"Give me back my shirt!"
"Eat your breakfast first, Reed."
"I can't eat like that! Give me my shirt back, and I'll eat my breakfast."
This had been the war cry of our morning for the past ten minutes. A loop of petty defiance and escalating sarcasm echoing around the pristine hotel suite. A symphony of dysfunction with a side of room service.
We'd woken up tangled, flushed, and way too warm. Lucien had blushed when our eyes met—which, to be honest, I thought was medically impossible for him. But that initial softness? It evaporated the second he realized he could torment me.
He wouldn't let me leave the bed, clung to me like a damn weighted blanket. Then he followed me to the bathroom, kept trying to make eye contact while I brushed my teeth like we were in a Colgate for Lovers ad. And now—this.
He had stolen my shirt. And refused to return it.
I was shirtless, puffy-eyed, and one minor inconvenience away from throwing the plate of shirred eggs across the room. If I didn't know better, I would think he has some sort of separation anxiety or something.
"I don't see how the food would be offended if you ate it without a shirt on, honestly," he said, deadpan, as he sipped orange juice like it wasn't poisoned with smug.
I sat down across from him, pulling the robe tighter around me like I was preparing to deliver closing arguments in court. "I'm not leaving the room anyway. I don't even know where we are. You have the car keys. We got very indecent with each other last night, and I just want to be decent again and eat my breakfast, so please, give me back my shirt."
Lucien tilted his head—slow, calculating—as if my plea required a cipher and a translator.
"So I'm just your Uber for the trip back to the city?" he said finally, eyes narrowing.
"Oh my God," I groaned. "Do you even have any brain cells that are working right now? Lucien, I just—ugh." I picked up my fork and began viciously rearranging the eggs on my plate.
He looked at me like I was the dramatic one.
"Why the hell are you sulking right now?" he asked.
"Can't I even sulk in peace?!"
"Suit yourself." He shrugged, all princely detachment, and casually bit into his sandwich like he wasn't the absolute villain of the breakfast table.
I stared at him, completely floored. I had never seen him like this. Not post-coital Lucien. Not sassy, territorial, emotionally weird Lucien.
Something was up.
And as much as I hated it, I couldn't decide if I was furious or charmed.
Possibly both.
Lucien ate in silence. That smug kind of silence. The kind that came with subtle glances and zero remorse. He chewed like someone who knew he had won something, even if the prize was just my suffering.
"You know," I said, stabbing my eggs with a little too much intensity, "I've had breakfast with war criminals who were easier to deal with than you."
"I highly doubt that."
"Okay, fine. My grandmother. But she is terrifying in the mornings."
Lucien smirked but didn't look up. He tore off a piece of his sandwich and chewed it slowly, like it was a calculated move. A warning shot.
"This is your way of being annoying because you're embarrassed, isn't it?" I said, eyes narrowing.
"Embarrassed?" He finally looked at me. "Why would I be embarrassed?"
I gestured vaguely at him. "Because you blushed. Because you wouldn't let me out of bed. Because you're acting like I'm going to disappear the second I put my shirt back on."
Lucien paused—just long enough for the silence to feel intentional.
Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and said, "You're the one making a federal case over one piece of fabric, Reed. Maybe you're the one trying to disappear."
I blinked.
Okay. Low blow.
"Wow," I said flatly. "I just wanted to cover my nipples and eat eggs in peace. Didn't know I was unlocking a therapy session."
Lucien smiled faintly. "Your nipples are perfectly safe."
"Not from you, apparently."
We both stared at each other then, our breakfast growing colder while the heat between us simmered strangely back to life. Not sexual heat. Just… heat. The kind that came from knowing too much and pretending you didn't.
I looked down at my plate, then said—quieter this time—"You're weird this morning."
"So are you."
"I'm always weird."
"Exactly."
I met his eyes again. And this time, I didn't say anything clever.
"Did you…" I hesitated, chewing the inside of my cheek. "Did you think I was gonna leave?"
Lucien's expression didn't shift right away. But something in his shoulders dropped, just a little.
"No," he said, voice softer. "I didn't think it. I just didn't want to risk finding out."
