out. The lack of oversight."
"That's still about me, Lucas. I'm the one who left the yarn out. I'm the one who wasn't watching him closely enough."
"I wasn't trying to blame you specifically."
"But you did. Even if you didn't mean to." Her voice had gone tight, the exhaustion and lingering fear from the night before finding an outlet now that the immediate crisis had passed. "You basically said this is exactly what happens when there isn't enough structure, right after I nearly lost my mind finding him like that. Do you understand how that landed?"
"I was frightened, genuinely frightened, and I said something I shouldn't have, in a moment where I wasn't thinking clearly at all." He rubbed a hand over his face, the gesture uncharacteristically weary. "I'm not proud of it."
"That's not really an apology, Lucas. It sounds more like an explanation dressed up as one."
"I'm trying to explain the context, not excuse it."
"It doesn't feel like there's much difference right now." Mia stood, needing the physical distance suddenly, unable to sit still with the specific, mounting pressure building in her chest. "You know what my ex used to say to me? That I needed more structure. More discipline. That I was too chaotic, too careless, to be trusted with things that mattered. I spent years believing that about myself before I finally stopped. And last night you said almost the exact same thing, in almost the exact same tone, right after the worst two hours of my month."
Lucas's face went pale, understanding dawning visibly, too late. "Mia, that's not what I meant at all."
"I know it's not what you meant. That doesn't change what it sounded like." Her voice cracked, the exhaustion finally breaking through the composure she'd been holding onto since the terror first began. "I trusted you with the thing I'm most afraid of, and the first time something actually went wrong, you basically confirmed my worst fear about myself without even realizing you were doing it."
"I wasn't confirming anything. I was scared, and I said something clumsy and unfair in the middle of being scared. That's different from meaning it."
"Is it, though? You've told me before that you always mean what you say. You told me that on day one, practically. Are you saying that's not true anymore?"
Lucas opened his mouth, closed it again, visibly searching for the right combination of words and finding none of them adequate to the moment. "I don't know how to answer that without it sounding worse than I mean it."
"Then maybe don't try to make it sound better. Just tell me the truth." Mia's arms were crossed now, a defensive posture she hadn't consciously chosen, protecting the exact vulnerable place he'd struck without either of them fully realizing it until this conversation forced it into the light.
A nurse passed by the open door of the recovery room, glancing in briefly at the two of them standing several feet apart, tension radiating visibly enough that even a stranger could read it, before continuing on without comment. Mia was distantly aware of the awkwardness of having this particular conversation in a clinic hallway, surrounded by the smell of antiseptic and the low hum of overnight equipment, but stopping now felt impossible, the words already loosed and demanding somewhere to land.
"I keep thinking about how fast it came out," she said, more to herself than to him. "Like it was sitting right there, ready. Like some part of you already believed it before last night even happened."
"That's not fair."
"Maybe not. But it's how it felt."
"I don't think that about you. I don't think you're careless, or irresponsible, or any of the things Julian apparently made you believe about yourself. I think I said something reflexive and wrong in the worst possible moment, and I'm trying to own that without pretending it came from nowhere, because it didn't come from nowhere -- it came from Biscuit, and eight years of building my entire personality around never repeating that mistake."
"The truth is," Lucas said slowly, each word deliberate, careful, "I built my entire adult life around never being the reason something preventable happens. When Barnaby got hurt last night, some part of me went straight back to being twenty-three years old, watching a dog die because of a mistake that wasn't even mine. I wasn't thinking about you as a person in that moment. I was thinking about prevention, about protocol, about all the ways I've trained myself to control what I can control so nothing like that ever happens again on my watch. You got caught in the crossfire of a reaction that had almost nothing to do with you specifically."
"That doesn't make it hurt less, Lucas. It just gives it a better excuse."
"I'm not trying to excuse it. I'm trying to be honest about where it came from, because I think you deserve honesty more than you deserve a tidy apology I don't fully mean yet."
Mia felt something in her chest twist at that, the specific ache of being handed real honesty in the middle of real hurt, unsure whether it made things better or simply more complicated. She wanted, badly, to be angry in a simple, uncomplicated way, the kind of anger that had a clear villain and a clear resolution. Instead she just felt tired, and sad, and unsure whether the person standing in front of her had actually hurt her on purpose or simply hadn't known how not to, which somehow felt like it mattered and didn't matter at the exact same time.
"I need some time," she said finally, quieter now, the anger burning down into something closer to bone-deep tiredness. "I can't process this right now, on top of everything else from last night. I think I need to go home and just... not talk about this for a little while."
