Reed finally gave me a copy of his apartment keys. Well—gave is a generous word. He was... persuaded. Gently. Strategically.
He insisted on going back to his apartment, kept saying he was "fine," but I knew that tone—too casual, too light. The way people sound when they're trying to float above their own fear.
He still flinched when he heard knocks at the door. Still glanced over his shoulder when crossing the street.
So I offered to do regular checks.
And he, stubbornly silent, handed me the keys. A tight-lipped gesture masquerading as indifference. An easy trade. I love easy trades.
I had no real plans for tonight. I knew he was asleep—he'd sent a barrage of "going to bed" stickers, each more passive-aggressive than the last. One featured a blob creature dramatically collapsing on a pillow. Subtle.
I let myself in.
The locks clicked behind me—one, two, three, four—because Reed had installed them like he was prepping for siege warfare. I shut the door quietly, respectfully, as if silence could make up for intrusion.
I walked down the short hallway, every step familiar now. The layout of his space burned into my memory like muscle.
His bedroom door was open just a crack. The room was dim, haloed by the soft silver spill of light from the window, and a faint glow from the hall behind me.
He was already curled on his side, back facing the door, the blanket drawn up to his shoulders like a quiet fortress. He breathed evenly—deep, slow. Asleep. Entirely unaware I was there.
I stepped inside, careful not to let the floorboards protest. Sat gently on the edge of the bed.
And then I touched his hair.
Couldn't help it. His hair was soft in that way that made no sense—like he'd run his fingers through it all day but still managed to make it look intentional. It curled at the edges, a little unruly, a little defiant. Very Reed.
Touching him didn't settle me. Not exactly. But it made me feel... less turbulent. Like my mind could unclench, just a little, if I stayed in this quiet orbit.
I didn't come here to wake him. I didn't come here to talk. I came to remember the moment I realized he meant more to me than he ever should have. I didn't plan for this. I didn't want it.
Was it possessiveness? Some warped echo of ownership? Or maybe just selfishness—I wanted something uncorrupted, something that hadn't been touched by all the rot I live in.
I've worked with hundreds of men and women. Built things. Burned them. I've smiled in the face of betrayal, shaken hands with people who wouldn't flinch at ordering executions. I've known ambition, precision, silence. I've known usefulness.
But I've never known softness like him. And softness, when it becomes yours, is terrifying.
Reed wasn't gullible. He didn't worship the operation. He didn't try to outsmart the system. He sat inside it, side-eyed it, and turned it into something functional without even realizing.
Even in his apathy, there's strategy. Even in his chaos, there's rhythm. And maybe that's what undid me. Because nothing about him was predictable. Even how he made me feel.
I was still running my fingers gently through his hair, lost in thought, when he stirred.
Just barely.
A soft twitch of his shoulders. A quiet breath drawn in deeper than the rest.
Then, his voice—muffled by sleep and pillow—grumbled out, low and grainy:
"…Are you watching me like a creep again?"
I froze. Hand still mid-motion, heart caught off guard.
He didn't turn. Didn't lift his head. Just shifted slightly under the blanket, like he couldn't be bothered to wake up fully for the confrontation.
"No," I said, my voice quiet, calm. "I'm admiring. Very different."
He made a noise—half-scoff, half-yawn.
"You left the hallway light on, moron."
"It's called ambience," I replied, even softer. "I was trying to be romantic."
That earned me a faint, drowsy snort.
He shifted again, and this time, his hand slipped out from beneath the blanket—fumbled around until his fingers found mine. Not tightly. Just enough to say I know you're here.
He still didn't look at me. Just let out another slow breath and murmured,
"You smell like cigarettes."
"You forgot deep emotional repression," I whispered, smiling.
His fingers squeezed mine weakly. A small tether. A quiet act of forgiveness he wouldn't name out loud.
Then softer still, half-asleep and entirely disarmed:
"Stay."
One word. That was it.
And just like that, the tension I'd carried out of the nightclub, the venom of Sandro's grin, the weight of everything I hadn't told him—it all unraveled a little. Uncoiled.
"Alright," I said, already toeing off my shoes.
I slipped beneath the blanket carefully, moving slowly so I wouldn't jar him too much. He was warm. Comfortably warm. The kind of warmth that didn't ask for anything.
