Anri POV
Lucien looked criminally good for someone fresh out of surgery.
He'd shaved—sort of. His stubble had that perfect, effortless scruff that made him look like a Calvin Klein model who'd just escaped a boardroom and landed in my flat. He wore a plain white T-shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows, revealing those forearms that had no business looking that sculpted while holding a bowl of arroz caldo.
I blinked. Twice.
"You're staring," he said without looking up from his spoon.
"No, I'm not."
"You are," he said, mouth curved around a smug grin. "And I like it."
I tossed a dishtowel at him. He caught it with one hand, smirking as if I'd just flirted back.
He wasn't wrong.
Lucien arrived two days after his discharge. I'd been with him the whole time—hospital stay, clearance, the quiet drive back in a discreet black car arranged through some company with no Google presence.
His assistant had still texted over the details—post-op meds, emergency contacts, the usual formality. And then Lucien walked into my flat like he'd always belonged there.
He said the hotel felt "too cold." Said an apartment they owned in Mayfair was "too far." And when I opened my mouth to argue, he'd already dropped his bag by the foot of my bed and asked where I kept the cereal.
That was it.
No overthinking. No big conversation. He just... stayed.
And now, my glorified shoebox of a London apartment smelled like ginger, garlic, and him.
I'd made arroz caldo from memory—extra sticky rice, a boiled egg on top, a handful of scallions, and crushed pork cracklings from the Filipino grocery near the station. My aunt had taught me how to make it years ago, guiding me through each step without ever writing anything down. Lucien said it was the best meal he'd ever had, then went back for seconds with the dedication of a man who meant it.
"Stop cleaning," he said, mouth full. "Come sit."
I wiped my hands and joined him on the couch. He pulled me in immediately, arm slinging across my shoulders, pulling me into his side.
"You're getting clingy," I teased.
"I nearly died," he murmured, pressing a kiss to my temple. "You have to let me cling."
I curled into him, the warmth of his body anchoring something in me I didn't want to admit I'd been missing.
The truth was—I had missed him. More than I'd let myself feel. More than I knew how to say.
Not just the way he looked. Not just the kisses or the late-night banter. I missed this. The easy silence. The way his hand found mine in the dark. The quiet hum in my chest that only seemed to exist when he was near.
He smelled like peppermint mouthwash and cedar-scented laundry detergent—fresh and sharp, with a warmth that lingered. His thumb traced slow circles along my arm. And the longer we stayed like that, the harder it became to pretend I was fine without him.
He shifted slightly, turning his face toward mine.
"I want to kiss you." he murmured.
I didn't answer.
But my eyes held his, and something passed between us—quiet and electric, all heat and history. No one breathed.
I was surprised, but not really. I'd seen it coming, felt it building in the silences and the glances and the way his thumb never stopped moving along my arm.
I just hadn't prepared myself for the moment it would actually happen. My mouth couldn't form a reply, so I just stared at him, like that alone might keep the world still.
Lucien moved closer. His lips brushed against mine—barely there, a whisper of a kiss. It was tentative, like he was asking permission without words, tasting the possibility of me. Then again, just a little firmer this time. He kissed me like I might vanish.
And then I kissed him back.
That was all it took.
The heat between us ignited like dry kindling. His hand slid to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, anchoring me. His tongue traced slowly along the seam of my lips, coaxing, unhurried, until I opened for him.
When our tongues met, it was smooth, slow, and impossibly intimate—like he'd forgotten how I tasted and was relearning with reverence.
His mouth moved against mine with a quiet kind of hunger, a deep, deliberate rhythm that said he wasn't trying to rush through this—he was trying to make it last.
My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer. His body pressed against mine, warm and solid, every breath we took tangled in the space between.
I lost track of time.
It was the kind of kiss that undid me—swept through my ribs and left my thoughts scattered, breath shallow. When we finally broke apart, it wasn't clean. He lingered—one last soft brush of lips, like he couldn't quite let go.
We were both breathing hard, our foreheads resting against each other, lips swollen, skin flushed.
Lucien didn't speak right away. He just looked at me like he wasn't sure if this was real—like he was still catching up to what had just happened between us.
"I missed you so much, Anri...." he whispered into my hair, voice raw, like it scraped its way out of his throat.
Later that night, I cleaned up while Lucien half-sat, half-reclined in bed, scrolling through a spreadsheet like it wasn't 10 p.m. in a tiny apartment with a malfunctioning radiator. He'd propped my laptop on his lap, glasses sliding slightly down his nose.
"Can you not overwork yourself?" I called from the sink.
"I'm healing, not brain-dead."
"You're supposed to be off-duty."
"I am," he said, clicking something. Then he glanced at me over the rim of his glasses. "This is pleasure."
"You're looking at a cash flow document."
He shrugged. "Some people paint. I optimize."
I dried my hands, rolled my eyes, and crossed the room.
"Okay, Tycoon Tantoco. Laptop down."
He set it aside without protest, eyes already on me. "Understood, Nurse Anri."
The way he said it—dry, amused, a little fond—made heat bloom low in my stomach. He reached for me as soon as I was close enough, arms sliding around my waist, and I eased into his lap carefully, mindful of the stitches.
Back on set, the shift was subtle—but there.
People were polite. Too polite.
