The apartment was quiet when they returned, the only sounds the soft rustle of Bella's dress and the faint hum of the city outside. Rachel was fast asleep in Lucas's arms, her cheek pressed to his chest, her lips parted in little sighs that made her look even younger.
Bella unlocked the door, careful not to jostle the sleeping child. The moment they stepped inside, the faint smell of cookies still lingered in the air, reminding her of their laughter just hours ago. It felt like a lifetime had passed since then.
"Give her to me," Bella whispered, reaching instinctively for her daughter.
But Lucas shook his head, his voice low and firm. "No. I've got her."
There was no arguing with him—not when he held Rachel as though she were the most precious thing in the world. Bella only nodded and walked ahead to push open the bedroom door.
Inside, the little night-lamp glowed warm and golden, painting the room in softness. Lucas laid Rachel down gently on the bed, his movements quiet and reverent. For a moment, Bella just stood there, watching. The sight of smoothing her daughter's hair and tucking the blanket under her chin with patient hands made her chest ache in ways she couldn't explain.
Bella shook herself and moved forward, pulling out Rachel's favorite pajamas. "She needs to change," she whispered, careful not to wake her.
Lucas helped without hesitation, steadying Rachel's limp arms while Bella guided them through the sleeves. When Bella bent to button the pajama top, her fingers brushed against Lucas's knuckles. She stilled, her heart tripping in her chest at the unexpected warmth of his touch. Their eyes met for a second, a silent, unspoken beat that made her breath catch.
When Rachel was finally dressed and tucked in, Bella leaned down to kiss her daughter's forehead. Lucas did the same, his lips lingering a moment longer than necessary. Bella smiled at the tenderness in his expression.
They closed the door quietly behind them. Bella sighed, pressing her back to the wall for a moment. The night had been overwhelming in every sense—luxury, indulgence, feelings she hadn't wanted to admit even to herself. Now, back in the quiet of her own home, she almost didn't know what to do with herself.
"I'll get us some water," she murmured, needing the excuse to breathe.
She padded barefoot into the kitchen, pulling two glasses from the cabinet. But before she could fill them, she felt it—his presence, heavy and consuming, filling the room without a single sound.
Bella turned, startled, only to find Lucas leaning casually against the doorway, his suit jacket gone, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and some of the buttons undone. His gaze pinned her in place, steady and unblinking.
"What?" she asked, self-conscious under the weight of it.
He stepped closer, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly. "You forgot something, bella."
She frowned, confused, stuck at her place. "What do you—"
His lips cut off the rest of her question.
It started the way it always did—soft, a brush of lips that had become their everyday ritual. But this one didn't stay soft.
The moment her mouth parted, Lucas deepened it, his hand sliding to her waist, pulling her closer until her back pressed into the counter. Bella gasped, one hand clutching the edge of the marble for balance, the other curling helplessly in his shirt.
His kiss was hungry. Not teasing, not gentle, but consuming—like he had held himself back all night and could no longer restrain the need clawing at him. His tongue swept into her mouth, coaxing, demanding, and Bella's knees nearly gave out under the rush of heat that flooded her body.
Her chest rose and fell sharply as she struggled to keep up with the pace he set. And then she felt it—something hard pressing against her stomach, insistent and unmistakable.
Her eyes flew wide, shock rippling through her. Her body went rigid, her breath catching in her throat.
Lucas groaned softly into the kiss, as if realizing too late. He lost control.
He tore his mouth from hers, his forehead pressing against hers, his breath ragged and uneven.
"Lucas…" Bella whispered, her cheeks flaming. She didn't dare look down, but her body had already registered what it was.
He swore under his breath in Italian, his grip on her waist tightening before he forced himself to let go. He stepped back abruptly, running a hand through his hair as though that might ground him.
"You… drive me insane, bella," he growled, his voice low, hoarse, almost pained. The way he is looking at her right now is different. His voice is different. Even his touch felt different.
Bella's face burned, her chest heaving. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, unable to find words. She never faced such a situation in her whole life.
Lucas's jaw tightened. He was feeling.... frustrated. Without another word, he turned sharply and disappeared down the hallway. A moment later, the sound of running water echoed through the apartment—the shower, turned on at full blast.
Bella stood frozen in the kitchen, her lips swollen, her heart racing. She pressed her palm against her chest, trying to calm the erratic beat. Her mind kept circling back to the heat of his body against hers, the way he had kissed her like he was starving, the hard press that had shocked her to her core.
She told herself to move, to change, to get ready for bed, but her legs felt like jelly. By the time she made it to the bedroom, exhaustion weighed heavier than nerves. She just changed into her PJs and curled beneath the blanket, waiting for him, listening to the sound of the water still running.
Her eyes grew heavy. Eventually, sleep claimed her.
When Lucas finally emerged, his hair damp and his gray tshirt clinging to his skin, he was muttering darkly to himself.
"Do you even know what you do to me, bella? Cold shower in the middle of the night, because of one kiss… and still—"
He stopped mid-rant. She was asleep. Bella lay curled on her side, the blankets tucked beneath her chin, her breathing soft and even. The faintest trace of color lingered on her cheeks, as though even in dreams she remembered the kiss.
Lucas's frustration drained in an instant. He stood there for a long moment, watching her. His chest ached with something he couldn't name, something that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with the way she softened the hardest parts of him without even trying. She didn't even initiate it. I was the one who lost control, he thought.
Quietly, he slid into bed beside her. She shifted instinctively, turning toward him, fitting against his chest as though she belonged there.
He wrapped an arm around her and lowered his head, pressing his face against her chest. The sound of her heartbeat filled his ears, steady and soothing, drowning out everything else.
For a long while, he lay awake, listening. Every beat slowed his own, every breath steadied the storm inside him.
When sleep finally pulled him under, it wasn't the ache of restraint he felt—it was the calm certainty that this rhythm, this woman, this life, was becoming his anchor.