Chapter 8 Cracks in the Armor

The next morning arrived wrapped in grey clouds and cool air drifting from the coastline. Amara stood by her window, watching the city stir awake, coffee warming her hands. But the lingering ache in her chest, a product of memories and fragile conversations, wouldn't fade as easily.

Lucian's words from the night before echoed like distant thunder.

"We stop carrying the ghosts alone."

Her reflection stared back-tired eyes, guarded expression-the version of herself she'd grown used to seeing. Yet beneath the defenses, cracks were forming, and it terrified her.

Her phone buzzed.

Lucian: Breakfast. I make decent pancakes. Mediocre coffee. Excellent awkward conversation.

A reluctant smile tugged at her lips.

She typed back: I don't do pity pancakes.

Lucian: Pity? You wound me. These are purely curiosity-driven carbs.

Despite herself, laughter escaped. Against every instinct, she typed: Where?

---

The small café Lucian chose was tucked away on a quiet street, its ivy-covered walls and mismatched chairs radiating cozy charm. He sat outside, camera by his side, eyes lighting up as she approached.

"You came," he greeted, standing as she reached the table.

"Curiosity," she teased, sliding into the seat. "And carbs."

Lucian chuckled, flagging down the waitress.

The conversation flowed easier than she'd expected-books, music, snippets of their messy pasts carefully shared like delicate offerings. Yet every time Lucian's eyes softened, Amara's walls threatened to rise again.

She stirred her coffee absentmindedly. "I'm not good at letting people in."

Lucian's expression remained steady. "I noticed. But you're here. That counts for something."

Her pulse skipped.

"And you?" she asked, deflecting slightly. "What keeps your armor intact?"

A shadow flickered across his face. "Photographs," he admitted. "It's easier to hide behind a lens than face the mess head-on."

"But sometimes you lower the camera," she pointed out.

Lucian's gaze locked onto hers, quiet intensity replacing humor. "Sometimes." A pause. "For the right reasons."

The air between them thickened with unspoken meaning.

Before either could say more, a familiar voice cut through the street noise.

"Amara?"

Her blood ran cold.

Carter.

He stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, the same calculated smile playing on his lips.

"We need to talk," Carter pressed, eyes narrowing toward Lucian.

"We really don't," Amara shot back, her walls snapping back into place.

Lucian straightened, protective instinct flashing across his features.

"Not here," Amara added firmly, standing abruptly.

Carter's expression soured, but he stepped back, muttering, "You'll regret pushing me away."

As he disappeared into the crowd, Amara exhaled shakily.

Lucian's voice was calm but resolute. "He won't touch you."

Emotion welled in her chest-fear, anger, gratitude-all tangled together.

She met Lucian's gaze, seeing no judgment, only quiet strength.

The cracks in her armor widened.

Maybe, just maybe, it was okay to let him in.