He didn't say another word. Just let my arm wrap around his waist, his back flush to my chest, our fingers still barely touching.
And in that hush, I let myself breathe.
Let myself have this.
Even if I didn't deserve it.
I woke up reaching for him.
It was instinct—my hand sliding across the sheets, expecting warmth, shape, breath. But there was nothing. Just the echo of where he'd been. The bedding was already cold.
I sat up too fast, heart stuttering, eyes scanning the room like I'd missed something obvious.
No Reed.
The window was cracked open. The blanket pulled halfway down. No sound.
The sudden quiet became unbearable—sharp and hollow like something had been ripped from the room mid-sentence.
I threw the blanket off. My bare feet hit the floor, cold and grounding, but I didn't stop moving. I crossed the room in three quick strides, opened the door, and stepped into the hallway.
"Reed?"
No answer.
The apartment stretched out in front of me like a bad memory.
I checked the bathroom—empty. Living room—empty. His laptop was still open on the coffee table, the screen asleep.
Panic clawed its way up my spine.
Not rational panic. Not the kind I'm used to navigating.
Just the raw, stupid kind—the kind that shouts you lost him before you even know what's happened. My chest was tight. I hadn't even realized I was breathing too fast until I heard it—shaky and uneven, like I was thirteen again, hiding blood on my collar.
I stepped into the kitchen like I was chasing a ghost.
And there he was.
Barefoot, rumpled, standing at the counter pouring water into the kettle.
I stopped in the doorway, hand still braced on the wall.
His back was to me, humming something under his breath, completely unaware of the hurricane he'd just ripped through my chest.
"You weren't in bed," I said, voice lower than I meant it to be. Too rough. Unmasked.
He turned, blinking like I'd just broken a spell.
"Morning to you too," he said, tilting his head. "I got up ten minutes ago. Coffee emergency. What's your damage?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't, not right away.
He looked at me, really looked. His expression softened. He set the kettle down, walked toward me.
"Lucien."
I swallowed hard, jaw tight. "I didn't know where you were. I thought—"
"Hey." He reached out, fingers brushing mine. "I didn't leave. I'd never just leave you like that."
I closed my eyes, exhaled once, like maybe I could force my pulse back down into my chest.
"You scared me."
"Good," he said with a small grin, tugging my hand. "Now you know how I felt the day you ghosted me for six hours and claimed 'meetings.'"
I let out a breath of a laugh, barely there.
"Come on," he said. "Sit with me. I'll make you coffee and try not to emotionally devastate you again before noon."
He walked back to the counter.
And I followed—grateful, shaken, and still trying to understand how I'd become so terrified of a room without him in it.
The kettle began to hiss on the stove as I sank into one of the kitchen chairs, elbows on the table, hands still slightly trembling. Reed moved around the kitchen with the lazy confidence of someone who lived in clutter and chaos, but somehow always knew exactly where the sugar was.
He yawned mid-pour, one arm stretched high as he shook his head like a wet cat.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," he said, glancing at me with that smug softness he only used when he knew he'd won something emotional.
"I thought I had," I muttered.
He snorted and dropped a spoon into a mug with a little too much enthusiasm. "You're dramatic. Want a sticker for surviving the horror of waking up alone?"
"Only if it glows in the dark."
"I do have one that says 'Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlboss.' Want that?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Are you implying I'm the girlboss?"
He handed me the mug with a raised brow. "You disappear at night and come back looking like you auditioned for a noir film. Very girlboss behavior, if you ask me."
I took a sip, watching him over the rim. "You're just saying that because I wear better coats than you."
"You wear coats like they cost a mortgage. Meanwhile, I'm out here in a three-year-old hoodie and a frayed mentality."
"Which is clearly why I keep coming back."
He grinned into his cup, the smile lazy and toothy, eyes half-lidded with amusement. "Must be the charm."
The quiet settled for a beat.
Not uncomfortable. Just… still. Like the morning held its breath with us.
Reed was slouched in his chair, one hand cradling his coffee, the other resting loose on the table. And then, just like that—no warning, no lead-in—he dropped it.
"Why do you always fear that I'll leave and won't return?"
The question slipped out so quietly it almost didn't land. But it did. Right between my ribs.
I blinked. Kept my tone even. "What makes you say that?"
He didn't look away. Didn't smirk. Just met my eyes like he was asking about the weather.
