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The rain had stopped hours ago, but Portland Row still smelled like wet pavement and regret.
Anthony Lockwood stood at the kitchen counter, making tea with movements so precise and deliberate that his hands barely shook. Fury was easier than hurt. Fury was something he knew how to wear, how to control. Hurt was messy and vulnerable and made him think of his parents' empty bedroom and Jessica's cold hand in his.
He could feel Lucy in the doorway behind him, watching. She'd been watching him like that for weeks now—like she was trying to memorize him, or maybe trying to figure out how to leave. They'd been walking this fragile line for months, this impossible thing between them that neither of them had been brave enough to name, and Lockwood had known all this time that eventually something would break.
He'd just never thought it would be her pulling away first.
"You're doing it wrong," Lucy said, and her voice had that particular edge that meant she was looking for a fight.
Fine. He could give her a fight if that's what she needed.
"I'm making tea, Lucy. I've been making tea since I was eight years old." He kept his voice pleasant, conversational, even though his chest felt like someone had reached in and squeezed. This was the voice he used with difficult clients, with DEPRAC agents who thought they knew better, with anyone he needed to keep at arm's length.
He'd never had to use it with her before.
"You're using the wrong cups."
"These are perfectly adequate cups."
"They're the ones we use for clients."
Lockwood set down the teapot with more force than necessary. "Perhaps that's appropriate, then. Since apparently we're now in the business of keeping secrets from each other like strangers."
The silence behind him was deafening, and he took a petty satisfaction in it before hating himself for it. This wasn't how he wanted to do this. This wasn't how he wanted to be with her.
But she'd nearly died at the Wintergarden. She'd had a vision three days before—he'd worked it out afterward, piecing together her odd silences, the way she'd flinched when he'd suggested taking the case—and she hadn't told him. She'd let him walk them into a death trap rather than tell him what she'd seen.
That was new. That was different.
Lucy had always told him everything, even when he didn't want to hear it. Especially when he didn't want to hear it. Her brutal honesty had been one of the first things he'd loved about her, back before he'd been willing to admit to himself that "love" was the right word.
"That's not fair," Lucy said, stepping into the kitchen properly. He heard her socked feet whisper against the linoleum.
Lockwood turned finally, and immediately wished he hadn't. She looked exhausted, dark circles under her eyes, her hair escaping from its usual ponytail in ways that made his fingers itch to tuck the strands back. She was wearing one of George's old jumpers over her clothes, drowning in it, and Lockwood felt a sharp, irrational stab of jealousy that George got to keep her warm when Lockwood couldn't seem to get close enough anymore to do it himself.
"Isn't it?" He met her eyes, saw her flinch at whatever she found in his. Good. Let her see how much this hurt. "You saw something. You knew something was wrong with that house, and you didn't tell me."
"I didn't know—"
"You suspected." He cut her off, moving closer despite himself, drawn to her like he'd always been drawn to her, moth to flame, haunted to haunting. "That's enough, Lucy. That's always been enough. We're supposed to be partners. We're supposed to trust each other."
Something flickered in her eyes—guilt, pain, something else he couldn't name—and then her chin came up in that stubborn way he both loved and wanted to strangle her for.
"I do trust you!" The words echoed off the kitchen walls, too loud in the quiet house. "God, Lockwood, I trust you more than anyone. That's not—that's not what this is about."
"Then what is it about?"
He was close enough now to see the pulse jumping in her throat, to count the freckles across her nose, to watch her pupils dilate. Close enough to remember what it had felt like three weeks ago when they'd been researching in the library and she'd fallen asleep on his shoulder, her breathing slow and even and trusting in a way that had made his heart feel too large for his chest.
That had been before she'd started pulling away. Before whatever this was had started breaking.
"Because from where I'm standing," Lockwood continued, fighting to keep his voice level, "it looks like you didn't think I could handle the information. Like you thought you needed to protect me."
"Maybe I did!" Lucy shot back, and there was fire in her eyes now, the kind that had made him offer her a job on the spot two years ago. "Maybe I'm tired of watching you throw yourself at every ghost and every danger like you've got nothing to lose! Maybe I'm tired of pretending that doesn't terrify me!"
The confession hung between them like a ghost, and Lockwood felt his carefully constructed composure crack.
