CHAPTER 189: WARMTH

Lukas blinked. "Wait, really?"

She nodded, her smile returning. "I miss you. And... I want to be there."

His face brightened. Really brightened. Like someone had lit the room from the inside.

"I can’t wait," he murmured.

They talked for a few more minutes about the match—how chaotic it was, how frustrating the draw felt, how close Lukas came to winning the game in the last second. But even as they joked, she could see something sitting behind his eyes. A heaviness. She didn’t push—he had already said he’d tell her tomorrow.

Eventually, she lay down on her side, propping her head on her hand. He shifted too, lying more comfortably.

"I love you," she said quietly.

"I love you," he replied.

"I love you more."

"No, I love you more."

"I love you most."

"That’s cheating."

She giggled. "Still won."

He rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself. "Fine. You win."

"Always."

"Yeah, yeah..."

They blew kisses to each other, soft and playful. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she whispered goodnight. Lukas lingered for a moment, just looking at her through the screen, as if he was imprinting the image in his mind—the calm she brought him, the warmth, the stability he desperately needed.

"Goodnight, Jo," he said finally.

"Goodnight, Luke."

The call ended, and the room felt a little too quiet again. But Lukas felt relieved as he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

* * *

The next afternoon, after hours that felt strangely stretched and muted, Lukas finally arrived back at his apartment in Frankfurt. The trip from Bremen had been mostly quiet — just the hum of the car, the low rumble of tires on wet highway asphalt, and the occasional polite question from Javi.

"Are you sure you’re okay, Luke?"

Every time, Lukas had given the same answer.

"Yeah, I’m fine."

He had said it with a small smile, a calm tone, and steady eyes. And it would have fooled almost anyone else.

But the truth was still there, heavy and warm in his chest, refusing to shift: the conversation about his mother. The truth of her. The weight of every unanswered question he had carried in his previous life and this one. It clung to him like damp cold air.

Javi had offered, again and again, to stay the night with him in Frankfurt.

But Lukas had insisted he go back to Darmstadt. Something about work at the university early next morning.

The real reason, of course, was already on her way.

Now he lay on the couch, one arm beneath his head, the other resting across his torso, staring silently at the ceiling. The apartment was faintly lit, quiet, still. His bag lay half-unpacked on the floor. The TV remote sat untouched on the coffee table. His thoughts, however, were anything but still.

Then—

Ding-dong.

The doorbell.

Lukas sat up so fast he almost stumbled. His heart jumped. He crossed the living room in three long strides, pulled the door open—

And immediately wrapped his arms around the person standing there.

"Hi," Joanna said against his shoulder, smiling wide, her warm breath brushing his neck.

He didn’t say anything. Just held her. Really held her. Like the tension he’d been carrying since Bremen finally found its release point.

They stayed like that for several long seconds before she gently pulled back. He stepped aside and she walked in, her cheeks dusted with pink from the cold. She shrugged off her coat and hung it neatly on the rack.

Underneath, she wore a fitted charcoal-grey turtleneck tucked into a black pleated skirt that ended mid-thigh, paired with semi-opaque tights and ankle boots. Simple, elegant, impossibly stylish. The kind of outfit that suited her perfectly—modest, warm, and yet effortlessly eye-catching.

In her left hand she carried a food flask—a sleek, stainless-steel insulated container.

"You cooked?" Lukas asked from behind her as he slipped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder.

She turned her head slightly and gave him a quick peck on the lips.

"Of course I did."

He smiled into her cheek, and she walked the flask to the table. When she opened it, a rich, comforting aroma filled the room.

"Kürbiscremesuppe," she said proudly—a creamy pumpkin soup, thick and silky, perfect for travel in a warm container and even more perfect for the cold spring evening.

Lukas sat with her at the small dining table as she ladled the soup into bowls. They ate together—slowly, comfortably. Sometimes feeding each other a spoonful, sometimes just smiling without speaking, simply happy to be within each other’s reach. The warmth of the soup, the warmth of her presence—they both worked their way through him in ways he desperately needed.

When they were done, they washed the dishes together in easy rhythm—one washing, one drying—an unspoken dance they fell into naturally.

Afterward, they moved to the couch. A replay of the Frankfurt vs Bremen match was on TV. Joanna stretched out along the couch, then gently lowered her head onto Lukas’s lap.

He played with her hair while she watched the replay of his equalizer over and over.

"That goal..." she whispered, eyes glued to the screen. "You know, I have watched a lot of football and I still don’t understand how you made it look that easy. The angle, the timing, the power — you make it look like you’re playing against children."

Lukas brushed a thumb over her temple.

"It’s not easy," he murmured. "I just... got lucky with the connection."

She immediately turned her gaze upward, her eyes narrowing.

"Lukas," she said softly.

He didn’t answer. His hand stilled in her hair.

Something in his tone—too quick, too deflective—told her the truth. Something was wrong. Still wrong.

She sat up gently, repositioning herself, and before he could protest, she pulled him down so that he was lying on the couch now, his head resting on her thighs. She caressed his hair with slow, steady strokes.

"Tell me," she whispered.

And for the first time since Bremen, Lukas exhaled fully. The tension. The confusion. The fear. All of it came spilling out in a quiet, steady voice.

He told her everything — everything Javi had told him the night before. About Edinburgh. About being dropped off at four months old. About the custody battle. About Jane disappearing. About her resurfacing five years ago. About the call this week. About how she wanted to see him.

By the time he finished, the roles were reversed completely — he lay stretched out across the couch, head on her thighs, her fingers running gently through his hair, her expression soft, pained, protective.

She didn’t interrupt. Not once.

And when he finally fell silent, she leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

"I’m here," she said quietly. "For whatever happens next... I’m here."

Lukas closed his eyes as a single tear drop escaped them and dropped down to the coach and Joanna just gently ran her finger around the side of his eye and wiped that tear drop.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The room was dim except for the soft glow of the replay still looping on the TV, muted and forgotten. Joanna’s fingertips kept brushing lightly through Lukas’s hair, the motion slow and rhythmic. It calmed him in a way nothing else did.

Eventually, Lukas opened his eyes and looked up at her.

"Do you think I should meet her?" he asked, his voice quiet, almost fragile. The question seemed to hang between them, suspended in the still air of the apartment.

Joanna didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she shifted slightly, giving herself a moment to look at him — really look at him. The uncertainty in his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the lingering sadness he kept trying to swallow down. She lowered her gaze and gently traced a soothing arc along the side of his face.

"Well..." she began softly, "do you have questions you want answered?"