They don't talk about it on the way home.

Sarah is a curious person, an endless learner, and she has so many questions. She doesn’t understand why Lucas snapped tonight. She’s never seen him with that intensity and fire in his eyes, and she’s certainly never been on the receiving end of an outburst like that - from anyone, let alone from the most consistently upbeat and cheerful person she knows. She wants to understand. She has questions - so many questions - but he’s still acting a little odd when they get home and she doesn’t think it’s a good time to ask. Tomorrow, she vows, if he seems more like himself, she’ll ask.

Sarah takes her shoes off as soon as she gets in the door, relishing in the familiar dip of a flat surface on the soles of her feet. She decides to change, and disappears into her bedroom without saying anything to Lucas.

She takes off her dress and sits on the edge of her bed in her bra and underwear. She pulls her pyjama drawer open and stares at her options, uncertain. She’s still so hopelessly confused about Lucas, about what he’d said.

She plays it back in her head. What did that mean? That he’d been looking at her? Staring at her ass and whatever else he’d been rambling about? It seems impossible; Lucas is the kind of guy who should be dating a six-foot Victoria’s Secret model, not a five-foot-four mostly antisocial nerd who likes baking a little too much. He’s incredibly out of her league in every way, and the reason she knows that is because she’s checked him out, too. She’s very aware of his muscled arms, his vibrantly blue eyes, his imperfect smile, his construction crew t-shirt, the way his pants sit on his hips. She lives with it every day. If he’d liked the way she looked in the dress in a way that was more than just friendly, well - that’s … interesting.

Sarah shakes the thought from her head. The whole concept is a little beyond the pale as far as believability goes. Still, when she gets dressed, the pyjamas she instinctively chooses are a set she only wears when it’s blisteringly hot outside: a pair of shorts printed with doughnuts that Jack had once gotten her as a joke, and a white tank top with thin straps. It’s not an obscene choice - this isn’t a seduction mission, she’s not in the business of intentional failure, after all - but she is probably showing more skin than he’s ever seen of her.

She’s just curious.

Lucas has changed too; he’s got a beanie back on his head and is wearing shorts with a t-shirt from a local brewery. He’s sitting on the couch with a big bottle of water in front of him, flipping through recommendations on Netflix, and looks up when she walks by on her way to the kitchen.

“I’m kind of hungry,” she says by way of greeting, not stopping as she walks. “I’m going to heat up one of those pizza rolls from last week. You want one?”

When Sarah looks back for his answer, it’s obvious that his eyes are following her. “Sure, Sarah,” he answers, his voice gentle.

“Coming right up.” She walks into the kitchen and grabs a couple of her frozen pastries from the freezer. She gets the idea that grating some fresh parmesan on top will make for a nice crispiness when she sticks them in the oven or a quick reheat, so she pulls that out of the fridge as well and then opens the cupboard where their grater is. “Oh,” she comments to herself, noticing that it’s somehow found its way to the highest shelf. Lucas.

In normal times, she’d ask him for help, but things feel sort of tense and the pizza roll is kind of her peace offering. She could also go grab the folding step stool that she’d eventually put away once he moved in, but it’s just a quick reach and it hardly seems worth the effort. So instead, she hoists herself onto the counter and shifts onto her knees.

“Sarah, what are you doing?”

Sarah twists her head around, her hand on the grater, and sees Lucas standing at the edge of the kitchen with his arms crossed and an amused look on his face.

“You put the grater up high,” she complains, lifting it down and setting it on the counter. “I had to improvise.”

Lucas walks over to her, shaking his head. “You could have just asked me to grab it, Sarah.” He slides one arm around her abdomen from the back, his hand holding the curve of her waist, supports her legs with his other arm, then sweeps her off the counter with ease. “You’re going to hurt yourself before your race.”

Sarah holds onto his arm as he sets her feet on the floor. He doesn’t let go of her immediately, and now that she’s standing on the ground, she’s very aware that her breasts are brushing against his forearm. “You looked relaxed on the couch,” she lies. “Didn’t want to bug you.”

Lucas’s arm loosens but doesn’t entirely drop. Sarah turns against it so she’s facing him now, and she can see another unreadable expression on his face. She’s not so sure she likes this version of Lucas, emotionally - he’s usually such an open book, so upbeat when things are good and so obvious when something bad has happened. The lack of clarity is bothering her.

“You aren’t bugging me, Sarah,” he says softly. His arm drops to her hip. His hand is so big that it stretches almost the whole length of her little shorts. His fingers curl around the side of her hip so far that half of his hand is essentially on her ass; it’s all that Sarah can notice. His thumb presses into her hipbone, rubbing gently. “Doughnuts, huh?” he asks.

