He turns fully then, leaning against the window frame, sleeves rolled to his forearms.“That’s a polite way of saying I’m impossible.”
“I didn’t say that.”
His mouth curves.“You were thinking it.”
He picks up the bottle of wine that room service left—something French and elegant, naturally—and uncorks it with the ease of someone raised around ritual.“Would you like a glass?”
I nod, crossing to him.Our fingers brush as he hands it to me, and something uncoils between us.
“To Paris,” he says softly.“And to surviving what comes next.”Our glasses touch with the soft chime of inevitability.His knuckles graze mine, the clink of crystal between us almost obscene in its intimacy.
The corner of my mouth lifts.“I’ll drink to that.”
The wine is cool and dark, grounding.The reminder of what waits for us tomorrow turns the wine dry on my tongue.
He watches as I sip, eyes mapping my face as if committing it to memory.I’ve been watched before, but never like this—never by someone who seems to see what’s beneath the polish.
“What are you thinking?”he asks.
“That you’re hard to read.”
“Good.That makes two of us.”
He sets his glass aside and steps closer, close enough that his warmth seeps into me.“You don’t have to keep pretending you’re fine,” he says quietly.
“I’m not pretending.”My voice catches on the half-truth.
He brushes a strand of hair from my temple, his thumb skimming the edge of my jaw.The touch isn’t practiced—it’s hesitant, searching.His skin is warm, a whisper of callus that feels disarmingly human for a man who wears wealth like a second suit.
Every muscle in me wants to step back—to keep control—but my pulse betrays me, leaning into the heat I’ve been pretending not to feel.
“It’s not all on your shoulders, you know.If you’re worried, share.Let me carry the weight, too.”
“That’s not how I work.”
“I know.”His breath grazes my cheek.“But maybe it’s time to evolve.”
His thumb traces my lower lip; silence thickens between us.
His mouth finds mine, tentative at first—as if seeking permission rather than conquest—then deepens, slow and certain, until the world dissolves into the taste of red wine and breath and something dangerously close to hope.I press closer, feeling the steady beat of his heart through his shirt.
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes.“Will I always crave you?Always need you?”
I open my mouth to tell him that no, time changes all, but he stops me from speaking with a brush of his lips.“I hate how much the answer is yes.”
“Nothing is forever, Adrien.”
“Then don’t promise me forever,” he says quietly.“Just…stay.”
I don’t answer him.I take his hand and pull him toward the bed.
His hands find my hips, drawing me against him, and I feel myself giving in—not because I’ve lost control, but because I want this… I want tonight.
The glass clinks faintly as I set it down, the sound impossibly loud in the hush between us.
He traces his fingers down my spine, unhurried, reverent.We should be planning.Reviewing contingencies.Preparing for what happens after we expose Magpie.Instead, we’re here—in a Paris hotel room pretending we have time.
Every movement feels like discovery.Every breath like confession.Every touch a truth neither of us can take back.
