Alex
ICE KING & GOLDEN BOY: JUST FRIENDS AT MUSEUM GALA.
Dan glances at my screen. "Cute," he says.
"Hmm," I say, and we step into the rain.
The museum's portico holds a strip of dry air and a lot of impatience. Flashes crackle beyond the rope. A tech drags a light case across the top stair; a loose cable loops away from it like a trap disguised as string.
"Mind the—" Dan starts.
"What?" I ask, already moving.
My heel slides. The cable kisses the sole and I tilt toward the headline I don't want.
A warm hand lands between my shoulder blades and holds. Not dramatic. Certain.
"Easy," Lucas says behind me, low enough to be mistaken for weather.
The volunteers hiss; the photographers inhale. I square my weight; gravity remembers how to behave.
"I'm fine," I say—first to myself, then to the part of the crowd that is hungry for a story.
"Of course," Dan answers, which is his way of not swearing in public. He points his eyebrows at the lighting tech, who goes the color of paper and starts coiling cable like an apology.
Sophia appears through the side door with a headset and the calm she uses to talk to storms. "Mr. Prescott, I'm so sorry about that lead. We've covered it. If you'd like a different route—"
"This one is acceptable," I say.
"Perfect." She turns to Lucas. "Cars in two minutes. Sponsor would love one exit frame under the awning—quick, clean, no wolves."
"Quick and clean," Lucas repeats, then to me, evenly: "Shall we give them tidy and go home?"
"Please," I say.
We drift toward the inner doors. Beyond the glass, the night writes fast silver across the steps. The crowd adjusts coats and opinions. A waiter—new, I hope—loses a battle with a tray and veers into our path, flutes shivering.
Lucas lifts an arm across my front, a quiet bar at jacket level. The tray taps his sleeve and stops. No champagne reaches my suit.
"That could have been untidy," I say.
"I'd rather you didn't fall or wear a drink on my watch," he answers, almost amused. "It ruins everybody's copy."
"Considerate," I say.
"Selfish," he says. "I have an early call. I'm not reading essays titled Gravity and the Ice King."
Dan coughs once—the warning bell he rings when language is becoming quote-shaped. "If the two of you would be so kind as to complete this evening without generating new nouns, my blood pressure will send flowers."
"Understood," Lucas says, grin reduced to a private version. He steadies the inner door as I push it open. Small courtesy, unremarkable to a camera.
We step onto the museum's small balcony, protected by a shallow overhang. The rain stitches the dark beyond the rail. The air is cool enough to reset a face.
"Do you still hate the lights?" he asks, not looking at me, looking at the reflection of the hall in the glass.
"Yes," I say. "They make everything look decided even when it isn't. I start wondering what my jaw is saying."
He huffs a laugh. "I did twelve hours last week under LEDs that could interrogate a god. At hour ten I couldn't tell if I was acting or being interrogated."
"That sounds like you," I say. "Working until oxygen becomes optional."
"And you," he returns, just as soft. Then, practical again: "If you'd prefer, we can stand where the light misses you when we exit. I'm trained for glare."
"You don't have to take it," I tell him. Say thank you like a normal person. "But—thank you."
"Not a sacrifice," he says. "It reads better this way."
Sophia pokes her head out. "Thirty seconds. We'll open the door, do one frame at the awning, then cars. Please keep all limbs inside the narrative."
"No promises," Dan says, which is his way of promising.
A reporter finds the gap, voice bright through rain. "Mr. Prescott—are you and Mr. Beaumont friends? London loves clarity."
"London loves stories," I say. "Tonight belongs to the museum. Good evening."
She takes the hint. Lucas gives her a polite wave with nothing attached.
"Time," Sophia says.
We go.
The foyer doors open; the outer flashes try to turn the world back into noon. Wind throws rain under the cover and the rope at the bottom step snaps off its hook with a theatrical pop. The front row sways, then steadies.
Fingers close around my wrist—firm, not alarmed—and guide me one step left, a neat geometry that puts Lucas between me and any sudden push. Security resets the line; the small panic dies like a bad light.
"Still all right?" he asks, close enough to be heard and not recorded.
"Yes," I say. I look down at his hand. He lets go with care, as if the release itself could leave a mark. Fine. You are fine. Stop checking.
Dan slides into place on my other side, a human umbrella. "Car is three steps, then left," he says. "No improv."
"I never improvise," I say.
Lucas gives a quiet sound that might be disbelief. "You improvise with silence," he says. "Which is impressively dangerous."
We make the three steps. The driver has the rear door open; rain beads on the chrome like a habit. Sophia's team lifts one camera under the awning for the promised exit frame. We stand parallel, open shoulders, empty hands. No touch. The shutter whispers. Clean.
