The laugh lingered between them, soft and reluctant, fading into the low hum of the fluorescent lights. Elsa cleared her throat and reached for the dossier, flipping a page with deliberate precision—as if focusing on the paper could erase the heat crawling up her neck.
Lucien didn't move right away. He watched her, his expression unreadable, the faintest shadow of amusement still in his eyes. Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, as though closing a distance they'd both just agreed to keep.
She ignored him. Or tried to.
The only sounds were the whisper of paper, the scratch of her pen, and the subtle creak of his chair when he shifted. But every time she wrote a note, she felt his gaze tracking the movement of her hand.
"You're staring," she said finally, not looking up.
"You're imagining things," he replied, far too quickly to be convincing.
Her lips twitched. "And you call me easy to read."
"Not always," he murmured, his voice dipping lower, meant only for her. "Sometimes you surprise me."
That made her glance up—just briefly—but it was enough. His gaze held hers, steady, searching, as if he were mapping the exact moment her guarded edges might give way.
Elsa's pulse thrummed in her ears. She broke eye contact first, flipping another page, willing her focus back to the case.
"We have work to do, Valeur."
He sat back again, a faint smirk on his lips.
"Of course. Just work."
But his tone carried the weight of everything they weren't saying.
Minutes stretched. The room felt warmer than it had an hour ago, though neither of them had moved much. The air was thick with unspoken words, each one threatening to spill if they stayed too close for too long.
Elsa made a final note and closed the file, sliding it across the table.
"Your turn," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
Lucien took it, their fingers brushing in the exchange. It was fleeting—half a second at most—but the contact jolted through her like a spark. She didn't look at him again, not when she knew he'd be smiling in that infuriating, knowing way.
Outside, somewhere beyond the walls of Le Lumière, Paris was sleeping. Inside, neither of them could.