The faint scent of cedar and clean linen lingered in the air. Aveline stirred slowly, the softness of the sheets brushing her cheek as she turned. Morning light filtered through the tall window, a pale gold that traced the edge of the bed and spilled across the room.
For a moment, she didn't move. The world felt still—like time had forgotten this place. Then she breathed in again, and the air carried a subtle, familiar scent.
Lucian.
Her eyes fluttered open. The space beside her on the bed was empty, but the faint warmth on the pillow told her he had been there not long ago. Her gaze drifted toward the armchair across the room where his suit jacket rested neatly on the backrest. Everything looked untouched, yet there was a quiet intimacy in the air, like traces of something that couldn't be named.
The soft sound of running water came from the bathroom. Aveline's heartbeat quickened slightly. She sat up slowly, the sheet slipping down her shoulder. When the door opened, Lucian stepped out.
He was in a dark gray bathrobe, its belt tied loosely at his waist. His hair was damp, the ends dripping faintly against the fabric. Drops of water slid down his neck, catching the morning light before disappearing into the robe's collar. He looked… calm. Composed. The kind of calm that made the room feel smaller.
Aveline's breath caught for a moment.
"Good morning," she said softly.
Lucian's eyes met hers. His expression was unreadable, yet his tone was low, steady.
"Morning."
He crossed the room without hurry, his steps measured. The faint sound of his bare feet against the polished floor filled the quiet. He reached for the cufflinks on the nightstand, setting them on the table beside a sleek wristwatch. Aveline watched him, not daring to speak. The silence between them wasn't awkward—it was charged, heavy, like a thin thread stretched too tight.
He turned slightly, noticing her gaze.
"Freshen up," he said, his voice low. "There's a spare robe in the bathroom."
Aveline nodded. "Okay."
She slipped from the bed, the cold floor brushing against her bare feet. As she passed him, the faint scent of his cologne touched her senses—subtle, deep, the kind that stayed long after he was gone. Her fingers brushed the doorframe before she disappeared into the bathroom.
Inside, the air was warm with lingering steam. She washed her face, brushed her hair, and tried to steady her pulse. When she looked at her reflection, her cheeks were lightly flushed. Calm down, Aveline, she thought, though she didn't say it aloud.
When she stepped back out, she wore the bathrobe he'd mentioned. The fabric was soft against her skin, the faint scent of cedar still clinging to it. But what caught her attention wasn't the robe—it was the neatly folded package placed on the bed.
Curiosity stirred in her chest. She unfolded the wrapping carefully. Inside was a cream-colored blouse and a pencil skirt, both elegant and understated—her exact size.
She blinked, her heart warming despite herself. He must have asked someone to bring it early this morning.
Her fingers brushed the smooth fabric. For a second, her lips curved faintly—soft, unsure, but real. She changed quietly, fastening the last button before stepping out of the room.
Lucian was by the window now, phone in hand, speaking in a low voice. His hair was nearly dry, his robe replaced by a crisp white shirt. The sleeves were rolled up again, revealing the quiet strength in his forearms. The sunlight framed him like a portrait—every line of his posture perfect, controlled.
When he noticed her, his call ended. The phone slipped into his pocket, and his gaze met hers briefly. He didn't speak. He didn't have to.
"You… ordered this for me?" Aveline asked, her tone quiet, uncertain.
Lucian gave a faint nod.
"You couldn't wear yesterday's clothes."
That was all he said. Simple. Unemotional. Yet the thought behind it made her chest tighten just a little.
Aveline smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Thank you."
He didn't reply, but his eyes lingered on her for a heartbeat longer than usual before he turned toward the desk.
Moments later, someone knocked gently at the door. Lucian called out, "Come in," and one of the assistants entered, pushing a small cart with breakfast—two cups of coffee, croissants, eggs, and fruit neatly arranged on porcelain plates.
"Leave it there," he instructed. The assistant nodded and left without another word.
Aveline sat across from him as he took his seat. The sunlight caught the faint shimmer of the city through the glass wall, painting soft reflections across the table. The air smelled faintly of roasted coffee and citrus.
She began to eat quietly. Lucian glanced up once, then returned to his food, movements precise and silent. Even the way he held the cup—steady fingers, slow sip—felt composed.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked softly.
He didn't look up immediately. "I did."
His tone was even, but there was a slight pause before the words, as though he weighed whether to answer at all. When her eyes met his, his expression softened—barely noticeable, but enough to make her heart flutter.
Aveline looked down, smiling faintly at her plate. She stole another glance at him—the way the morning light cut across his face, tracing the strong line of his jaw, the quiet confidence in the way he carried himself. Even when he said nothing, he filled every inch of silence.
She didn't notice when he stopped eating and leaned back slightly, watching her. His gaze wasn't cold, not anymore—it was curious, steady, studying her like a riddle he couldn't quite solve.
When she set her fork down, Lucian finally spoke again.
"Eat more," he said simply.
The corners of her lips lifted. "You ordered this for me, didn't you?"
He said nothing, but one brow lifted ever so slightly—a silent answer that made her smile deepen.
After breakfast, she stood and began clearing the plates instinctively. He didn't stop her, only watched as she placed the dishes back on the tray. Her movements were gentle, unhurried.
When she turned back toward him, he was already standing. His tie was loosely knotted, jacket draped over one arm, ready to step back into the world that belonged to him alone.
Aveline looked at him for a moment before speaking. "I'll head home now."
He nodded once, his gaze steady on her. "Go ahead."
She hesitated, then smiled softly. "You'll come home for dinner tonight, right?"
Lucian's eyes held hers. For a second, something flickered there—something unreadable, but warm.
"I will," he said quietly.
It wasn't a promise, not exactly—but it felt like one.
Aveline's heart softened. She nodded and took a small step back. "Then I'll wait for you."
He didn't respond, but the faintest trace of a smile ghosted at the corner of his lips before he turned away, picking up a file from the desk. It wasn't warmth, exactly—it was restraint with an edge of care, quiet and unspoken.
She lingered by the door for a moment, watching him—the straight line of his back, the calm precision in every movement. Then she stepped out of the room.
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Aveline's heart softened. She nodded and took a small step back. "Then I'll wait for you."
Lucian stood silently by the wide glass wall, the city sprawling beneath him in threads of gold and shadow. From this height, the world looked distant—small enough to fit in the palm of his hand.
His gaze followed the slow movement below until it caught a familiar figure stepping out of the building. Aveline. The morning light touched her hair as she walked through the courtyard, her steps unhurried, graceful.
For a long moment, he didn't move. His reflection hovered faintly on the glass—sharp eyes, unreadable calm. Then, as he watched her disappear into the crowd, his eyes darkened slightly. His hand, resting at his side, curled into a quiet fist.
The stillness stretched.
Then—
a soft beep cut through the silence.
Lucian's phone vibrated on the desk. He turned, lifted it, and glanced at the screen.
For a moment, his expression didn't change. No reaction. No flicker of emotion. Only the faint reflection of the city lights in his cold, steady gaze.