Anri POV
I woke up warm.
Lucien's arm was draped over my waist like a security bar, his chest pressed against my back, solid and hot. One of his legs had somehow tangled with mine, pinning me there. Trapped. Sweaty. Completely bare under the sheets.
And still, I didn't hate it.
I blinked at the ceiling, brain slowly rebooting. My muscles were sore in all the ways that made it obvious I had no regrets. My mouth was dry. My thighs ached. And his arm? Was not moving.
Okay.
So I didn't run this time.
Progress?
I thought about it—like, for two seconds. But his grip tightened when I shifted, like his body could sense I was even thinking about escaping.
Possessive bastard.
And... weirdly comforting.
His hand slid down in his sleep, resting low on my stomach. Barely grazing skin. I stopped breathing.
Then I felt him stir.
Lucien's voice was low, scratchy, still half-asleep. "You trying to disappear again?"
"I'm literally lying still."
"Mhm." His mouth brushed the back of my neck. "But your brain's already halfway to the airport."
I didn't answer. Because he wasn't wrong.
Lucien's hand flexed against my waist, like he could read the panic creeping in. Then he pulled me closer, one long arm wrapping around me like a vice.
"Stay."
It wasn't a demand. Not quite. Just a simple, wrecked murmur like he needed the reassurance as much as I did.
"Fine," I muttered. "But only because you smell good."
That got a quiet laugh out of him.
He shifted again so I was on my back and he was half sprawled on top of me, the sheet barely covering us. His skin was warm and heavy and unfairly comforting. His hand rested right below my ribs. Thumb brushing lazy little arcs like I was some playlist he hadn't finished listening to.
We didn't say anything for a bit.
But of course, I started spiraling in silence.
What even were we?
Because this—cuddling—was very couple-coded. And we'd never talked about it. Was I just a casual distraction while I was in Manila? Was I reading into it too much because I was touch-starved and had just had an earth-shattering orgasm?
Lucien was from here. I wasn't. I had a whole life in Melbourne—work, my house, my damn tax file number. This wasn't permanent.
So why did it feel like it could be?
Ugh.
I looked at him.
Lucien was fast asleep again, the lighting soft across his face. He looked unfairly attractive for someone who just wrecked me. Long lashes, jaw clenched even in rest, mouth slightly parted. There was a faint crease between his brows. Like even in sleep, something in him refused to relax.
Of course he was hot.
Of course he was emotionally confusing.
Then—without even opening his eyes—he said, "You're staring."
I jumped. "You're supposed to be asleep."
"You're not very subtle."
I glared at him. "And you're not very asleep."
He cracked one eye open, lazy and amused. "Did you change your mind? Planning to sneak out before I wake up?"
"No," I muttered.
"No, you're not sneaking out? Or no, you haven't changed your mind yet?"
"Don't push it," I said. "I'm still evaluating."
Lucien grinned. Sleep-rough and smug. "Stay a bit more."
He tugged me in tighter like it wasn't even up for discussion. His arm locked around my waist, his face buried against my shoulder now. His fingers splayed over my ribs like he was holding onto something valuable.
I let him.
And maybe... I let myself, too.
Was it dangerous? Yes.
Was it addicting? Absolutely.
Cuddling like this—it wasn't nothing. But we weren't anything. Right?
Still, his hand stroked my side gently. Like I was his.
Whatever. I'd try to enjoy it while it lasted.
We eventually made it out of bed—late. I wore one of his button-downs, sleeves rolled and hem brushing my thighs. He made coffee like a grown man who knew about bean origin and water temperature. I stared at the dead remains of the shredded designer dress on the chair.
"About the dress..." I said slowly, holding my mug like it could protect me.
Lucien looked over. "What about it?"
"It's not mine."
He kept pouring. "I know."
"It's my stylist's. It's probably worth more than my whole tuition fee in uni."
"She's dramatic," he replied.
"You haven't met her."
He didn't blink. "I'll fix it."
I frowned. "You're gonna sew it back together?"
"I'll replace it."
"You don't even know the brand."
"I know people who know people."
I squinted at him. "Are you secretly a villain?"
Lucien just smirked. "Only in bed."
I choked on my coffee. He didn't even flinch.
Instead, he leaned in and kissed my temple—casual, soft—like he hadn't just said something that deserved a slap and a lawsuit.
"So," he murmured against my skin, now nuzzling the side of my neck, "it's your day off today, right?"
"Yeah," I said warily. "Why?"
"Good." His hands slid down to my hips, warm and deliberate. "I get you all day."
Before I could reply, his fingers dipped beneath the hem of his shirt—his shirt—on my body. Trailing lower.
I stared at him. "Is this what you've been planning since last night?"
"Since Melbourne," he said without hesitation, then lifted me onto the counter like it was the most obvious answer in the world.
I didn't stop him. Didn't even try.
Maybe it was deprivation. Or maybe it was the way he looked at me—like he was starving and I was the only thing he wanted to taste.
Either way, I wasn't about to say no.