"Okay." Lucas's voice had gone very quiet, careful in a way that suggested he understood, on some level, that pushing further right now would only make things worse. "Take whatever time you need."
"I'm not saying this is over. I just need space to think without also being exhausted and freaked out about Barnaby at the same time."
"I understand." He looked, for a moment, like he wanted to say something else, some further explanation or reassurance, but visibly held himself back from it, aware that anything more right now would land as pressure rather than comfort.
They finished the discharge process in near silence, both of them focused on Barnaby, on getting him settled and comfortable, using the cat as a convenient, necessary buffer against the conversation neither of them was ready to continue. The technician who handled the final paperwork seemed to sense the tension without understanding its source, offering brisk, professional cheerfulness about Barnaby's excellent prognosis that neither of them had the energy to match.
"He'll need a bland diet for the next few days," she said, sliding a printed care sheet across the counter. "Small portions, several times a day. No treats, no table food, and definitely no more string." She smiled at that last part, clearly intending it as a small joke to lighten the mood, and both Mia and Lucas managed weak, unconvincing smiles in return, neither of them quite able to summon genuine humor yet.
When they finally left the clinic, Lucas offered to carry the carrier the whole way home, and Mia let him, mostly because she didn't trust her own hands not to shake. The walk passed in near-total silence, the early morning streets nearly empty, both of them wrapped in their own separate exhaustion, the charged conversation from the recovery room settling into something heavier and more permanent with every block they covered.
At her apartment door, he set the carrier down gently and didn't move to follow her inside, some new, careful boundary establishing itself without either of them stating it directly.
"I really am sorry," he said, meeting her eyes directly despite how clearly difficult it was for him. "For what it's worth. I know it doesn't undo what I said, and I know an apology this late doesn't erase how it landed."
"I know you are." Mia's voice was gentler now, some of the fight drained out of it, replaced by simple exhaustion that had nothing left over for anger. "I just need some time, Lucas. That's all. I'm not trying to punish you for something you clearly already regret."
"I know." He hesitated at the threshold, hands in his pockets, looking younger and more uncertain than she'd seen him look in weeks, none of his usual composure anywhere in evidence. "I'll check on him tomorrow. Give you space until then, and longer if you need it."
"Okay."
He left without saying anything else, and Mia carried Barnaby's carrier inside alone, set him gently on the bed, and sat down heavily beside him, feeling, for the first time since she'd met Lucas Vance, genuinely uncertain about where things stood between them -- not broken, not yet, but bruised in a way that hadn't existed twenty-four hours earlier, before a spool of yarn and a moment of fear had cracked something open that neither of them had realized was still this fragile.
She spent the rest of the day in a strange, hollow limbo, alternating between checking on Barnaby -- who recovered his appetite and his opinions with impressive speed, demanding food, attention, and access to his favorite windowsill within hours of arriving home -- and replaying the morning's conversation on an exhausting, unproductive loop, trying to figure out exactly where the line sat between Lucas's fear and Lucas's judgment, and whether it even mattered which one it had been once the words were already out and already lodged somewhere painful inside her chest.
She called Priya around noon, needing to say the whole thing out loud to someone who wasn't also part of it.
"He said what?" Priya's voice sharpened immediately, protective in the specific way only a best friend's voice could sharpen.
"He didn't mean it like an attack, exactly. He explained it after -- some old trauma about a dog he lost during vet school, some deep fear about carelessness causing harm. It wasn't really about me. But it landed exactly where Julian used to land, and I couldn't separate the two in the moment."
"That doesn't mean you're wrong to be upset. Context explains where something came from. It doesn't erase what it did once it arrived."
"I know. I told him that, actually. Almost word for word."
"Good. You should have." Priya's voice softened slightly. "For what it's worth, the fact that he actually explained where it came from, instead of just apologizing on autopilot and hoping you'd move past it, is a decent sign. Julian never explained anything. He just doubled down and made you feel crazy for being hurt."
"Lucas isn't Julian."
"I know that. I'm just saying, the way someone handles being caught doing something hurtful tells you a lot. Lucas sounds like he actually sat in the discomfort of it instead of running from it. That's different." Priya paused. "It doesn't mean you have to forgive him on any particular timeline, though. You're allowed to need whatever time you need, even if the explanation was good."
"That's what I keep telling myself. I just don't know if I actually believe it yet, or if I'm just saying it to feel less unreasonable."
