The first rays of morning light slipped through the heavy curtains of the Caldwell mansion, painting the room in soft golds and shadows. Lucien stirred, a strange weight pressing against his chest, a warmth that felt both foreign and achingly familiar. His eyes fluttered open, and he froze.
Haru's legs were sprawled across his torso, one slender hand flung carelessly over Lucien's chest, fingers curling lightly against his shirt. Haru was deep in sleep, his messy dark hair fanning across the pillow, his soft breathing a quiet rhythm in the stillness. His oversized sleep shirt—dotted with tiny cartoon stars—had slipped slightly, revealing a glimpse of collarbone that made Lucien's breath hitch.
A slow, fond chuckle escaped Lucien's lips.
"My Haru," he murmured, his voice a low hum of amusement and something deeper, something tender. "This is how you sleep, huh? I like it." He propped himself up on one elbow, admiring the sight before him. Haru's face was a study in vulnerability—cheeks flushed from sleep, lashes casting delicate shadows, lips parted just enough to be unfairly tempting.
"My cutie pie," Lucien whispered, his tone dramatic yet sincere.
"I want to swallow you whole right now, but I can't."
He sighed, a playful pout tugging at his lips, though his eyes sparkled with unrestrained affection.
Then, without warning, Haru's eyes snapped open. For a moment, time stopped. Haru's gaze locked onto Lucien's, their faces mere inches apart, and panic flared in his wide, dark eyes.
"W-Why are you so close?!"
Haru yelped, shoving Lucien back with both hands, his voice a mix of alarm and indignation. He scrambled to sit up, patting himself down as if checking for evidence of a crime. Relief flooded his face when he found nothing amiss. "Thank God," he muttered, his shoulders sagging.
Lucien raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a teasing smirk. "What, disappointed?" he drawled, leaning closer, his voice dripping with mock drama. "You think I'd do something? Oh, Haru, you wound me." He clutched his chest, feigning heartbreak, though his eyes never left Haru's flushed face.
Haru's cheeks burned brighter, his hands flailing as he scooted to the edge of the bed. "N-No way! Y-You stay there!" he stammered, his voice a high-pitched protest. He bolted for the bathroom, nearly tripping over the blanket in his haste, leaving Lucien chuckling in his wake.
"Wow, what a morning,"
Lucien said to the empty room, his laughter softening into a fond smile. He leaned back against the headboard, his mind drifting to the whirlwind of the past few days.
"Dad, you're the best," he murmured, a grin spreading across his face. His father, Richard Caldwell, had sprung the marriage on him with no warning.
"You're getting married," Richard had declared, his tone brooking no argument. Lucien had protested, insisting he wasn't ready, but Richard's word was law. "You have no choice, son. It's done."
Lucien hadn't even bothered to look at the photo, too stubborn to care—until the wedding day, when he'd seen Haru at the altar. Five years had passed since their college days, and yet there he was, the shy boy who'd haunted Lucien's thoughts ever since. "I didn't know it was you, Haru," Lucien whispered, his smile softening. "But I'm so glad it was."
In the bathroom, Haru stood under the shower's spray, letting the water drown out the chaos in his mind. Why was I in bed? he thought, his hands clenching into fists. I know I slept on the sofa.
The memory of waking up tangled with Lucien—his legs draped over him, his hand on Lucien's chest—sent a fresh wave of heat to his face. What did I do? I can't even sleep still. He shook his head, water dripping from his bangs. No, Haru. Don't fall for it. It's his trap. He used you before, and he'll do it again. Don't let him in.
The memories of college—Lucien's teasing smirks, the humiliation, the way he'd made Haru feel small—clawed at him, a reminder to keep his walls up.
Ten minutes later, Haru stepped out of the bathroom, his damp hair clinging to his forehead, his expression guarded. The room was empty, Lucien gone. Haru let out a shaky breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He made his way downstairs, the grand staircase of the mansion looming like a stage he didn't want to perform on.
The house buzzed with the quiet efficiency of staff—maids polishing silver, a gardener clipping roses outside the window. At the dining table, Richard Caldwell sat with a newspaper, his silver hair catching the morning light. Haru hesitated, then approached, his voice soft but polite.
"Good morning, Mr. Caldwell."
Richard looked up, his stern face softening into a warm smile. "Good morning, my dear son. Come, have breakfast." He gestured to a chair, his voice kind but firm, a patriarch used to being obeyed.
Haru sat, his movements careful, as if the opulent dining room might swallow him whole. At that moment, Eleanor Caldwell swept in, her presence as sharp as the click of her heels. Lucien's mother had never hidden her disdain for this marriage—Haru's family, modest and unassuming, was far beneath the Caldwells' wealth in her eyes. Haru offered a tentative smile.
"Good morning, Mrs. Caldwell," he said, his voice small but hopeful.
Eleanor's lips barely twitched. "Morning," she said curtly, her tone as cold as the marble floor. She sat, her eyes narrowing as she leaned forward, a dramatic edge to her voice. "So, how was last night?" Her words dripped with suspicion, a challenge masked as curiosity.
She'd told Lucien before the wedding she'd arrange a divorce, certain he shared her disdain for the match. Lucien had agreed, his indifference clear—until he'd seen Haru at the altar and forgotten everything else.
Haru's fork froze halfway to his mouth. "It… it was nice," he mumbled, his cheeks flushing as he avoided her gaze. He focused on his plate, the eggs suddenly fascinating.
Eleanor's eyes narrowed further, her mind racing. Nice? she thought. Lucien swore he wouldn't touch him. Is he lying? She didn't trust Haru's meek demeanor, suspecting a ploy beneath his shy exterior.
Before the silence could grow heavier, Lucien burst into the room, his hair damp with sweat from a morning jog, his tank top clinging to his frame. Haru's eyes flicked to him, then away, his jaw tightening. Lucien's presence was a storm, disrupting the fragile calm Haru had built. Richard looked up, his smile returning.
"Haru, why don't you go upstairs and help Lucien find his clothes? You're his husband now."
Eleanor's voice cut through like a blade. "No need. He can manage on his own." Her tone was sharp, her disapproval a tangible weight.
Richard's eyes hardened. "No, Haru, you go."
Haru hesitated, his fingers twisting in his lap. He nodded silently, rising from the table and making his way back to the room, his heart pounding with a mix of dread and something he refused to name. Behind him, Lucien's gaze followed, a soft smile playing on his lips.
Haru's flustered retreat, his messy hair, his quiet defiance—it was all so achingly Haru. And Lucien, for all his faults, was already falling deeper into the pull of the boy he'd never stopped thinking about.