"That's not your decision to make," he said quietly.
"Isn't it? When I'm the one who has to watch? When I'm the one who has to—"
She cut herself off, turning away from him, pressing her palms against the counter. He could see her shoulders shaking, could see the way her fingers were gripping the edge like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Don't, he thought desperately. Don't shut me out. Not you. Not like this.
"Who has to what, Lucy?" He moved closer, helpless against the pull of her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin. "Look at me."
"I can't." Her voice cracked, and the sound of it cracked something in him too. "If I look at you right now, I'm going to say something I can't take back."
"Maybe that's what we need." The words came out rougher than he intended. "Maybe we've needed it for a while now."
She turned, and Lockwood forgot how to breathe.
She was too close. Close enough that he could see the tears clinging to her lashes, close enough that he could smell the lavender soap she used, close enough that if he just leaned forward a few inches—
No. Not like this. Not when she was looking at him like that, like he was something dangerous and precious and utterly terrifying.
"You want honesty?" Lucy asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Fine. I didn't tell you about the vision because I knew exactly what you'd do. You'd go anyway. You'd insist on taking the case, on facing whatever was waiting there, because that's what you do. You run toward danger like it's an old friend. And I—"
She stopped, swallowed hard, and Lockwood watched the movement of her throat with fascination and dread.
"I couldn't watch you die, Lockwood. I couldn't. So I told myself it was nothing, that I was being paranoid, that maybe if I didn't say it out loud it wouldn't be real. That maybe I could—could keep you safe if I just didn't acknowledge it."
"That's not how Talent works," Lockwood said, but his heart wasn't in the argument anymore. He was too busy processing what she'd just admitted, the fear in her voice, the way she'd said couldn't watch you die like it was the worst thing she could imagine.
"I know that!" Her voice rose again, frustration and something rawer bleeding through. "I know that, and I know it was stupid, and I know I should have told you. But you don't get to stand there and act like you're the only one who gets to make impossible choices. You don't get to—"
"I almost lost you."
The words ripped out of him before he could stop them, stripped of his usual polish, raw and desperate. "At the Wintergarden. When that Type Two came through the wall and you were standing right there, and I was too far away to do anything except watch. Do you have any idea what that felt like?"
Lucy stared at him, something shifting in her expression.
"Lockwood—"
"You think I'm the only one who's reckless? You threw yourself between me and a ghost, Lucy. You didn't even hesitate." He could feel his control slipping, could feel all the fear and fury and desperate love he'd been trying to contain for months spilling out. "You could have died. You nearly did. And for what? For me?"
"Of course for you!" She stepped closer, and now they were definitely too close, close enough that he could feel her breath on his face. "You would have done the same for me. You have done the same for me, about a hundred times."
"That's different."
"How?" Her eyes were blazing now, all fire and fury and something that looked dangerously like tears. "How is it different? Because you're the great Anthony Lockwood and I'm just—what? The hired help? Your employee?"
"You know that's not—" He ran a hand through his hair, frustration making him careless. "You're not just anything, Lucy. You're—"
Everything. You're everything. You're the reason I'm afraid now when I never used to be afraid. You're the reason I check the iron chains twice and triple-check the flares and lie awake at night planning escape routes. You're the reason my heart stops every time you walk into danger. You're the reason this house feels like a home instead of a mausoleum. You're the reason I want to survive.
But he couldn't say any of that. Because she was pulling away from him, had been pulling away for weeks now, and if he told her the truth she'd just pull away faster. He knew how this worked. Everyone he loved left eventually. His parents, Jessica, everyone. Why would Lucy be any different?
Except she was different. She'd always been different.
"I'm what?" Lucy demanded, her voice shaking. "Say it. For once in your life, just say what you actually mean instead of hiding behind that perfect smile and those perfect manners and—"
"Lockwood? Lucy? Everything alright down there?"
George's voice drifted down from upstairs, and they both froze, standing too close in the kitchen, breathing too hard.
"Fine!" Lockwood called back, not taking his eyes off Lucy. "Just discussing the case!"
"At two in the morning? While shouting?" A pause. "You know what, I don't want to know. But keep it down, some of us are trying to sleep."
They heard George's door close with a pointed thump.
The interruption had broken something, and Lucy was already pulling back, wrapping her arms around herself.