"You're not being unreasonable, Mia. You got hurt in a specific, old place. That deserves real time, not a same-day resolution just because the explanation made sense on paper."
Mia turned that over for a long while after they hung up, watching Barnaby doze in a patch of afternoon sun, uncertain whether Priya's reassurance made the ache in her chest better or simply gave her more to think about. She wasn't ready to talk to Lucas again yet. She wasn't ready to decide, either, exactly how much of her hurt belonged to him and how much of it belonged to a wound Julian had carved years before Lucas Vance ever existed in her life.
She spent the rest of the afternoon trying to work, failing mostly, the fox illustration sitting untouched on her tablet while her mind circled the same handful of moments -- the recovery room, his voice going quiet and careful, the specific, awful familiarity of hearing herself called careless by someone she'd started to trust with exactly the parts of herself she usually kept hidden. It wasn't that she thought Lucas was cruel. It was that she'd let her guard down enough to be hurt by him at all, and that fact alone felt like its own small betrayal of every lesson she'd promised herself she'd learned after Julian.
By evening, exhaustion finally outweighed the churning in her head, and she fell asleep early, Barnaby curled against her side, purring steadily, blissfully unaware of the quiet, unresolved distance that had opened up overnight between the two humans who'd spent the worst hours of the past month fighting, together, to save him.
She woke once, near midnight, to a soft knock at her door -- three even raps, unmistakably his -- and lay still for a long moment, debating whether to answer it. She didn't, in the end, though she heard him linger outside for nearly a full minute before his footsteps finally retreated, and she spent the rest of the night wondering what he might have said if she'd opened the door, and whether she was ready to hear it yet.
The next morning brought a text, careful and restrained in a way that suggested he'd drafted and redrafted it several times before sending.
LUCAS: I know you asked for space. I'm not trying to crowd you. I just wanted you to know Barnaby's doing well this morning, in case you were worried and didn't want to ask directly.
MIA: thank you. that's kind of you to check in about him specifically
LUCAS: I meant it as a way to check on you too, honestly, without making it about that directly. I wasn't sure how else to do it without overstepping.
She read the message several times, something in the careful, transparent honesty of it loosening a small knot in her chest, though the deeper hurt from the recovery room conversation stayed lodged exactly where it had settled, untouched by one thoughtful text message.
She typed out three different replies and deleted each one before finally settling on something brief and noncommittal.
MIA: thanks for checking on him. glad he's doing well
She didn't mention how she was doing herself, deliberately, some cautious instinct telling her that the wound from yesterday needed more than one kind text to actually close, and that pretending otherwise, even gently, wouldn't serve either of them well in the long run.
LUCAS: Of course. Let me know if you need anything.
She didn't respond to that one at all, setting the phone face-down on her nightstand and staring at the ceiling for a long while afterward, unable to fully shake the ache from the day before, uncertain whether the small, careful distance she was maintaining was self-protection or something closer to punishment, and unsure, honestly, whether she had the clarity right now to tell the two apart. Barnaby, sensing something heavy in the room he couldn't name, climbed up and pressed himself against her side, and she let him stay there, grateful, at least, for one uncomplicated presence in an otherwise complicated day.
She spent the following two days largely alone, working through the fox illustration deadline with more focus than she'd managed in weeks, using the work as a deliberate distraction from a conversation she still didn't feel ready to finish. Lucas texted once a day, always brief, always about Barnaby first, careful never to push past the boundary she'd asked for, and Mia found herself, despite everything, grateful for the restraint even as the unresolved weight of it all sat heavy and unaddressed in her chest, waiting for a moment neither of them had yet found the courage to create.
You've reached the end of this chapter
Mia and Lucas returned to the clinic just after dawn, having managed only a few restless hours of sleep at Mia's apartment, both of them too wired and too frightened to have actually stayed apart. The drive over had been quiet, neither of them fully rested, both running on the specific, brittle energy of people who had survived something frightening together and hadn't yet processed what surviving it had cost them individually. Barnaby was awake when they arrived, alert enough to meow indignantly at the sight of them, clearly displeased with his overnight accommodations and eager to communicate exactly how displeased in the loudest terms available to him.
"He sounds like himself again," Mia said, relief washing through her at the familiar, aggrieved sound, a small, involuntary smile breaking through despite everything unresolved still sitting heavy in her chest from the night before.
"He's demanding to go home. That's an excellent sign, all things considered." Lucas's voice carried real warmth now, some of the previous night's rawness finally settling into simple, uncomplicated gratitude for a cat's stubborn, ordinary bad mood.
