“Sit,” he says, nodding to the stool by the counter. I feel the command in his tone even though I can’t hear it. It’s calm, but there’s something under it that makes me move before I think. “I’ll make it quick.”
My chest flutters uneasily. Every nerve screams I should refuse, but my hands are cold, my body tired, and the smell of fresh strawberries taunts me.
I sit. Slowly.
He watches me but says nothing else as he turns to the cupboards.
And that’s when it hits me. I don’t feel afraid, and I don’t know if that makes this better or worse.
EIGHT
ALEXANDER
I watch Lucas eat, almost surprised by how much of a fast eater he is. He had nearly finished the bowl of yogurt before I passed him the breakfast I had made.
His hands move fast, barely giving himself time to breathe as he shovels bagel, bacon, sausages, and egg into his mouth. His shoulders are slightly hunched, his head bowed low, his gaze fixed on the plate like it’s the only thing that matters. He doesn’t look at me, not even once.
I stand across from him, sipping my second coffee just… observing. It’s quiet. Naturally so. Even the usual hum of the city outside is distant, like the penthouse is floating above the world.
I should say something.
But I don’t.
I think about last night. About how I almost missed him. I don’t know if it was luck or fate that made me see him standing there while driving home after work, A lone figure in the downpour, head bowed and defeated.
I had pulled over without thinking. Then I called my housekeeper and told her to prepare the downstairs guestroom and set out spare necessities before I hopped out of the car, taking an umbrella with me. Lucas had barely hesitated before getting in. No words. Just a nod, like he didn’t have the energy to argue.
That kind of exhaustion… I recognized it.
And now, here he is, sitting in my kitchen, eating my food like he’s afraid it might be taken away. Something about it makes my stomach twist. I don’t like it. I don’t like the way his shoulders stay tense, like he’s waiting for something to go wrong.
Lucas is a contradiction - features that are both delicate yet sharp, soft yet not fragile. He’s too pretty for someone who hides himself too well. I don’t usually care about people, but I find myself caring about him, and I barely know him.
I set my mug down and grabbed the notebook. If I speak, he will have to look at me, have to focus on my lips, and I don’t want to interrupt whatever fragile peace he’s found in his meal.
Instead, I flip to a blank page and write:
Could you teach me ASL? How much would that cost?
I slide the notebook across the counter and wait. It takes a few seconds before Lucas notices. His chewing slows, eyes flicking down to the words. And then he freezes, his reaction is subtle, but I catch it. The way his fingers tense, the way his breath hitches ever so slightly.
Then, finally, his eyes lift to mine. There’s something wary in his expression, hesitation, and a flicker of doubt. I tilt my head slightly, watching him closer, my patience endless.
He swallows and sets his fork down. His fingers hover over the notebook like he’s debating whether to respond. Like, he doesn’t trust this. Like, he doesn’t trust me.
I tap the counter once, slow, deliberate.
He stares back at the notebook for a long time. Too long.
Then he picks up the pen and writes, his handwriting quick and sharp:Why?
I lift my gaze to him, unreadable. “Why not?”
His jaw clenches. His fingers tighten around the pen, and for a second, I think he might snap it in half. Then he starts writing again, more forcefully this time.
I don’t want your money.
I exhale. “It’s not about money.”
