The fluorescent lights of Le Lumière hummed faintly, their cold glow pooling over the dossier that sat between Elsa and Lucien like a final, fragile line neither had dared cross. Midnight had long come and gone, but neither moved to leave.
Lucien's eyes lifted, catching hers. In that dim light, the gold in his irises seemed sharper.
"You really think Madame Geneviève's story holds water?"
Elsa hesitated, the quiet stretching just enough to feel deliberate.
"No. It's too neat. Too… rehearsed. But we don't have much else to go on."
The corner of his mouth curved—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk.
"Then it looks like we're stuck with each other until we figure this out."
Her pulse kicked up. Just the case, she told herself. Only the case.
But the space between them felt different now. Denser.
Lucien slid a folder toward her, the paper whispering against the table. His fingers lingered a fraction longer than necessary.
"You know, for someone so fierce, you're easier to work with than I expected."
Elsa arched a brow, her lips curving just enough to challenge him.
"Careful, Valeur—you sound dangerously close to liking me."
"Don't flatter yourself," he countered smoothly. "I just don't want you making a mess of this."
"Maybe I don't want you making a mess of it either."
They held each other's gaze a beat too long.
"Elsa," he said at last, voice lower now, "we could just… act like partners until this is over."
She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
"It'll make things easier. Nothing more."
"I don't want distractions, Valeur."
His smile sharpened. "Funny… that kiss seemed like one."
"That was a mistake."
"You know what they say about what a drunk man—"
"Oh, stop. Don't quote clichés at me."
"You know exactly what I meant."
Her jaw tightened. "You're insufferable."
He leaned back, eyes glinting. "A perfect compliment from someone who kissed me like she meant it."
Her breath caught—just enough for him to notice.
"Fine," she said. "We'll act like partners. But don't bring up that night again."
"Deal. And keep your lips where I can't reach them."
She froze. "You—"
He held her gaze deliberately. "Because if you don't… I might not be able to stop myself next time."
The pen left her hand before she thought about it, clattering against his sleeve.
He only grinned.
"That was the aim, Moreau."
She should have stayed annoyed. Instead, to her irritation, her laugh slipped out—quiet, involuntary, and far too telling.