"We should talk about this tomorrow," she said, not meeting his eyes. "When we're not so tired."
"Lucy—"
"Goodnight, Lockwood."
She was past him and out of the kitchen before he could stop her, before he could figure out what to say that wouldn't sound like begging. He heard her footsteps on the stairs, heard her door close with a soft click that somehow felt worse than if she'd slammed it.
Lockwood stood alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the wrong teacups and the ghost of her lavender soap, and tried very hard not to think about how he was losing her.
He'd been so sure, these past few months, that she felt it too. The impossible thing building between them, the way their hands would linger when passing salt across the Thinking Cloth, the way she'd look at him sometimes like he was something precious. He'd been so careful, so patient, waiting for the right moment to tell her how he felt.
But she'd been pulling away instead. Drawing back, building walls, keeping secrets.
And Lockwood didn't know how to fight an enemy he couldn't see.
The next morning, Lucy avoided him.
She was good at it too—up before him (which never happened), already gone by the time he made it to the kitchen. He found a note on the table in her handwriting: Gone to Arif's. Need supplies.
George looked up from his toast. "She left about an hour ago. Looked like she hadn't slept."
"Did she say anything?"
"To me? You're joking, right?" George took a bite of toast, chewed thoughtfully. "What happened last night?"
"Nothing."
"Lockwood."
"We had a disagreement about the Wintergarden case."
"A disagreement." George's tone made it clear he didn't believe that for a second. "That's why she looked like she'd been crying, and you look like you haven't slept in a week?"
Lockwood busied himself with making tea. The right cups this time, not that it mattered.
"Look," George said after a moment, "I know it's none of my business—"
"It's not."
"—but whatever's going on between you two, you need to sort it out. It's getting impossible to work with all this tension."
"There's nothing going on between us."
"Right. And I'm the Queen of England." George stood, brushing crumbs off his shirt. "For what it's worth, she cares about you. Whatever happened, I'm sure you can fix it."
But that was the problem, wasn't it? Lockwood didn't know how to fix something when he didn't understand what had broken.
Lucy came back three hours later, laden with shopping bags and wearing a brittle smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Got everything we need for the next few cases," she announced to the kitchen at large, not looking at Lockwood. "Fresh iron, new chains, salt bombs—"
"Lucy," Lockwood started.
"Oh, and Holly called. She wants to know if we're free for that Rotherhithe case on Thursday. I told her probably yes but I'd check with you—"
"Lucy."
"—and there's a new Type Two report in Blackheath that sounds promising, good money if we—"
"Lucy, stop." He caught her wrist as she tried to brush past him, felt her pulse jumping under his fingers. "We need to talk about last night."
"There's nothing to talk about." She pulled away, and the loss of contact felt like losing something vital. "I was tired, you were frustrated, we both said things we didn't mean. Can we just—can we just move on?"
"I meant every word I said."
That stopped her. She stood frozen in the doorway, her back to him, shoulders tense.
"Don't," she said quietly. "Please don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't make this harder than it already is."
Lockwood felt something cold settle in his chest. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She turned then, and the look in her eyes made his breath catch. There was something desperate there, something haunted.
"It means I can't do this," she said, and her voice was shaking. "I can't—Lockwood, everyone close to me dies. Norrie—everyone I l--care about ends up hurt or worse, and I can't—I can't do that to you. I won't."
The confession hit him like a physical blow.
Oh, he thought. Oh, Lucy.
They were the same, he realized. Both of them haunted by loss, both of them so terrified of caring too much that they were destroying what they had before fate could do it for them. Two broken people trying desperately not to break each other.
"So that's it?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice steady. "You're just going to pull away? Keep me at arm's length because you're afraid?"
"Yes!" The word came out fierce, almost angry. "Yes, I'm afraid! I'm terrified, Lockwood! And you should be too! We hunt ghosts for a living, we nearly die at least once a month, and if I let myself—if I let this be what I think it is—"
She cut herself off, pressing her hands to her face.
"What do you think it is?" Lockwood asked quietly.
"You know what it is."
"Say it anyway."
"I can't." She dropped her hands, and there were tears on her cheeks now. "If I say it, it becomes real. And if it's real, I can lose it. I can lose you. And I can't—I can't survive that, Lockwood. I barely survived Norrie. I can't do it again."
