He was too close.
The proximity sent Nikolai's nerves into chaos. Panic clashed with calm. His body warred—drag Lucien closer, shield him from that rancid undertone clinging to a passerby's scent, or shove him away before he lost all restraint. In the end, he surrendered to stillness.
Lucien honestly didn't know why the hell he was sitting here doing this. The glass in his hand was cold, sharp, grounding. Pressing it against Nikolai's face gave him something to focus on besides the constant irritation this blond bastard stirred in him. Up close, the bruise was uglier than he'd expected, swelling dark and angry beneath the skin. His lips pressed thin. He hated this guy's guts, sure—but he wasn't heartless enough to ignore pain when it was staring back at him.
"Don't move," he muttered, voice clipped, almost as if he'd read the twitch of resistance before it even happened. And—for once—the wolf obeyed.
Nikolai leaned into the glass. Eyes sliding shut, he let the cold numbness sink in, let his nerves go quiet.
A low chuckle slipped loose at Lucien's grumbling about the whispers of domestic violence. The absurdity twisted bitter humor in his chest. "I mean, they're half right…" he murmured without thinking. The words spilled raw, unguarded, loosened by the intoxicating scent pressing down on him like chains.
For a few minutes, silence stretched between them—strained, uneasy, but silence all the same. Lucien could almost breathe. Until the lunatic opened his mouth again.
That half-joke, half-confession made Lucien's brows twitch. Who the hell joked about that? He couldn't tell if Nikolai was serious, or if everything he said was some blend of mockery and venom. Probably both. Always both.
"You're insane," he muttered, glare sharp and suspicious.
Nikolai gave a nervous laugh, covering the slip the way he always did—by pivoting. By turning truth into theater.
"If you wanna fool them," he drawled, tone forced light, "you could always give these booboos a kiss." His words dripped with half-hearted playfulness.
Blow a kiss?
Lucien's nose scrunched with disgust, heat flashing in his glare until it felt like he could scorch the idiot with it alone. "You're fine now, huh? Back to spewing crap again. Figures." The insult was ready to cut loose—until silver-grey eyes locked on him.
Nikolai smirked. Slow. Deliberate. He pulled the glass from Lucien's grip and set it down, his gaze refusing to budge. Silver-grey to lavender-grey. A silent dare. An invitation: he wouldn't fight closeness. Not this time.
For one tense second, the air shifted. The teasing smirk didn't land like a joke—it hit like a spark. Serious. Lucien's whole body bristled, wound tight like a cornered cat, every muscle ready to strike. His lips pursed, breath sharp. This lunatic…
And then—break. Nikolai's nose twitched, betraying him, before his eyes flicked away, narrowing on something beyond Lucien's shoulder. Sharp. Distracted. Predatory.
"Sit still."
The demand was abrupt, stripped of theatrics. Nikolai leaned forward, sudden, the movement deceptively intimate—as if going in for a kiss. But instead, he lowered his head and pressed his forehead against Lucien's shoulder.
And Lucien—annoyed by the sudden demand, caught between lashing out or just getting up and leaving the bastard here—didn't move fast enough. Nikolai leaned forward and pressed his forehead against his shoulder.
For Nikolai, it should have been intoxicating—contact he craved, a closeness he would've killed to savor. But he couldn't. The rancid stench was back, suffocating him, the culprit a foxy waitress who had slithered her way through her coworkers to stake claim on the hot guy table.
His curse, his curse every damn time: an amplified sense of smell. Every detail of the world came sharp and merciless through his nose—the good, yes, but especially the bad. And this scent—sweet rotting perfume layered thick over cheap deodorant and burnt coffee—was an assault. Each inhale scorched through him, searing the hairs in his nostrils, burning raw his nasal cavity until nausea clawed at his gut.
It took every fiber of his body not to gag, not to disgrace himself right there. And thank God Lucien had chosen to sit beside him. If he'd been across the table, forced to face that waitress directly, he didn't know if he could've held it together.
"Sorry…" he muttered, voice muffled against the fabric of Lucien's shirt, burying his nose deep as if he could drown in the other man's scent instead. "…that woman's smell is making me sick."