They sat together in the small recovery room while a technician finished the discharge paperwork, both of them worn thin from exhaustion and adrenaline crash, the charged, unfinished quality of last night's conversation still hovering unaddressed between them. Mia had hoped, foolishly, that morning light and a healthy cat might simply dissolve it. It hadn't. If anything, the exhaustion made everything feel closer to the surface, less padded by politeness, more likely to slip out unfiltered, the careful buffers both of them usually relied on worn thin by a night neither had really slept through.
"Can I ask you something," Mia said, watching Barnaby groom himself with theatrical, wounded dignity in his kennel, her voice quieter and more hesitant than usual. "Last night, in the waiting room. What you said about carelessness. Were you talking about me?"
Lucas didn't answer immediately, and the silence stretched long enough that Mia already knew, before he said anything, that the answer wasn't going to be a simple no.
"I don't know," he said finally. "I think I was talking about the situation. The yarn being out. The lack of oversight."
"That's still about me, Lucas. I'm the one who left the yarn out. I'm the one who wasn't watching him closely enough."
"I wasn't trying to blame you specifically."
"But you did. Even if you didn't mean to." Her voice had gone tight, the exhaustion and lingering fear from the night before finding an outlet now that the immediate crisis had passed. "You basically said this is exactly what happens when there isn't enough structure, right after I nearly lost my mind finding him like that. Do you understand how that landed?"
"I was frightened, genuinely frightened, and I said something I shouldn't have, in a moment where I wasn't thinking clearly at all." He rubbed a hand over his face, the gesture uncharacteristically weary. "I'm not proud of it."
"That's not really an apology, Lucas. It sounds more like an explanation dressed up as one."
"I'm trying to explain the context, not excuse it."
"It doesn't feel like there's much difference right now." Mia stood, needing the physical distance suddenly, unable to sit still with the specific, mounting pressure building in her chest. "You know what my ex used to say to me? That I needed more structure. More discipline. That I was too chaotic, too careless, to be trusted with things that mattered. I spent years believing that about myself before I finally stopped. And last night you said almost the exact same thing, in almost the exact same tone, right after the worst two hours of my month."
Lucas's face went pale, understanding dawning visibly, too late. "Mia, that's not what I meant at all."
"I know it's not what you meant. That doesn't change what it sounded like." Her voice cracked, the exhaustion finally breaking through the composure she'd been holding onto since the terror first began. "I trusted you with the thing I'm most afraid of, and the first time something actually went wrong, you basically confirmed my worst fear about myself without even realizing you were doing it."
"I wasn't confirming anything. I was scared, and I said something clumsy and unfair in the middle of being scared. That's different from meaning it."
"Is it, though? You've told me before that you always mean what you say. You told me that on day one, practically. Are you saying that's not true anymore?"
Lucas opened his mouth, closed it again, visibly searching for the right combination of words and finding none of them adequate to the moment. "I don't know how to answer that without it sounding worse than I mean it."
"Then maybe don't try to make it sound better. Just tell me the truth." Mia's arms were crossed now, a defensive posture she hadn't consciously chosen, protecting the exact vulnerable place he'd struck without either of them fully realizing it until this conversation forced it into the light.
A nurse passed by the open door of the recovery room, glancing in briefly at the two of them standing several feet apart, tension radiating visibly enough that even a stranger could read it, before continuing on without comment. Mia was distantly aware of the awkwardness of having this particular conversation in a clinic hallway, surrounded by the smell of antiseptic and the low hum of overnight equipment, but stopping now felt impossible, the words already loosed and demanding somewhere to land.
"I keep thinking about how fast it came out," she said, more to herself than to him. "Like it was sitting right there, ready. Like some part of you already believed it before last night even happened."
"That's not fair."
"Maybe not. But it's how it felt."
"I don't think that about you. I don't think you're careless, or irresponsible, or any of the things Julian apparently made you believe about yourself. I think I said something reflexive and wrong in the worst possible moment, and I'm trying to own that without pretending it came from nowhere, because it didn't come from nowhere -- it came from Biscuit, and eight years of building my entire personality around never repeating that mistake."
"The truth is," Lucas said slowly, each word deliberate, careful, "I built my entire adult life around never being the reason something preventable happens. When Barnaby got hurt last night, some part of me went straight back to being twenty-three years old, watching a dog die because of a mistake that wasn't even mine. I wasn't thinking about you as a person in that moment. I was thinking about prevention, about protocol, about all the ways I've trained myself to control what I can control so nothing like that ever happens again on my watch. You got caught in the crossfire of a reaction that had almost nothing to do with you specifically."