Sarah smiles and looks down at her shorts. “They were a gift,” she tells him. “I went through a real homemade doughnut phase, and Jack thought they were funny.”

“Roommate gifts!” Lucas says, his voice louder now and approaching some degree of normalcy, even as they stand here in this very not-normal position. “I’ll have to get you some too, I guess. Pickles, maybe sauerkraut.”

“Pickles,” she teases, squeezing his bicep. “Very Lucas.”

“Very you, Half-Sour.” He lets his hands fall and steps away from her. “So what are ya gratin’?” he asks.

Sarah points to the cheese on the counter. “Parm for the top of the rolls,” she says. “Now that you’re here, you can do it!”

“Always putting me to work,” Lucas comments with a smile, picking up the grater and the block of cheese. “Your wish is my command.”

The parmesan turns out to be a great idea, if Sarah does say so herself. It crisps up nicely under the broiler and adds a good texture. When she’s done eating, she sets her empty plate on the coffee table and settles back on the couch next to Lucas, who’d finished minutes prior.

“Perfect late-night snack,” he declares.

“Agreed.” Sarah folds her hands in her lap and glances over at him. He’s tired, too; she can see it in his face. And yet still, she can’t seem to shake the feeling that something is off between them.

So despite her better instincts, Sarah does what’s been ingrained into her for years: she apologizes. “Hey, Lucas?”

His eyes are closed. “Hm.”

“I’m sorry. About earlier.” His eyes snap open and he sits up, but Sarah continues. “I don’t really know what happened tonight, but it felt kind of weird and tense and if there’s something that I did, I’m sorry.”

Lucas sighs and drops his face into his hands, briefly rubbing it before lifting his head again to look at Sarah. “Sarah, you didn’t do anything, don’t apologize. I’m the asshole who - I need to do a better job of handling my own shit.”

“But I don’t understand,” she says, probing his knee with her fingertips. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” he tells her. “I’m trying to work through something in my head and I got you all caught up in it, that’s all.”

Sarah presses her lips together. She’s dissatisfied, but he obviously isn’t in the mood to get into it, so she’ll stop. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Lucas shakes his head. “It’s all good, Sarah.”

She sighs, but ultimately nods. “Okay,” she allows. “But you can talk to me, Lucas. About anything you want. You know that, right?”

He smiles at her, warm and genuine, and in that moment it’s like tonight never happened. “Yes, Sarah,” he answers. “I know.” He extends his arm toward her. “Come here, babe. I need a Chrissy-bear.”

Sarah chuckles and scoots toward him, her laughter turning to a giggle when he hauls her into his lap. She hugs him, feeling tall from her new perch on his thighs, and melts as his arms wind around her in return. It’s warm and cozy here, and she’s so tired; Sarah rests her head over his shoulder and relaxes, thinking she could fall asleep if he’d let her.

Logically, she knows this isn’t normal. She knows that two friends shouldn’t be sitting like this. She shouldn’t be clutching onto him, tracing circles into the back of his neck with her fingernail, and he shouldn’t be holding the twist of her waist with his palm the way that he is. But she is, and he is, and it feels natural, comfortable, so when his left hand slides down her back and hooks under her thigh to hold her closer, she lets him. She lets his hand rub back and forth between her thigh and her hip, lets his palm curve around her ass, and she pretends not to notice something twitching ever-so-slightly beneath her. She threads her fingers into his curls at the back of his head, presses a closed-mouth kiss to the side of his neck, and exhales in time with him, long and slow.

Sarah doesn’t count how long she sits there in his arms; time doesn’t really seem to move at the same rate, anyway. Finally, she breaks the hug and leans back a bit in his arms. “I should go to bed,” she says, apologies in her voice.

Lucas’s eyes are searching hers, a darker blue than normal, but still as beautiful as they always are. “Same,” he says. Her shirt has shifted in their embrace, the top of it slightly askew, and when he squeezes her ribcage his thumb rubs against the side of her right breast. “You really did look beautiful tonight, Sarah,” he says softly, his thumb still stroking. “Sorry I was a dick about it after.”

Sarah can’t take this much longer; she’s going to combust soon if he doesn’t stop, if she doesn’t move, if they don’t part and go to bed. And she’s not ready to ruin a good thing. Not yet. “Water under the bridge,” she dismisses. “You looked good too.” She leans forward and kisses his cheek, trying to ignore the brief, fleeting sensation of her breast pressing more fully into his hand as she does so. Finally, she pulls away and slides off of him, standing up. “Goodnight, Lucas.”

“Night, Sarah,” he echoes, and she goes to bed.