And there it was.
Naked. Clumsy. True.
I looked at him—at the sharp lines and smug mask, still cracked at the corners—and I felt the tightness in my chest loosen just a bit.
"I'm not going anywhere," I said.
He picked up my shirt from the chair beside him, tossed it across the table without a word.
I caught it. Folded it. Then didn't put it on.
Lucien smiled. Quietly. Not smug this time. Just... grateful.
We picked at breakfast for a while longer, both quieter now.
Lucien had that look on his face again—the one where he seemed like he was half in the room, half somewhere else entirely. Not cold. Just calculating something he wasn't ready to say out loud.
I nudged his leg with mine under the table.
"So," I said, casually, like I wasn't suddenly hyper-aware of how his bare knee brushed mine every time we shifted, "what's the plan now?"
He took a sip of juice. "We can hang around for a bit if you want. Take a walk, maybe. But we'll have to drive back soon. I've got some things to handle before the week starts."
He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to.
I knew what "some things" meant. The kind of things you don't write down. The kind of things you don't bring up in polite conversation over shirred eggs and overpriced coffee.
"We won't get to have time like this often," he added, watching his glass instead of me. "But... I'll make it happen for you again in the summer. Like you asked."
I paused mid-chew. Swallowed.
Then set my fork down. "Okay. But what about you?"
He looked up, brows knitting slightly. "What about me?"
"You keep asking me what I want. What would make me happy. What kind of eggs do I like." I leaned in a little. "Is there anything you want?"
Lucien tilted his head, like the question didn't quite translate. "There's nothing specific."
"That's not an answer."
He went quiet for a beat. His fingers traced the edge of his plate like he was buying time.
I tried again. "Is there anything I can do for you, Lucien?"
That made him stop moving.
He looked at me—really looked at me—and the air shifted.
"It'd be great," he said, voice soft, "if you just... stuck around. In the future."
I stared at him. Blinked.
"Are you asking me to be official?"
Lucien didn't flinch. Didn't smile either.
"Not right now," he said, almost gently. "I'll ask you when the time is right."
Something in his tone set off a quiet echo inside me—something that tasted like maybe this wasn't just about timing. Like there was something else. Something he was holding back.
But I didn't push.
Because I knew myself too well. Knew I wasn't ready to hear what that might be. Not today. Not yet. So I nodded, picked my fork back up, and stabbed a piece of toast like it had insulted me.
"Fine," I muttered. "But just so you know, when you do ask, I'm expecting something dramatic. Like, string quartet and fireworks dramatic."
Lucien smirked. "Duly noted."
And that was that. Not resolved. Not perfect. But enough for now.
The drive back was quieter than I expected.
Not awkward, just thick with the kind of silence that didn't need to be filled. Or maybe it couldn't be.
Lucien had the windows cracked, letting in wind that tousled his still-damp hair. The late morning sun hit the dashboard in a soft glaze, the road ahead stretching in calm, endless gray.
And Paprika was playing.
Again. For the fourth time.
I didn't say anything. I didn't need to. The opening notes had become a kind of glue between us, soft synth and lyrics unraveling like a slow confession neither of us could quite speak for ourselves.
This time, though, there was a difference.
Lucien was holding my hand.
He'd reached for it casually—like it was a habit, like it didn't mean anything—but the moment our fingers threaded together, something in my chest cinched. Tight and warm and terrifying.
I glanced at him once. He didn't look back. Just kept his eyes on the road, thumb brushing slow, almost unconscious circles over the side of my hand.
I looked away before he could feel me staring. Rested my head against the window. Tried to ignore how the same song kept playing on loop, as if the car had decided it was part of our personal myth now.
The lyrics floated in again:
"How's it feel to stand at the height of your powers / To captivate every heart…"
And I couldn't help but wonder, was that what this was?
Some quiet height we'd reached, afraid to look down?
He didn't say a word the whole time we passed the edge of town, through sleepy streets and long stretches of open road.
Neither did I.
But he didn't let go of my hand. Not once.
A few days passed.
