Lucien's hand stilled on Nikolai's back, but he didn't pull away. He just let it rest there, steady and grounding, like a tether keeping the man upright.
Sweat beaded along Nikolai's temple, catching the light in a damp sheen. His brow furrowed, stubborn as a mule, his body coiled tight with whatever storm had gripped him. Hell, the idiot looked like he'd just gone ten rounds in the ring and lost, yet here he was, glued to his seat, refusing to move.
'So stubborn...'
If he keeled over in this damn booth, Lucien knew he'd be the one catching him, and the thought alone knotted something unpleasant in his gut. He would rather not have him throwing up in his lap.
"Just breathe," he muttered, voice low, automatic, the same tone he used to hush panicked kids back at school. The words slipped out before he realized. "You're safe. It'll pass."
The words, seemingly said without much thought punctured through Nikolai's walls, crumbling them and a surge of something deep and dark stirred in him.
There it was again. That concern, without reason.
Nikolai peeled himself away with reluctance, dragging like gravity itself resisted him. He slumped against the seat, every movement sluggish, as though he'd just run a marathon barefoot.
Lucien felt a pang of absence as Nikolai pulled away—strange, unwelcome, and quick to be buried. He shoved the feeling down hard, eyes darting elsewhere: the fake greenery climbing a corner post, the hum of chatter rising and falling, the soft clink of cutlery. Anywhere but that odd pull gnawing at his chest.
While his kitten gave him time to get his bearing together, Nikolai still struggled with calming down. Blonde strands from his wig clung stubbornly to his damp forehead, his skin glistening with sweat. His eyes stayed shut, brows pressed tight, jaw clamped as if by force of will he could banish the nightmare echoing through him.
Gradually, his chest slowed from ragged heaves to a steady rise and fall.
As the new waiter finally arrived—thank Christ that Nikolai didn't seem to react this time—and Lucien seized the reprieve. He ordered water, asked for more time before food. The glass slid across the table with a faint scrape, landing in front of Nikolai.
Then the man started talking again.
"…I'm fine," he rasped, voice still thin as he finally spoke and Lucien looked at him with a calm gaze. Nikolai's head tilted, eyes cracking open until they locked on Lucien. It was immediate, magnetic—his gaze always chasing the man across from him, as if tethered to him alone. "For the moment. Besides, I'm fucking starving. The smell of food doesn't bother me. It's the…" His eyes swept the crowded restaurant, shoulders twitching almost imperceptibly. "…the scent of certain people that gets to me."
Lucien's gaze narrowed at the nonsense spilling from Nikolai's mouth. "So let me get this straight," he said, voice flat as steel. "You begged me to switch waitresses because you didn't like how she smelled? That's your big story?" His lips twitched, curling with disbelief. "Sensitive nose or not, do you hear yourself?"
The words cut, but Nikolai's response was casual, textbook even—like he was reciting doctrine. "What's so unusual about that? Besides you keep saying me taking in scents is wrong," Well, it wasn't like Nikolai was actually sniffing. He was just born cursed with this, "How Is it so wrong to like how someone smells? What if I was blind, and all I had were sound and scent? That's how we choose partners, you know." He rolled his eyes, baffled that Lucien treated it like madness. "It's no different than you responding to me. Your scent is refreshing, pleasant compared to others…" His nose wrinkled, recalling the waitress, his voice dropping with disdain. "The way you smell is unique, sweat or not. Just like hers was, except hers reeked. I've always been overly sensitive to it. Been that way since birth."
Lucien's eyebrows twitched and his scoff sliced the air. "Jesus. That knock to your head must've rattled something permanent. Smell this, smell that—what are you, a bloodhound?" He leaned back in the booth, popping the top button of his shirt as if the heat was suddenly unbearable. His gaze flicked—unwanted—back to Nikolai's too-intense stare. Irritation flared, quick and hot, covering the strange twist in his gut. "Partners based on scent? What the hell are you watching, fairy tales? Besides! when did I ever say I liked how you smelled?" His cheeks prickled, offended by the suggestion. "You've lost it. Delusion doesn't come with a cure."
The dismissal washed over Nikolai like water over stone. This was the education carved into him since birth, bone-deep conditioning. It had never occurred to him someone could live outside of it, ignorant.
