The night was heavier than usual, thick with the scent of rain-soaked streets and distant exhaust fumes drifting through the slightly open windows of Adrien's safehouse. Inside, the warm glow of the lamps softened the edges of the sleek furniture, the polished wood, and the instruments that filled the corners. Yet despite the domestic calm, Adrien could feel the weight pressing down on him—a restless, insistent tension that no wall, no music, no presence could fully dispel.
He hadn't slept. Not properly. Not since returning Luka and Aldrin to the safehouse. His mind, usually sharp, precise, calculated, felt raw, jagged, incapable of silence. The chaos of his empire—the shipments, the rival gangs, the delicate balance of power—refused to release him, even here, even with the soft glow of the home, even with Aldrin curled in Luka's arms.
Luka hummed softly, strumming his guitar in gentle arcs. Aldrin rested against him, tiny chest rising and falling, eyelids heavy with sleep. The music was tentative at first, soft chords meant to soothe the baby, but Adrien could feel it reverberating through the apartment, seeping into the tense hollows of his chest.
He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching. The sight of Luka—so calm, so patient, so utterly in control in a way Adrien could never master—twisted something in his chest. It wasn't desire, exactly. Not yet. It was… fascination. Awe. Something more primal: a need he could not name.
"You should rest," Luka said softly, eyes not leaving the guitar strings. "You've been up all day. You need to sleep."
Adrien's jaw tightened. "Sleep isn't… working," he said, voice clipped, low. "I haven't… properly rested in weeks."
Luka hummed, a note of empathy threading through the melody. "Music helps. It helps me, it helps Aldrin, and it can… help you too."
Adrien's eyes flicked to him sharply. "You mean I need to be… coddled?" he asked, tone more defensive than intended.
Luka smirked faintly. "No," he said, soft but firm. "I mean… you need calm. You need quiet. You need… music."
Adrien's pulse quickened. The word carried a weight beyond its meaning, a bridge between them he wasn't ready to cross yet—but the pull was undeniable. He stepped forward slowly, careful, unhurried, as though his very approach carried the weight of consequence.
Luka's eyes met his, steady, unwavering, yet with a flicker of curiosity—aware of the storm behind Adrien's calm exterior, sensing it and not afraid.
"Sit," Luka said, patting the empty space on the sofa beside him. "Music works better when it's shared."
Adrien hesitated. Sharing space, sharing calm… it was foreign. Vulnerable. Dangerous. But the tension inside him—the insomnia, the jagged edges of his mind—pushed him forward. He sat down slowly, careful not to invade Luka's rhythm, careful not to disrupt the fragile balance.
Luka strummed a few chords, testing the sound, watching Adrien out of the corner of his eye. The notes were soft, intimate, deliberate, each one a tether to calm, to connection, to something Adrien had long denied himself.
Adrien's chest tightened as he realized he was holding his breath. Every string, every note, seemed to speak directly to him, unraveling the jagged thoughts he could not silence, untangling the threads of insomnia that had plagued him for weeks. He felt raw, exposed, but… alive in a way that the power of his empire had never allowed.
"Does it… always work this well?" Adrien asked quietly, voice low, almost hesitant.
Luka's lips curved slightly. "Sometimes," he said softly. "If the person listens."
Adrien's eyes narrowed slightly, more focused, sharper than usual. "And if they… don't?"
Then Luka leaned closer slightly, almost imperceptibly, his blue-gray eyes glinting with amusement. "Then they don't last long," he said. The words were casual, teasing, but something in his tone—the certainty, the calm authority—made Adrien sit straighter, pulse racing.
The tension between them was palpable, heavy, unspoken. Adrien's usual control, his precision, his command of every room he entered—none of it mattered here. He could not command calm. He could not order the strings to soothe him. He could only… listen. Watch. Feel.
Aldrin shifted in Luka's arms, tiny fingers curling unconsciously toward Adrien's sleeve. Adrien froze, letting the contact linger. The baby's trust—innate, instinctive—sent a surge of protectiveness through him he had never felt before.
"You're very… attentive," Luka said softly, noticing the shift in Adrien's posture. "He likes you."
Adrien's jaw tightened. "I… I'll take responsibility," he said, voice low, careful.
Luka tilted his head slightly, faint amusement in his expression. "Good. Responsibility suits you… sometimes."
The music continued, soft and steady, filling the apartment with warmth. Adrien felt it in his chest, the tension in his muscles slowly unwinding. He wanted to reach out, to touch, to claim some small tether of connection—but vulnerability was foreign, unfamiliar. And yet, he wanted it.
"You…" Adrien began, then stopped. Words failed him. He wasn't used to admitting needs, not to anyone. Not since… ever. "You make it… easier," he said finally, voice low, rough around the edges.
Luka's fingers paused on the strings, a note lingering in the air. His eyes softened slightly. "Music… isn't just about sound," he said. "It's about connection. About understanding. About presence."
Adrien's chest tightened further. "Presence…" he repeated softly. The word felt like fire in his veins, naming something he hadn't dared recognize before.
The silence stretched, weighted, intimate. Aldrin yawned, small hands curling around Luka's thumb. Adrien watched, enthralled, protective, and increasingly aware of the pull of the domestic warmth around him.
Finally, Luka resumed playing, soft chords flowing into the night. Adrien leaned back slightly, letting the music wash over him, letting himself exist in the moment. His gaze kept flicking to Luka's hands, to the way he coaxed calm from strings, to the subtle authority in his gentle voice.
"You're… dangerous," Luka said suddenly, voice low, teasing, but not cruel. "You're a storm, and yet you sit here, trying to contain it."
Adrien's lips twitched, a brief, unguarded reaction. "I'm… cautious," he said, though he knew the word was meaningless in the presence of Luka's calm.
"Cautious," Luka echoed softly. "I think you mean… fascinated."
Adrien froze, pulse spiking. Fascinated… yes. Terrified of how much he wanted, how much he needed this connection. How much he needed Luka.
The guitar hummed again, the soft melody weaving around them, bridging the gap of words unspoken, of thoughts unshared. Adrien's hand flexed, hovering slightly near Luka's without touching. Desire, curiosity, admiration—all tangled and raw—coursed through him.
Aldrin stirred again, tiny eyes blinking open. Luka smiled gently, rocking him slightly. "You're awake, little one," he whispered. "And you've met someone important, haven't you?"
Adrien watched the interaction, chest tight, heart unexpectedly warm. He had never imagined himself part of such a scene—musical, domestic, tender. Yet here he was. And he could not leave. Could not look away.
The night stretched on, the music a lifeline. Adrien sat in quiet observation, slowly realizing something dangerous, intoxicating, and utterly irresistible: he could not exist without this connection, without Luka's calm, without the soft tether of Aldrin's presence.
And Luka… Luka was the bridge he had been searching for, the calm he had long denied himself, and perhaps the only thing in the world capable of making him surrender to peace—if only for a night.
By the time the melody faded, Adrien's chest felt lighter, though his mind was still restless. Luka glanced at him, blue-gray eyes holding a quiet question: what now?
Adrien met the gaze, slow and deliberate. "Now," he said softly, voice low and rough, "we see how far this calm can last… before the storm returns."
Luka's faint smirk told him the answer was both promising and dangerous. And Adrien… he wouldn't have it any other way.