"That doesn't make it hurt less, Lucas. It just gives it a better excuse."
"I'm not trying to excuse it. I'm trying to be honest about where it came from, because I think you deserve honesty more than you deserve a tidy apology I don't fully mean yet."
Mia felt something in her chest twist at that, the specific ache of being handed real honesty in the middle of real hurt, unsure whether it made things better or simply more complicated. She wanted, badly, to be angry in a simple, uncomplicated way, the kind of anger that had a clear villain and a clear resolution. Instead she just felt tired, and sad, and unsure whether the person standing in front of her had actually hurt her on purpose or simply hadn't known how not to, which somehow felt like it mattered and didn't matter at the exact same time.
"I need some time," she said finally, quieter now, the anger burning down into something closer to bone-deep tiredness. "I can't process this right now, on top of everything else from last night. I think I need to go home and just... not talk about this for a little while."
"Okay." Lucas's voice had gone very quiet, careful in a way that suggested he understood, on some level, that pushing further right now would only make things worse. "Take whatever time you need."
"I'm not saying this is over. I just need space to think without also being exhausted and freaked out about Barnaby at the same time."
"I understand." He looked, for a moment, like he wanted to say something else, some further explanation or reassurance, but visibly held himself back from it, aware that anything more right now would land as pressure rather than comfort.
They finished the discharge process in near silence, both of them focused on Barnaby, on getting him settled and comfortable, using the cat as a convenient, necessary buffer against the conversation neither of them was ready to continue. The technician who handled the final paperwork seemed to sense the tension without understanding its source, offering brisk, professional cheerfulness about Barnaby's excellent prognosis that neither of them had the energy to match.
"He'll need a bland diet for the next few days," she said, sliding a printed care sheet across the counter. "Small portions, several times a day. No treats, no table food, and definitely no more string." She smiled at that last part, clearly intending it as a small joke to lighten the mood, and both Mia and Lucas managed weak, unconvincing smiles in return, neither of them quite able to summon genuine humor yet.
When they finally left the clinic, Lucas offered to carry the carrier the whole way home, and Mia let him, mostly because she didn't trust her own hands not to shake. The walk passed in near-total silence, the early morning streets nearly empty, both of them wrapped in their own separate exhaustion, the charged conversation from the recovery room settling into something heavier and more permanent with every block they covered.
At her apartment door, he set the carrier down gently and didn't move to follow her inside, some new, careful boundary establishing itself without either of them stating it directly.
"I really am sorry," he said, meeting her eyes directly despite how clearly difficult it was for him. "For what it's worth. I know it doesn't undo what I said, and I know an apology this late doesn't erase how it landed."
"I know you are." Mia's voice was gentler now, some of the fight drained out of it, replaced by simple exhaustion that had nothing left over for anger. "I just need some time, Lucas. That's all. I'm not trying to punish you for something you clearly already regret."
"I know." He hesitated at the threshold, hands in his pockets, looking younger and more uncertain than she'd seen him look in weeks, none of his usual composure anywhere in evidence. "I'll check on him tomorrow. Give you space until then, and longer if you need it."
"Okay."
He left without saying anything else, and Mia carried Barnaby's carrier inside alone, set him gently on the bed, and sat down heavily beside him, feeling, for the first time since she'd met Lucas Vance, genuinely uncertain about where things stood between them -- not broken, not yet, but bruised in a way that hadn't existed twenty-four hours earlier, before a spool of yarn and a moment of fear had cracked something open that neither of them had realized was still this fragile.
She spent the rest of the day in a strange, hollow limbo, alternating between checking on Barnaby -- who recovered his appetite and his opinions with impressive speed, demanding food, attention, and access to his favorite windowsill within hours of arriving home -- and replaying the morning's conversation on an exhausting, unproductive loop, trying to figure out exactly where the line sat between Lucas's fear and Lucas's judgment, and whether it even mattered which one it had been once the words were already out and already lodged somewhere painful inside her chest.
She called Priya around noon, needing to say the whole thing out loud to someone who wasn't also part of it.
"He said what?" Priya's voice sharpened immediately, protective in the specific way only a best friend's voice could sharpen.
"He didn't mean it like an attack, exactly. He explained it after -- some old trauma about a dog he lost during vet school, some deep fear about carelessness causing harm. It wasn't really about me. But it landed exactly where Julian used to land, and I couldn't separate the two in the moment."
