That honesty does something dangerous to my chest.
I tilt my head up to look at him. “Okay,” I say. “But next time, we’re doing things in the right order.”
“And what order would that be?” he asks.
I smile, slow and deliberate. “Dinner. Movie. Sex. The usual.”
He shakes his head. “Sex. Dinner. Sex. Movie. Sex.”
“Shut up.” But his mouth is on mine before I can get the words out.
??? ??? ???
Lucian takes me to his favorite restaurant on a Thursday night, which already feels like a secret.
We arrive after sunset, the city washed in gold and shadow, and when the car pulls up, the place is dark—no glow from the windows, no hum of voices spilling onto the sidewalk. The sign is still lit, elegant and understated, but everything else is quiet.
I hesitate. “It’s closed.”
“For us,” Lucian says, like it’s nothing.
Inside, the lights come up slowly, warm and intimate. Candles already lit. A single table set near the windows. White linen. Black plates. Crystal glasses that catch the light when he moves. The staff is gone besides two waitresses and the chef. No eyes. No whispers. Just us and the low murmur of the city outside.
“You own this place,” I say, not really asking.
He pulls out my chair. “Among others.”
I sit, watching him with a mix of awe and disbelief. “We could’ve just…gone somewhere normal.”
He pours wine, deep red, unhurried. “This is normal. For me.”
That lands somewhere complicated in my chest.
Dinner unfolds slowly. The food is incredible—rich without being heavy, familiar without being boring. Lucian watches me eat like he’s pleased by it, like this was part of the plan. I pretend not to notice. I fail.
Halfway through the second glass of wine, warmth curling through my veins, the question slips out before I can stop it.
“Have you ever been in a long-term relationship?”
Lucian pauses, glass halfway to his mouth.
Then he smirks.
“Is that what you want from me?” he asks mildly.
My face goes hot instantly. “No—I mean—I was just asking. About your life.”
He takes a sip, eyes never leaving mine. “Relax.”
I try. I really do.
“I haven’t,” he says after a moment. “Not for very long.”
“Why?”
He sets the glass down carefully. “My father didn’t believe in distractions. He believed in performance. Results. Anything that threatened focus was… removed.”
The word sits between us, sharp and final.