"Thank you," the museum photographer says. "That was perfect."
"Good night," I tell him, and mean it.
"Before you vanish," Lucas says quietly, reaching into his inner pocket, "this is yours."
He offers a folded white handkerchief—fine cotton, narrow blue edging. The initials at the corner are a small, polite confession: LB.
"For the rain," he adds. "And optics."
I take it. The cameras like props; they click because props are polite. Better than his hand on my face. Worse, for some reason. Don't label it.
"Much appreciated," I say.
His mouth tips. "Of course."
Dan touches my sleeve: move now. Lucas steps back half a pace, exactly enough to read as separate. He doesn't reach. I don't either.
At the door, he says, "Let me know you're in safe. I'll sleep better."
"I don't report to you," I say.
"Understood," he answers, no injury in it. "Consider it a request from someone who dislikes unnecessary variables."
"One text," I allow. "For variables."
"Deal," he says, simple.
The car door closes on rain and faces and the repeated noise of our names. Leather and quiet arrive together.
Dan exhales. "Two saves, one towel, one cable apology, one tidy exit frame," he says, counting like an accountant of chaos. "Also: three almost-quotes and one near-baptism in champagne. Acceptable evening."
"I'm uninjured," I say.
"Always a thrill," he says dryly. His thumbs move on his phone. "Sophia is posting the museum copy in ninety seconds. I'm replying, 'Well hosted, excellent volunteers, outstanding conservation team,' and absolutely nothing about friendship."
"Good," I say.
He glances at me. "Hungry?"
"No."
"Liar," he says, fond. "There's soup in your fridge because I refuse to watch you negotiate with toast."
"You're a menace to autonomy."
"I'm a safeguard," he says. "Speaking of—what's your feeling about the Children's Wing's request for thirty seconds on 'first museum memory'? We can decline."
"I'll do it," I say, surprised to hear my own certainty. "If we control the room."
"We will," he says, satisfied. "Also, stand on the left side in there. Overhead light misses your eyes. Beaumont suggested it."
Of course he did. Don't react. Put it in a drawer.
The city moves past in watery gold. I watch the dark river double the lights and think about very little until my phone decides otherwise.
Lucas: In yet, or did London keep you a little longer?
I type and delete Fine. I type In motion and leave it.
Lucas: Good. Watch the cables next time. They're petty.
I'll try to be less interesting to wire.
Lucas: Impossible task. I'll settle for careful.
A link follows: a fan angle of the stair, his hand on my back, our heads turned in the same direction. The caption is the city's new favorite lie: cute friends.
I set the phone face down. Pick it up again. Cowardice would be silence. Don't be theatrical about restraint.
Home in ten, I send.
Lucas: Copy. Sleep is permitted once you arrive.
"Report?" Dan asks, because he has eyes and ears and a career built on both.
"Variables managed," I say.
He smiles into the window. "Acceptable."
We pull under my awning. The doorman waves us in. The rain has downgraded itself from statement to mood.
Upstairs, the apartment smells like stone and clean linen. Dan places a paper bag on the counter and removes Tupperware with the satisfaction of a magician revealing a dove.
"Soup," he says. "There are instructions on the lid in case you forget how to have dinner."
"I am capable of heating liquid," I tell him.
"Inspirational," he says. "Text me if you trip over anything else tonight."
"I won't trip," I say.
"Famous last words," he answers, then softens. "You did well."
"It was a museum," I say.
"It was also a night with weather, cameras, and feelings," he says. "And no one bled."
He leaves with a salute. The door clicks. Quiet takes its seat.
I loosen my tie, put the handkerchief on the counter, and stare at the initials like they might move. Return it. Keep it. Return it, later. I fold it once and place it near the keys.
The soup is lemon and chicken and the kind of salt that fixes a day. I eat standing up because chairs feel too final. My phone hums once.
Lucas: In safe?
Yes. Soup acquired. No cables.
Lucas: Outstanding. Good night, Alexander.
Good night, I type, then add—because I am apparently a person who can risk a syllable—and thank you—for earlier.
Dots. Pause. Dots again.
Lucas: Anytime. Left side of the room tomorrow; I'll take the glare.
I put the phone down. The apartment shrinks to a softer version of itself. Outside, the rain remembers its job. I rinse the bowl. I put the tie away. I look once at the folded square with LB stitched in the corner and decide—wisely, for once—not to decide tonight.
Tomorrow will arrive with its list of improvements. For now, I own a neat exit, a steady hand I didn't ask for, and the knowledge that someone will stand in the light when I don't want to.
Acceptable.