"Your actions," he said. "That day at the hotel when you wouldn't give me my shirt. Every time at the office when I'm out of your sight, and if you're not in the office you assign Margo to hover. When I was avoiding you after the kidnapping, you were practically spiraling. So…" he paused. "Why do you think I'll run away?"
My grip tightened faintly around the mug.
"And don't tell me it's because of work," he added, voice sharper now. "You know too damn well I can't leave because of the work you get me to do. My name's on everything. If anything, that should make you comfortable—but it doesn't."
I stared at the steam rising from the coffee between us. The way it curled upward and vanished. Like something fragile pretending it had shape.
Was I that obvious?
Worse—was he right?
"I don't know," I said, quiet. Too quiet.
He leaned in slightly, not letting go.
"That's not an answer, Lucien."
My throat felt tight. I wasn't used to being cornered like this. Not by Reed. Not with truth.
"I really don't know," I repeated. But this time, it cracked around the edges. "I didn't even realize I was doing that."
And I hadn't.
Not consciously.
I'd been moving around him like instinct—staying close, setting soft leashes, checking his location through implication. I called it protection. Logic. Management.
But maybe it wasn't about keeping him safe.
"The question is…" I said, voice low. "…why aren't you trying to run away?"
He blinked, caught off guard—not by the question, I think, but by the fact that I meant it.
He looked at me for a long time, then tilted his head slightly.
"Well," he started, dragging out the word. "Logically? You're too powerful. You have my name on too many things. I'm involved, I'm implicated, and I'm not exactly eager to be found floating face-down in a river with a forged confession tucked into my sock."
I huffed a half-laugh. "Charming."
"You asked," he said, smirking briefly.
Then the smirk softened.
He looked down at his mug, fingers drumming faintly against the ceramic. Then back up at me.
"I guess… I'm staying out of curiosity."
I blinked, unsure what to do with that answer. He clarified before I could ask.
"Curiosity toward you," he said, lips quirking faintly, "and toward whatever the hell is going on beneath all… this." He gestured vaguely toward the space between us. "The secrecy, the structure, the moments that feel like the setup to something bigger. I know I'm not supposed to look too closely. But I want to."
I leaned back a little, one brow raised. "Curiosity gets people killed."
"But you'll be here to protect me, right?"
That caught me off guard. It was said so simply, so sincerely—not a challenge, not a dare. Just… trust.
Something inside me pulled taut.
I smiled—small, but real—and nodded once.
"Always."
He smiled too, but didn't drop it. If anything, he leaned further into the moment.
"Plus, I enjoy the chemistry between us. Obviously." His voice dipped teasingly. "It's chaotic. Dangerous. Barely manageable. My favorite genre."
I shook my head, but the warmth in my chest wouldn't dissipate.
Then he added, quieter, more thoughtful: "You look like the kind of person who's only kind to me."
I stilled.
"I don't know what you actually do, Lucien. And I don't really ask. But I know you're not harmless. You're… not gentle, not out there. Just—" he paused, thumb tracing my collarbone, "with me. You are."
There it was again—that dizzying honesty of his. Half observation, half confession.
Before I could find the words to respond, he moved.
He stood, slowly, circled the table, then lowered himself into my lap without asking. One leg on either side of me, arms sliding around my shoulders like this had always been the ending of the conversation.
His weight settled against me. His body warm, familiar. Entirely his.
"I didn't finish my coffee," I murmured, as his fingers trailed lightly across the back of my neck.
"That's fine," he whispered, leaning in. "You're warm enough."
And then he kissed me.
Not tentative. Not uncertain. Just right. Just his kind of sure—careful lips that softened into heat, into motion, into want. I kissed him back, hands anchoring at his waist, the fabric of his shirt caught in my fists. Like if I let go, I'd lose the only thing keeping me functioning properly lately.
His mouth opened slightly, and mine followed instinctively—like we'd done this a hundred times in dreams, and only now remembered how.
He pressed closer, hips shifting subtly, and I felt it—that ache low in my spine, in my chest, in the way I wanted more of him than I even knew how to ask for.
He pulled back just an inch, lips still brushing mine.
"You're going to be the end of me," he said softly.
"I know," I murmured, pulling him back down.
And I kissed him like I meant to disappear into it. Into us.