Lucien froze. Every nerve lit like a live wire, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy. Even his dulled senses caught it—faint jasmine, a touch of chamomile clinging to Nikolai—and damn it, it slipped under his guard. His body relaxed against his will, even as his brain screamed in protest.
He opened his mouth, ready to shove the bastard off, to hiss something cutting—but then he heard the apology.
It was soft. Uneven. Real. A tone Lucien had never heard from him before. Nikolai's breath was hot against his shirt, seeping through the fabric, raising goosebumps along his nape. Something unfamiliar clawed at Lucien's chest, sharp and uncomfortable, at the sheer closeness.
He swallowed hard, trying to ground himself, turning his head just enough to glance at the waitress. So that's it. For once, Nikolai wasn't performing. The ragged breath, the way he buried his face against him, the death-grip on his pants—this wasn't theater. He was hanging on by a thread.
"Your smell is a thousand times better," Nikolai rasped, each word frayed with strain. "Can you get her to leave by ordering something? Or getting a new person… Fuck—I think I'm gonna barf."
His hand fisted tighter in Lucien's pants, knuckles blanching white, using the fabric like a lifeline to keep from unraveling.
Lucien muttered under his breath, voice caught between irritation and something he couldn't pin down. "You're such a fucking pervert. Who the hell just…sniffs someone without asking? Besides, I'm sweaty. Idiot."
The words came low, grumbled like he didn't want to give them weight. And still—he didn't push him away.
Instead, his hand betrayed him. Almost on instinct, his palm lifted and rubbed Nikolai's back once—a single steadying motion, nothing more, but enough to betray softness where he wanted none. His mouth tightened into a scowl, as though he could disguise the slip behind irritation.
By the time the waitress finally approached their booth, tray tucked under her arm and a too-bright smile plastered on her lips, Lucien was already on edge.
"Can you please send someone else?" he said, his tone polite, but edged with firmness.
The waitress blinked, thrown off balance. "Oh—I… um, did I do something wrong?" Her smile faltered, lips parting in confusion. "I can assure you, I'll give you both my best service—"
Lucien cut her off smoothly, voice steady, calm as glass. "It's nothing like that. You just look busy, that's all. We don't want to keep you tied up here when you've probably got ten other tables waiting on you."
She flushed at that, biting her lip, as if torn between offense and embarrassment as she looked at both of them. "Well, it's really no trouble—"
And well—if anyone was watching, the way they were sitting, the way Nikolai leaned on him, the way Lucien's hand hovered steady at his back—it was too easy to mistake them as lovers.
"You've already been running around nonstop," Lucien continued, leaning back casually, as though he were doing her a favor. "I'd feel guilty holding you up. Someone else will be fine."
There was a pause, the kind where her pride wanted to argue, but his calm insistence left no space for protest. Finally, she nodded, giving a quick, awkward smile.
"Of course. I'll… send someone right over."
She retreated in a hurry, nearly colliding with another waiter as she spun on her heel.
Only when she was gone did Lucien let his breath ease out through his nose, shoulders loosening just a fraction. His hand was still on Nikolai's back without him realizing.
A rush of relief washed over Nikolai, thankful Lucien hadn't pulled away—and even more that he'd actually gone along with his plea. His body was breaking out in a cold sweat from the wave of nausea, but it was the isolated warmth of Lucien's hand pressed against his back that sent shivers cutting down his spine.
The air shifted once the waitress finally disappeared. Lucien muttered low, almost under his breath, "She's gone. You okay now?"
He leaned his head slightly toward him, the movement small but grounding. "Wanna go outside for some fresh air?" The irritation was still there, sharp as ever, but the concern threaded through without his permission. "Why even come here if you've got a nose that sensitive?"
At the question, Nikolai only shook his head, adamant on staying put. Leaving now wasn't an option. Half of it was stubbornness—they'd just arrived, and it had been an effort to even get here in the first place. The other half… was selfish. He wanted to remain in this position just a little longer, wanted to soak in the rare closeness, the almost-intimacy.
Gradually, his velcro grip on Lucien's pants loosened, his heart rate slowing to something steadier. The rancid stench still lingered faintly in the air, but it no longer overwhelmed him. Lucien's scent—sharp, grounding, maddening—flooded his senses instead.
His body shuddered once, his ears tingling from the low, grudging murmur of concern he'd just heard from Lucien Hale of all people.