"That doesn't mean you're wrong to be upset. Context explains where something came from. It doesn't erase what it did once it arrived."
"I know. I told him that, actually. Almost word for word."
"Good. You should have." Priya's voice softened slightly. "For what it's worth, the fact that he actually explained where it came from, instead of just apologizing on autopilot and hoping you'd move past it, is a decent sign. Julian never explained anything. He just doubled down and made you feel crazy for being hurt."
"Lucas isn't Julian."
"I know that. I'm just saying, the way someone handles being caught doing something hurtful tells you a lot. Lucas sounds like he actually sat in the discomfort of it instead of running from it. That's different." Priya paused. "It doesn't mean you have to forgive him on any particular timeline, though. You're allowed to need whatever time you need, even if the explanation was good."
"That's what I keep telling myself. I just don't know if I actually believe it yet, or if I'm just saying it to feel less unreasonable."
"You're not being unreasonable, Mia. You got hurt in a specific, old place. That deserves real time, not a same-day resolution just because the explanation made sense on paper."
Mia turned that over for a long while after they hung up, watching Barnaby doze in a patch of afternoon sun, uncertain whether Priya's reassurance made the ache in her chest better or simply gave her more to think about. She wasn't ready to talk to Lucas again yet. She wasn't ready to decide, either, exactly how much of her hurt belonged to him and how much of it belonged to a wound Julian had carved years before Lucas Vance ever existed in her life.
She spent the rest of the afternoon trying to work, failing mostly, the fox illustration sitting untouched on her tablet while her mind circled the same handful of moments -- the recovery room, his voice going quiet and careful, the specific, awful familiarity of hearing herself called careless by someone she'd started to trust with exactly the parts of herself she usually kept hidden. It wasn't that she thought Lucas was cruel. It was that she'd let her guard down enough to be hurt by him at all, and that fact alone felt like its own small betrayal of every lesson she'd promised herself she'd learned after Julian.
By evening, exhaustion finally outweighed the churning in her head, and she fell asleep early, Barnaby curled against her side, purring steadily, blissfully unaware of the quiet, unresolved distance that had opened up overnight between the two humans who'd spent the worst hours of the past month fighting, together, to save him.
She woke once, near midnight, to a soft knock at her door -- three even raps, unmistakably his -- and lay still for a long moment, debating whether to answer it. She didn't, in the end, though she heard him linger outside for nearly a full minute before his footsteps finally retreated, and she spent the rest of the night wondering what he might have said if she'd opened the door, and whether she was ready to hear it yet.
The next morning brought a text, careful and restrained in a way that suggested he'd drafted and redrafted it several times before sending.
LUCAS: I know you asked for space. I'm not trying to crowd you. I just wanted you to know Barnaby's doing well this morning, in case you were worried and didn't want to ask directly.
MIA: thank you. that's kind of you to check in about him specifically
LUCAS: I meant it as a way to check on you too, honestly, without making it about that directly. I wasn't sure how else to do it without overstepping.
She read the message several times, something in the careful, transparent honesty of it loosening a small knot in her chest, though the deeper hurt from the recovery room conversation stayed lodged exactly where it had settled, untouched by one thoughtful text message.
She typed out three different replies and deleted each one before finally settling on something brief and noncommittal.
MIA: thanks for checking on him. glad he's doing well
She didn't mention how she was doing herself, deliberately, some cautious instinct telling her that the wound from yesterday needed more than one kind text to actually close, and that pretending otherwise, even gently, wouldn't serve either of them well in the long run.
LUCAS: Of course. Let me know if you need anything.
She didn't respond to that one at all, setting the phone face-down on her nightstand and staring at the ceiling for a long while afterward, unable to fully shake the ache from the day before, uncertain whether the small, careful distance she was maintaining was self-protection or something closer to punishment, and unsure, honestly, whether she had the clarity right now to tell the two apart. Barnaby, sensing something heavy in the room he couldn't name, climbed up and pressed himself against her side, and she let him stay there, grateful, at least, for one uncomplicated presence in an otherwise complicated day.
She spent the following two days largely alone, working through the fox illustration deadline with more focus than she'd managed in weeks, using the work as a deliberate distraction from a conversation she still didn't feel ready to finish. Lucas texted once a day, always brief, always about Barnaby first, careful never to push past the boundary she'd asked for, and Mia found herself, despite everything, grateful for the restraint even as the unresolved weight of it all sat heavy and unaddressed in her chest, waiting for a moment neither of them had yet found the courage to create.
You've reached the end of this chapter