You were.....in my head

When they reached the shopping district, he parked along the curb and came around to open her door before she could so much as unbuckle her seatbelt.

"You know," she said as he offered her his hand again, "I'm perfectly capable of getting out of the car on my own."

"I'm sure you are." His mouth curved in that almost-smile she was learning to expect. "Humor me."

She rolled her eyes but let him help her down anyway.

The shops were bright and airy, windows gleaming with summer displays—dresses in soft pastels, little toys arranged like tiny kingdoms, displays of delicate jewelry.

For the first time in days, she felt her shoulders loosen.

Lucas walked beside her without rushing, matching his pace to hers. Every so often, he pointed something out—a pale yellow dress he said would look good on her, a pair of sandals she pretended to dislike just to see the exasperation crinkle his brow.

And in between, he kept glancing at her as if to be sure she was really there, really smiling.

When they passed a shop with baby clothes in the window, she felt his hand flex where it held hers.

"Want to look?" he asked quietly.

She hesitated. "Maybe later."

His thumb brushed her knuckles again. "Whenever you're ready."

It was such a small thing—so gentle and unassuming—that she felt her throat tighten.

And as they moved on to the next window, she realized the ache she'd woken up with had eased.

Maybe he couldn't always be here. Maybe neither of them quite knew what they were doing.

But in this moment—this ordinary, quiet moment—he was trying.

And that was enough.

By the time they got home, the early morning melancholy had almost faded, replaced by a softer kind of weariness—the pleasant exhaustion that came from simply being together without having to think too hard.

Lucas carried the bags inside while Bella slipped off her shoes and padded into the kitchen. She set her purse on the counter, feeling strangely content in the quiet of the house.

"Want help with those?" she called as he disappeared down the hall with Rachel's things.

"I've got it," he called back. His voice was warm, threaded with that rare ease he only showed when he was sure no one else was watching.

Bella smiled to herself. She opened the pantry, searching for the rice container. It was, of course, on the top shelf—just far enough back to make her regret not grabbing the step stool.

She stretched up on her toes, fingers brushing the plastic lid. Almost—

A warm hand closed over hers.

She startled, her heart leaping as she turned to find Lucas standing behind her, one arm braced against the shelf, his body close enough she could feel the heat of him through her dress.

"You're going to hurt yourself," he said quietly, his breath stirring the hair near her temple.

"I was managing," she muttered, her voice embarrassingly breathless.

"You were not," he corrected gently, reaching up to take the container down with infuriating ease. He set it on the counter beside her, but made no move to step away.

Instead, he stayed where he was, his hand still resting lightly on the shelf. Effectively trapping her between his chest and the countertop.

Her pulse fluttered in her throat.

"Lucas," she said, trying for a steady voice, "you're in the way."

"Am I?"

She looked up—and promptly forgot what she'd been about to say.

Because his eyes weren't teasing or amused. They were searching. Curious. And something else she didn't dare name.

"I found something in Rachel's room," he said after a moment.

Her brows drew together. "What?"

He reached behind him and lifted a small canvas she hadn't realized he was holding.

The painting.

Her mouth went dry.

"You drew me," he said softly, as if he still wasn't sure he believed it.

She swallowed, her gaze darting to the side. "I—it was just…something to do with the extra paints. I was bored."

"Yesterday?"

She nodded, wishing her cheeks didn't feel so hot.

"Why?"

His voice was gentle. But the question landed somewhere deep in her chest, unsettling in a way she couldn't quite explain.

"Why?" she echoed faintly.

"Why me?" His thumb brushed over the edge of the canvas, almost absently. "Of all the things you could have painted—why did you paint me?"

She pressed her hands to the counter behind her, trying to find an answer that didn't sound foolish.

"I don't know," she said finally, her voice quiet. Honest. "You were…in my head, I suppose."

"In your head," he repeated, as if tasting the words.

"Yes," she whispered.

His gaze flicked down to her mouth, then back to her eyes.

"Is that a good thing?" he asked, his voice lower than before.

She tried to look away again, but his hand came up, brushing her cheek in a touch so light it made her shiver.

"I don't know," she admitted, her voice catching.