The Distance Between Us

The house was too quiet.

Dahlia Valmont had grown used to silence over the years, but tonight it carried a strange edge. The kind that reminded her she was alone in the wide, elegant space she had built with her own hands and hard work.

Her son, Ryan, was at prom. She had helped him knot his tie earlier, pretending not to fuss when he rolled his eyes. Now, the house seemed emptier without his music drifting from upstairs, without the steady thump of his footsteps.

Dahlia leaned back against the velvet couch, a glass of wine untouched on the table beside her. The soft glow of the chandelier washed the living room in golden light, bouncing off

the glossy marble floors. A successful day at the studio should have left her satisfied; her brand was thriving, orders piling higher than she could manage. But instead she sat here, restless, scrolling aimlessly through her phone, pretending not to notice the pang of something hollow pressing inside her chest.

She told herself she wasn’t lonely. She had her son, her work, her empire. She had everything. But the truth was, nights like these made her realize how long it had been since anyone had looked at her the way women in her dresses wanted to be looked at—like they were the center of the world. And the world, at their feet.

A knock at the door startled her.

Dahlia frowned, glancing at the time. It was

past ten. Too early for Ryan to be back, too late for visitors. Setting aside the phone, she rose, her silk robe brushing softly against her skin. She padded across the floor, heart lifting in automatic hope that maybe her son had forgotten something.

But when she opened the door, the figure standing on her porch wasn’t Ryan.

It was Lucas Carter.

“Lucas?” Her voice betrayed her surprise. “What on earth are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at prom?”

He stood there awkwardly, hands shoved into the pockets of his suit pants, his dark hair falling a little messily across his forehead.

The tuxedo jacket looked familiar—probably Ryan’s, she guessed—but somehow he filled it out too well. There was a restless energy about him, a tightness in his jaw as though he’d wrestled with himself before walking up her driveway.

“I didn’t feel like staying,” he said, lifting his shoulders in a half-shrug. His eyes met hers—steady, searching. “Besides, I wanted to see you.”

Dahlia blinked, caught off guard. “See me? Lucas, it’s prom night. This is supposed to be—”

“Ms. Sunshine.”

The nickname slipped easily from his lips, soft but loaded. It was what he’d called her for

years, in the teasing, boyish way only he could manage. Ryan’s best friend. The boy who had practically grown up in her house.

Her lips curved, just slightly. “Ms. Sunshine,” she echoed. “You and your nicknames. Don’t tell me you came all the way here just to bother me?” she pressed her lips together. “And you shouldn't call me that.”

“Why not?” He tilted his head, a daring glint in his eyes. “You’ve always been Ms. Sunshine. To me.”

Something in her chest tightened, but she forced her voice steady. “Lucas, it’s late. You should go back, join your classmates. Ryan will wonder where you are.”

“I’m sure he's well occupied. Are you going to let me come in?”

The bluntness of his words startled her.

She studied him, this boy she had known for years. Except, he didn’t quite look like a boy anymore. His shoulders had broadened, his voice carried more weight, his gaze burned with something she wasn’t prepared to see.

“Lucas…” she began, but he stepped closer, just a fraction, as though afraid she’d close the door on him if he didn’t act quickly.

“I didn’t go to prom tonight because I couldn’t stand it anymore,” he said, his voice low but insistent. “Pretending. Watching girls I don’t care about. Smiling like I’m supposed to. When the truth is, the only reason I’ve gotten through the last few years is because of you.”

Her heart stuttered. “That’s not—”

“Don’t say it isn’t true,” he cut in, his voice desperate now. “You know it is. You’ve always been more than Ryan’s mom to me. You’re the one who noticed whenever I skipped lunch because I didn’t have money. You’re the one who bought me new shoes when mine were falling apart. You’re the one who saw me, Dahlia. Not just the poor kid who tagged along with your son. You. Ms. Sunshine.”

Her throat tightened. She had known he was fond of her. She had felt the little looks, the way his eyes lingered sometimes, even as a teenager. But she had dismissed it, chalking it up to a boyish crush, harmless and fleeting. This—this raw confession on her doorstep—was something else entirely.

“You can’t say these things to me,” she whispered. “Lucas, you’re—”

“Old enough to know what I feel.” His voice cracked but his gaze never wavered.

That wasn't what she was going to say though.

He continued. “Don’t tell me it’s a crush. I know what this is. I love you.”

The words landed like a blow. She felt her breath leave her, felt the room tilt. Love. From Lucas.

Her instinct was to shut it down immediately, to protect him, to protect her son, to protect herself from the fire that threatened to ignite with every second he stood there.

“Lucas, listen to me,” she said firmly, summoning the voice she used in meetings, the one that allowed no argument. “You don’t understand what you’re saying. You’re young. I’m your best friend’s mother. This—whatever you think you feel—it cannot happen.” She took a sharp breath and gave him a pointed look. “I’m sorry if you felt I was leading you on in any type of way.”

For the first time, pain flashed across his features, sharp and unguarded. “So you don’t feel anything? Not even a little?”

Her lips parted, then closed. She wanted to end this cleanly. But something in his expression—pleading, hopeful, broken—made her falter.

She saw not just the boy who had lounged on her couch eating chips, but the young man standing before her now, eyes fierce with devotion. And she hated herself for the flicker

of heat that twisted low in her stomach, for the part of her that wanted to reach out, to smooth back his hair, to cradle his face and tell him he was seen.

“Oh, sweetheart…” She reached out, rather placing her hand on his arm. His muscles tensed beneath the fabric of his tux. Heat shot through her palm, and she nearly snatched it back. But she couldn’t wound him with coldness. He deserved kindness. “You don’t mean anything you just said. It’s just a crush. You’ll laugh about this someday.”

“No.” His eyes burned, fierce and certain. “I know the difference. You’re all I think about. When I imagine my future—it’s you.”

He was seventeen. Her son’s best friend. This was madness.

“This can’t happen,” she whispered, stepping back. Her voice shook, but she forced steel into it. “You need to go home. Forget this. Forget tonight.”

There was a brief silence between them.

“I care for you,” she said at last, her voice soft but firm. “But not like that. I can’t. It’s wrong and it can't happen.”

He swallowed hard, jaw clenched, his eyes glassy with unshed anger or grief—she couldn’t tell. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then he drew in a shaky breath.

“I’ll walk away now,” he said, each word deliberate. “But I won’t always be a boy who can be turned away.

The words cut through her like glass. She stood frozen, her hand trembling on the

doorknob as he stepped back, shoving his hands into his pockets again. Without another look, he turned and walked down the driveway, his figure swallowed by the night.

Dahlia closed the door slowly, pressing her back against it once it clicked shut. Her chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, her pulse erratic.

She had done the right thing. She knew she had. But as silence reclaimed the house, her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor, burying her face in her hands.

His voice still rang in her ears.

I love you.

I won’t always be a boy who can be turned away.

And no matter how many times she repeated to herself that it was wrong, Elaine couldn’t smother the truth burning beneath her denial.

For the first time in years, someone had said the words she had secretly longed to hear.