Riley
The sketch sat in the center of my desk like a piece of our past I never meant to hold again.
A logo. Our names. His foundation. My methods. Clean lines. Warm colors. It looked so real—so finished. A vision come to life. Something Lucas and I used to joke about when we were seventeen, scribbling in the back of our notebooks. I used to draw it in the margins of my biology notes.
Now it was in my hands.
I let my fingers graze the paper, tracing over the loops of his handwriting beneath the design. I didn’t even realize I was smiling until the sound of my email notification snapped me back to the present.
Inbox: 1 New Message
Subject: Final Confirmation – London Research Program
I clicked.
You have until tomorrow to confirm your place.
That one sentence hit harder than I thought it would.
My breath caught. I stared at the words, my chest tightening. The cursor blinked like it was waiting for me to choose a life.
I pushed back from the desk, heart pounding, and pulled open the cabinet beside me. Every folder I’d kept. My research. My notes. Articles, clinical trials, footage of Lucas’s progress. Everything I’d done. Everything I’d built.
I spread them across the floor like puzzle pieces.
It was all ready. Valid. Solid. A career-maker.
I started pacing, my socked feet brushing against the corner of the logo sketch every time I turned.
“Do I stay and build something here…” I murmured to myself, “or go and prove something there?”
I didn’t have an answer.
The door buzzer interrupted my spiral.
I glanced at the time. Lucas’s session.
Straightening my shoulders, I slipped on my sneakers and grabbed my clipboard, burying every emotion I could behind my usual clinical calm.
Inside the therapy room, Lucas was already on the mat, stretching, that same infuriating grin playing on his lips.
“What’s with the serious face, Dr. Morgan?” he teased, eyes flicking up to mine. “Miss me overnight?”
I arched a brow. “You wish.”
He chuckled, sitting up. “Come on. You like me now. Admit it.”
I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my mouth betrayed me with a smile.
He didn’t stop. “You laugh at my jokes. You let me complain mid-exercise. You definitely linger when I stretch.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said, kneeling beside him. “Now lift.”
His muscles flexed beneath my hands. My heart jumped.
God, I hated that I noticed.
I moved us through the routine, correcting his form, adjusting the angles. Every time our hands brushed, I felt it. Every time he made some ridiculous comment just to make me smile, I fought harder not to.
When the session wrapped up, I stood there longer than I meant to: clipboard clutched tight, words caught in my throat.
He noticed. “Riles?”
I cleared my throat. “Lucas.”
He tilted his head. “Yeah?”
“I’m going to London,” I said, the words falling out faster than I’d rehearsed. “I’m taking the research position.”
He blinked, confusion knitting his brows. “You’re what?”
“I leave in two weeks.”
The grin disappeared from his face, just like that.
“You’re serious?”
I nodded. “I can’t not choose myself again.”
His eyes searched mine for something—some opening, some hesitation. I didn’t give him any.
I turned, walking out before either of us could say something we couldn’t take back.