The first touch did not happen the way Sirène had imagined it might.
There was no sudden pull, no reckless loss of composure, no dramatic collapse of restraint. It arrived instead the way everything else between them had—quietly, deliberately, and under the weight of necessity.
They were not alone by choice.
The policy briefing had ended later than scheduled, the room emptied of voices but not of consequence. Sirène remained behind to finalize revisions to the joint statement, the polished table still scattered with documents bearing the marks of compromise and calculation.
Lucien stood across from her, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled, posture unhurried. The overhead lights had been dimmed automatically, leaving the space half-shadowed, intimate without intending to be.
She was tired.
Not physically—fatigue was manageable—but mentally, the kind that seeped into the bones and dulled the edges of caution. She pressed her fingers briefly to her temple and exhaled.
Lucien noticed.
"You should sit," he said.
"I'm fine."
"You've been standing for hours."
"That doesn't concern you."
"It does," he replied calmly.
Sirène looked up at him then, something sharp and honest in her gaze. "You don't get to decide what concerns you."
Lucien's expression shifted—not defensive, not amused. Focused.
"I decide what I take responsibility for," he said. "You're within that perimeter."
The words landed with more weight than she was prepared for.
She turned away, gathering the last of the papers, aligning edges with unnecessary precision. "That perimeter is getting crowded."
"Yes," he agreed. "That's why I'm careful."
She moved toward the side table to retrieve her bag. As she did, the heel of her shoe caught slightly against the edge of the rug—barely enough to matter, except that her balance shifted.
Lucien was there instantly.
His hand closed around her wrist—not tight, not hesitant—steadying her with practiced ease. The contact was brief. Functional.
But it was contact.
Sirène inhaled sharply, the sensation registering all at once: the warmth of his skin, the solidity of his grip, the undeniable reality of him.
Lucien froze.
So did she.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
"I've got you," he said quietly.
She did not pull away immediately.
Neither did he.
Her pulse thudded beneath his fingers, loud enough that she was certain he felt it. The thought sent a flicker of something dangerous through her chest.
"I didn't fall," she said.
"I know."
His thumb shifted slightly, not caressing, not pressing—just enough to acknowledge the fact of her.
That was when it changed.
Sirène lifted her gaze slowly, meeting his eyes. The distance between them had narrowed without either of them noticing. His grip loosened—but he did not let go.
"Lucien," she said softly.
He swallowed. "Yes."
"This was supposed to be clean."
He nodded once. "It was."
"And now?"
His voice dropped. "Now it's honest."
She should have stepped back.
She didn't.
She raised her free hand and rested it lightly against his chest—not pushing, not pulling. A pause. A test.
Lucien's breath changed.
"Sirène," he said again, quieter now. "If you do that—"
"I know," she replied.
Her fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his shirt. The contact was minimal, deliberate, devastating.
Lucien released her wrist at the same moment she withdrew her hand, as though both of them recognized the danger in lingering too long.
The space between them felt suddenly charged, alive with what had not been said.
"This complicates things," she said.
"Yes," he replied. "It does."
"And you're still standing here."
"So are you."
She looked away first, pacing a few steps toward the window. The city lights glimmered below, indifferent and endless.
"This doesn't happen again," she said.
Lucien followed, stopping beside her—not touching, but close enough that the warmth of him was unmistakable.
"It will," he said.
She turned sharply. "You're very confident."
"I'm observant," he replied. "And you don't issue rules you intend to follow."
Her lips parted, then pressed together.
"That's unfair."
"Yes," he agreed. "But accurate."
She studied him, the lines of restraint in his face, the control held too carefully. "You don't rush," she said. "You wait."
"For the right moment," he replied.
"And this is it?"
"No."
The answer surprised her.
"This," Lucien continued, "is acknowledgment."
He took a step closer.
Sirène did not retreat.
"I won't pretend this doesn't affect me," she said quietly.
Lucien's gaze softened—not with warmth, but with something deeper. Recognition.
"Good," he said. "Neither will I."
The silence that followed was not empty. It was full of possibility, of choice pressing in from all sides.
Sirène felt her resolve thinning—not collapsing, just bending.
"This is reckless," she murmured.
"Yes."
"And you're still here."
"So are you."
She laughed softly, breathless. "You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
He lifted his hand—not to touch her, but to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He stopped short, fingers hovering, waiting.
Sirène tilted her head slightly.
Permission.
Lucien's fingers brushed her hair—barely a touch, fleeting and reverent.
Her breath caught.
That was when she closed the distance.
The kiss was not hungry.
It was not urgent.
It was careful.
Lucien's lips met hers with restrained precision, as though he were acutely aware of how easily the moment could fracture if mishandled. The contact was brief, deliberate—a question more than an answer.
Sirène responded without hesitation.
Her hand rose again, this time resting at the edge of his collarbone, grounding rather than claiming. The kiss deepened by degrees, not intensity—an agreement unfolding in real time.
Lucien broke it first.
He rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed, breath uneven.
"This," he said softly, "is where it becomes dangerous."
Sirène smiled faintly. "It already was."
He pulled back, restoring distance with visible effort.
"We stop here," he said.
"Yes," she agreed.
They stood in silence for a moment longer, the imprint of the kiss lingering like a held breath.
Lucien stepped away, retrieving his jacket. "This changes nothing," he said.
Sirène met his gaze steadily. "It changes everything."
A corner of his mouth lifted. "Good."
He left without another word.
Sirène remained by the window long after the door closed, heart steady but irrevocably altered.
The first touch had not been an accident.
Neither had the kiss.
And as the city moved on below, she understood—with quiet certainty—that restraint would no longer be enough.
Not now.