"Isn't that why you're taking those suppressant pills?" he asked suddenly, voice quiet but edged. His eyes flicked toward Lucien's pocket, toward the bottle he'd seen earlier. "Those weren't ordinary painkillers. Unless you're a druggie walking around with illegal shit."
The word landed like a blade.
Suppressants?
Lucien froze mid-page turn of the menu. His jaw tightened, lavender-grey eyes cutting sharp across the table. "What suppressants?" His voice dropped low, knife-edged. "Those are meds I've been on since I was a kid. I get sick—my sweat starts smelling weird, that's it. Nothing illegal. Nothing for you to sniff at. So don't try to use my disease to explain your kinks and fetishes."
His hand snapped the menu closed, the sound sharp, final. An aggravated sigh forced its way through his teeth, shoulders knotting tight. He stared past Nikolai, eyes fixed on some distant nothing, before whipping back to him with a glare that dared him to press further.
"So stop trying to distract me with your crazy talk, I am not interested in that," he said, voice steel-hard, words clipped. "You promised to explain about Mark and Liam. So start talking."
The waiter reappeared at the table, pen poised over a pad, the polite veneer at odds with the electric tension humming between the two men.
Lucien didn't look away.
Just as confused and puzzled as Lucien was, Nikolai stared at him like he'd grown two extra heads. The sheer disbelief twisted in his features, jaw tight, eyes burning with irritation. Lucien's dismissal gnawed at him, a parasite eating through every shred of patience. Sure, he joked constantly—sarcasm was second nature—but to brush off his explanation as if it were some hoax? Infuriating. It took every ounce of sanity not to slam Lucien's head against the polished wood of the table, just to shut him up.
Crazy talk? I'll show him crazy.
The crack of his grinding teeth echoed in his skull, jaw clenched so hard the muscles ached. His tongue pressed sharp against his molars, holding back words that would tear their fragile truce apart. Like a teenager sulking at his mother's scolding, Nikolai exhaled hard, arms crossing tight over his chest. He punctuated it with a sharp eye-roll, the gesture screaming his displeasure.
Lucien's eyebrow twitched. Hard. That look—God, that look. The way Nikolai was staring at him, as if he were the lunatic, as if he'd lost touch with reality. His jaw locked tight, and a humorless laugh almost slipped free. Him, worried for this blonde bastard? Him, actually laying a steadying hand on his back like some goddamn comfort blanket? What a joke. His own feelings, wasted.
But Nikolai wasn't letting up.
"Yeah, whatever," Nikolai grumbled, snatching the water glass as though it were a lifeline. His voice dripped with sarcasm, but the flare of frustration burned behind it. "Sure, I'm the delusional one. Don't come running to me when those dumb pills of yours stop working in the next few weeks."
He drained half the glass in one breath, water sloshing, his throat working with a sharp swallow.
The air shifted, thickening as Lucien tugged at his shirt collar, a few buttons undone. That tiny movement was enough—the faint fragrance pouring off him hit Nikolai like a blow. Stronger now, richer, saturating the air between them. His senses drowned in it, a floral sweetness threaded with heat, both heaven and hell in equal measure. His chest tightened, breath hitching.
Nikolai's nostrils flared; his hand shot up, covering his nose, frustration etched across his features.
Too much.
It was suffocating, pressing in from all sides.
Lucien stiffened in his seat, every muscle wound tight, eyes narrowing with irritation.
Stupid, bipolar shit. I should just walk out. Forget the money. Forget all of it.
But he couldn't. Not yet.
Lucien's voice came cold, cutting through the thick silence like a blade across glass. "Even if I'm dying," he bit out, tone dipped in venom, "I wouldn't come running to you. Don't flatter yourself. We're not that close." His lips pressed together, skin flushed hot, the warmth licking across his chest and neck like a fever. His meds should've been working. They weren't. Not against this.
Nikolai exhaled through his teeth, a sharp breath against the rim of his glass. Cute.
He was too cute to kill right now.
Even if the urge to strangle him danced in his palms, that stubborn defiance had its delicious own bite.
So Nikolai rolled his eyes, tilted the glass, and let the cold liquid coat his tongue to drown the urge to grab that neck and shut that unruly mouth.