Jacob didn't joke as much. Andres kept his distance. The makeup artist offered compliments in stiff tones like she was afraid to offend me. The director, who used to bark instructions, now said "please" and "thank you" with a strange carefulness.
I felt it in every glance. Every pause. Every sentence that stopped halfway through.
So I cracked one morning.
"Okay," I blurted to no one in particular, standing outside the wardrobe trailer. "Everyone needs to relax."
A few heads turned.
"I get it. You all think I've transformed into some... scary, fragile socialite who'll sue you if you smudge my lipstick. But I'm still the same girl who eats crackers between takes and complains about the heating."
A pause.
"I'm still here to work. Please don't treat me like glass."
One of the interns snorted. Jacob glanced up from where he was leaning by the craft table, munching on something.
"Well that explains the fancy matcha and the suspiciously specific snack selection this week," he said, walking over. "Was wondering who we had to thank for the daily oat milk delivery."
I blinked. "What?"
He grinned. "You. Obviously. The mysterious Everight treats. The sudden upgrade in greenroom vibes. Don't think we haven't noticed."
"I didn't ask for any of that."
Jacob tilted his head. "No, but someone who's obsessed with you definitely did."
I groaned. "Please don't start."
"Too late," he said, popping a yuzu chip in his mouth. "This entire production has gone full VIP ever since a big-shot investor bled dramatically on set and called you his girlfriend in front of everyone."
"It wasn't dramatic—"
"He carried you out of frame like some billionaire James Bond. You know that, right?"
I covered my face. "Oh my God."
"And now," Jacob continued, counting on his fingers, "the espresso machine suddenly works, the producers smile like they're on painkillers, and we've got imported Japanese jelly on the snack table."
Andres passed by, raising an eyebrow. "I didn't even know you could get half this stuff in London."
"I know," Jacob said. "I googled one of the cookie brands and the store doesn't even have a website. That's next-level courting."
I tried to look annoyed, but it was no use.
Jacob smirked. "Honestly? Respect. I'd fall in love too if someone sent me Hokkaido milk candy every morning."
"Can we not make this a thing?"
"Oh, it's already a thing. We're just lucky we're benefitting from your big-shot boyfriend." he said, winking with a teasing tone.
The tension broke. A few people laughed. The mood lightened. Someone from makeup asked if we could film before the next snack drop, and someone else tossed me a protein bar like it was a peace offering.
By the time the director called action, it felt normal again. Real.
I could breathe.
And when I got home, I was exhausted. Bone-deep. The kind of tired that made your eyelids twitch and your bag feel ten kilos heavier than it was.
My muscles ached from fittings, takes, and emotional scenes. My wig cap was digging into my scalp. I just wanted quiet.
And then the door opened.
Before I could even reach for my key.
Lucien stood there like a reward for surviving the day.
Black shirt, slightly loose at the collar. Grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, clinging a little too well to the lines of his thighs. Barefoot, freshly showered. His dark hair slightly damp, pushed back messily like he'd run his hands through it between meetings.
And his eyes—the first thing I always noticed—lit up the second they found me.
"Welcome home," he said, voice low, warm.
God.
I lit up instantly. Like I'd been holding my breath all day and didn't even realize it.
"Mmm..." I whispered back, already stepping into him.
He didn't hesitate. Just opened his arms and folded me in.
I buried myself in his chest, arms wrapping around his middle, feeling the soft fabric of his shirt and the familiar, steady rise of his breathing beneath it. His palm slid gently over my back, then cupped the base of my neck like he always did when I was overwhelmed but trying not to show it.
"You look tired," he murmured, lips brushing my hair.
"I am," I breathed. "But seeing you helps."
He pulled back slightly and tilted my face up with two fingers beneath my chin.
Lucien looked at me like I was his favorite thing in the world.
"Did you eat?" he asked gently.
I shook my head. "Didn't get the chance."
"Perfect." His mouth curved slightly, dimples threatening. "I ordered dinner."
I blinked. "You did?"
Lucien stepped aside, taking my hand as he guided me in. "Of course I did."
The warmth in my chest turned molten.
Our fingers stayed laced as we walked down the hallway. The heater was on. The living room was dimly lit with warm light. And on the small table we'd claimed as our own sat a spread that honestly made me want to kiss him.
Steamed rice. Grilled salmon with yuzu glaze. Roasted eggplant. A pumpkin miso soup still steaming in a ceramic bowl. Even the lemon tart I loved from that café two train stops away. A bottle of yuzu soda already opened, fizzing faintly beside two tumblers.
"You've been busy," I said quietly.
Lucien gave a one-shouldered shrug, like spoiling me was no big deal. "Meetings were boring. I needed something to look forward to."
My throat tightened.
He dropped my hand only to reach for the plates, setting them out properly, folding a napkin. Like this was normal. Like this wasn't the heir to a dynasty making sure I ate something warm before bed.
I stepped behind him, wrapping my arms around his middle and pressing my cheek between his shoulder blades.
"You're too good to me," I whispered.
He covered my hands with his. "Not even close."
I held on a moment longer before he turned, arms still around me, and brushed a kiss against my temple.
"Sit down," he murmured. "You've done enough today. Let me take care of you."
So I sat. Let him spoon rice onto my plate. Let him fill my cup. Let him lean in and wipe a speck of sauce from my cheek like we'd been doing this for years.
I felt safe. I felt loved.
And for the first time in a long time—I wasn't fighting it.