Lucien and I didn't talk about that morning. Or the night before. Or the hotel. Or the kiss on my neck that turned into him undoing me with his mouth like he had studied it. None of it. Which was, honestly, very on brand for us.
He dropped me off with a kiss on the back of my hand and a "see you Monday," like we were co-workers who once flirted over a printer jam.
Now it was Wednesday. And I was in the office.
The building still smelled faintly like expensive carpet glue and quiet panic. The usual. I sat at my desk with a lukewarm coffee and a spreadsheet open in front of me like it was asking for forgiveness.
I stared at the quarter's total revenue.
Then I stared harder.
Then I squinted at the printout like it might morph into something sane if I glared long enough.
The number on the report was impressive. Too impressive. And by impressive I mean "so inflated I could fly it over the city and call it a blimp."
We hadn't made that much. Not even close.
I clicked through the client logs. The consulting fees. The projected invoices. Some of the names looked familiar. Others? Not so much. One looked suspiciously like a men's cologne brand. Another was just… "K" in italics.
I paused.
Then I leaned back in my chair, tapping the pen against my chin.
I wasn't stupid. I'd always known there was something off. The office was too perfect. The books too smooth. The clients too vague. But part of me had—maybe stupidly—assumed Lucien was just cycling his own money. Hiding it from someone. A family thing. A personal mess. I mean, he did say something once about keeping it away from certain people.
So maybe it was just that. Right?
I signed the report anyway. My hand didn't even tremble.
Because that's what I'd learned working here: if you keep your head down, wear a nice shirt, and talk like you know what you're doing, the system thanks you. Pays you. Smiles at you. Kisses your shoulder blade while you make coffee.
I sent the signed document to Margo. She'd file it in whatever clean, brutal system she used to keep everything from collapsing.
Then I leaned back and exhaled. I wasn't laundering money. Not technically. I was just… signing it. Approving the illusion.
And if some part of me whispered that this was bigger than Lucien, that maybe I was already in too deep? I didn't listen.
Because I was warm. I was well-fed. I was paid. And for the first time in a long time— I felt wanted.
I walked over to Margo's office.
Knocked on the glass door—because I'm a polite man, after all. Even if the woman inside could clearly see me standing there like a lost intern. She didn't wave me in, just gave the briefest nod of acknowledgment that screamed "Don't waste my time unless you're bleeding or dying."
I walked in anyway.
"I'm bored," I announced, throwing myself vertically onto the pristine sofa like I was emotionally wounded and it was a fainting couch.
"You shouldn't be," she said flatly, eyes still glued to her screen. "We have some clients awaiting their proposals."
"I think they'll survive a few more minutes without us. Do you know where Lucien is? He hasn't been in the office since last week."
"No," she replied, fingers flying across her keyboard. "He doesn't update me on his schedule. And what are you, a little duckling waiting for her mother?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Why did you say her mother, Margo? That's suspiciously gendered. You're very insufferable, just like Lucien."
She finally looked at me.
Which was, in Margo terms, the equivalent of a standing ovation.
"You know what's odd, Reed?" she said, crossing one leg over the other like this was about to become a therapy session. "You're really growing on me. I never thought I'd actually enjoy an employee's presence until you popped up."
I blinked. "Were there many before me?"
"Oh, plenty. There still are."
That made me sit up straighter. "There still are?"
"But you're the one assigned to us."
"Who's us?" I asked slowly. "And how?"
She looked back at her screen, fingers already pretending to be very busy again. "Assigned to me, I meant. I help you, don't I?"
There was the pivot. Smooth. Too smooth.
I nodded slowly. "Sure. Yeah. You help."
I got up and walked out without another word.
Back in my office, I closed the door and leaned against it like that would help make the world less absurd.
Assigned to us.
There still are.
And Lucien hadn't been in the office since last week.
I mean—this was utterly ridiculous, right? I wasn't part of some shadowy operation. This wasn't a movie. This wasn't that kind of scam. I was just helping fake a few consulting accounts. The numbers were a little weird, sure, but I wasn't touching the money. Just… polishing the illusion.
Still.
Something was very off.
And I wasn't sure if I was scared of what it meant… or scared that part of me was starting not to care.