He wanted to go to her, to pull her into his arms and promise her it would be okay, that nothing would happen to either of them. But he couldn't lie to her like that. They both knew the statistics. They both knew how many agents didn't make it past twenty.
"So we just keep pretending?" he asked instead. "We just ignore this thing between us and hope it goes away?"
"It's safer."
"It's cowardice."
She flinched like he'd slapped her, and immediately he wanted to take it back.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I didn't mean—"
"No, you're right." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You're absolutely right. I'm a coward. I'm so scared of losing you that I'm losing you right now, on purpose, and I don't know how to stop."
The admission hung between them, raw and honest and utterly heartbreaking.
"Lockwood?" George's voice came from the library. "Got a minute? I found something on the Blackheath case."
The moment shattered.
"Coming," Lockwood called, not taking his eyes off Lucy.
She wiped at her face quickly, pulling herself together with visible effort. "You should go. Case work is important."
"Lucy—"
"Please." The word was barely a whisper. "Just—just give me some time. I need to think."
And what could he say to that? He couldn't force her to let him in, couldn't make her trust that this thing between them was worth the risk. He could only watch as she turned and headed upstairs, taking his heart with her.
Things got worse before they got better.
The Blackheath case turned out to be a nightmare— too many ghosts in too small a space. They barely made it out alive, and only because Holly had insisted on coming along as backup.
"You two are going to get yourselves killed," Holly said afterward, dabbing antiseptic on the cut above Lockwood's eye with more force than strictly necessary. "Whatever's going on between you, sort it out. Lucy was so distracted she nearly walked into a ghost-lock."
"I'm fine," Lucy said from across the kitchen, but she wouldn't look at either of them.
"You're not fine," Holly said bluntly. "Neither of you are. And it's affecting your work."
After she left, the silence in the kitchen was oppressive.
Lockwood tried to break it. "She's right, you know. We can't keep working like this."
"I know."
"So what do we do?"
Lucy finally looked at him, and the emptiness in her eyes made his chest ache. "Maybe I should leave."
The words hit him like a ghost-touch, cold and paralyzing.
"What?"
"It would be easier. Safer. For both of us." She was gripping the edge of the table, knuckles white. "I could go back to the North, find work up there—"
"No." The word came out sharp, final. "Absolutely not."
"Lockwood—"
"No, Lucy. I'm not letting you run away from this. From us."
"There is no us!" She stood abruptly, the chair scraping loud against the floor. "That's the whole point! There can't be an us because I can't lose you, and the only way to make sure of that is to leave before—before—"
She couldn't finish the sentence, and Lockwood realized with a sharp clarity that he was done being patient. Done waiting for the right moment. Done pretending that his heart wasn't completely at her mercy.
He stood too, moving around the table toward her.
"Before what?" he demanded. "Before you admit you feel it too? Before you acknowledge that this thing between us is real whether you say it out loud or not? Before you let yourself have something good for once in your life?"
"People I love die, Lockwood!"
The confession exploded out of her, raw and desperate, and suddenly she was crying, really crying, tears streaming down her face.
"You love me?"
"Shut up."
"You said--"
"I know what I said-- I can't—I can't add you to that list. I can't carry one more ghost. I'm already haunted by so many, I can't—"
"You think I'm not haunted too?" He reached for her, and for once she didn't pull away, didn't run. His hands found her face, thumbs brushing away tears. "Lucy, I'm haunted by everyone I've failed to save. My parents, Jessica—every agent we've ever lost. I'm so full of ghosts there's barely room for anything else. But you—"
His voice cracked.
"You make me want to live anyway. You make me want to survive. And yes, it's terrifying. Yes, I'm afraid every single day that something will happen to you. But I'd rather have that fear than have nothing at all."
She was staring up at him, her hands coming up to grip his wrists, and he could feel her pulse racing under his fingers.
"I can't breathe when you're gone," she whispered. "When you're in danger and I can't reach you—it's like drowning. And I thought if I just kept my distance, if I just didn't let it go too far—"
"Too late," Lockwood said, and he was smiling now, even though his vision was blurring with tears. "It's already too far. Has been for months. Maybe longer."
"This is such a bad idea."
"Probably the worst we've ever had."
"We're going to mess everything up."
"Most likely."
"Lockwood—"
"Lucy." He leaned his forehead against hers, breathing her in—lavender and tea and home. "I love you. I'm in love with you. I've been in love with you for so long I can't remember what it was like before. And I know you're scared. I know you think everyone you love ends up hurt. But I'm already hurt, Lucy. I'm already dying from watching you pull away. So maybe we could try being terrified together instead of terrified and alone?"
Her breath hitched, and then her fingers were threading through his hair, pulling him closer.
"This is insane," she said.
"Absolutely."
"We hunt ghosts for a living."
"Terrible foundation for a relationship."
"I love you too," she whispered, and the words sounded like they'd been torn from somewhere deep inside her. "God help me, I love you so much it scares me."
And then she was kissing him, or he was kissing her, and Lockwood didn't care who'd moved first because all that mattered was the desperate press of her mouth against his, the way her fingers tightened in his hair, the small sound she made when he pulled her closer.
He'd imagined this moment a thousand times, but nothing had prepared him for the reality of her—the softness of her lips, the way she tasted like tea and tears, the way her body fit against his like they'd been designed for each other. His hands slid from her face to her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she made another sound, this one almost a gasp, her hands sliding down to grip his shoulders.
They broke apart gasping, but neither of them moved away. Lockwood could feel her heart hammering against his chest, could see his own desperation reflected in her eyes.
"Okay," Lucy said breathlessly. "Okay. We can try this."
"Try this?" He couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. "That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
She laughed, the sound shaky but real. "Shut up."
"Make me."
So she did, rising up on her toes to kiss him again, slower this time but no less intense. Lockwood's hands splayed across her back, one sliding up to tangle in her hair, tilting her head back so he could deepen the kiss. She melted against him with a sigh that made his head spin, her fingers curling into the front of his shirt.
They might have stayed like that forever if George hadn't cleared his throat from the doorway.
"Finally," he said. "Thought I was going to have to lock you two in a closet together."
They sprang apart, both flushed and breathing hard.
"George," Lockwood started.
"No, don't 'George' me. I'm happy for you, really, but maybe save the snogging for when I'm not trying to make tea?" He moved past them to the kettle, deliberately not looking at them. "Also, Holly owes me twenty pounds. I bet her you'd sort it out within the week."
"You took bets on us?" Lucy demanded.
"Please, everyone's been taking bets on you two for months. Flo had a whole chart going." George glanced back at them, and his expression softened. "But seriously. I'm glad you worked it out. You're disgustingly good together."
After he left with his tea, they stood in the kitchen, not quite touching but not pulling away either.
"So," Lockwood said carefully. "What happens now?"
"I have no idea." Lucy looked up at him, and there was fear in her eyes still, but also something else. Something like hope. "I'm still terrified. I'm still haunted by everyone I've lost. And I'm probably going to be a disaster at this."
"Lucky for you, I'm fairly good at disasters." He reached out, lacing their fingers together, and felt something settle in his chest when she squeezed back. "We'll figure it out. Together."
"Together," she echoed, and smiled—a real smile this time, bright and genuine and utterly devastating. "I like the sound of that."
"Me too."
They stood there in the kitchen as the sun rose over Portland Row, two haunted people holding onto each other like a lifeline. It wasn't perfect. It wouldn't be easy. They were both too broken, too scared, too full of ghosts.
But they were together. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
"Lockwood?" Lucy said after a moment.
"Mm?"
"Thank you. For not giving up on me. Even when I was trying to push you away."
He brought their joined hands up, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Always. I'll always fight for you, Lucy Carlyle. Even when you're fighting against yourself."
"We're going to be okay, aren't we?"
"I think so." He pulled her closer, tucking her against his chest, and felt her arms wrap around his waist. "We survived the ghosts. We can survive this."
"This is scarier than ghosts."
"Much scarier," he agreed, resting his chin on top of her head. "But also better. So much better."
And standing there with Lucy in his arms, Lockwood finally understood what it meant to be haunted by something good instead of something terrible. He'd always be haunted by loss, by fear, by the fragile line they walked between life and death.
But he'd be haunted by her too—by the way she laughed, by the sound of her voice, by the impossible fact that she loved him back despite all the reasons she shouldn't.
And that was a haunting he could live with.
That was a haunting he'd choose, every single time.