The cut happened sometime after midnight.

Naturally.

Nothing normal ever happened before midnight in the Moretti mansion.

Ivy stood barefoot on a chair in the library trying to reach a book shoved too high on the shelf while muttering insults at rich people and architecture.

“Why are books stored at NBA-player height?”

The chair wobbled slightly beneath her.

Bad sign.

Very bad sign.

She stretched farther anyway.

The book slipped free suddenly—

along with three others.

“Oh, come on—”

The stack crashed downward.

Ivy jerked sideways.

The chair tilted violently.

And strong hands caught her around the waist before she hit the floor.

Everything stopped for one sharp second.

Ivy looked up.

Lucien.

Of course.

Gray sweatpants.

Black long-sleeve shirt pushed slightly above his wrists.

No suit tonight.

No polished mafia king image.

Just Lucien standing much too close beneath warm library light with one arm still locked around her waist.

Her pulse immediately forgot how to behave.

“You’re terrible at existing safely,” he said quietly.

Ivy blinked once.

Then looked down.

One of the fallen books had sliced across the back of his hand.

Blood slid slowly over his knuckles.

“Oh my God.”

Lucien glanced briefly at it.

“It’s nothing.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve survived worse.”

“Great. Inspirational. Sit down.”

Lucien stared at her.

Ivy pointed toward the couch.

“Now.”

Something strange flickered briefly across his face.

Not annoyance.

Surprise.

Still there.

Then he released her waist slowly and sat.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Ivy disappeared toward the hallway bathroom muttering under her breath.

“Everybody in this house acts like blood is a personality trait.”

When she returned carrying bandages and antiseptic, Lucien remained exactly where she left him.

One arm resting across the back of the couch.

The injured hand hanging loosely beside his knee.

Blood still moving slowly across pale skin.

The library looked softer at night.

Fireplace burning low.

Rain tapping quietly against the tall windows.

Most of the mansion asleep upstairs.

Only the two of them awake beneath golden light and shelves full of expensive books nobody probably read.

Ivy sat carefully beside him.

“Give me your hand.”

Lucien looked down at the first-aid supplies.

“You know how to do this?”

“I raised Rosie. I once removed a fishhook from my father’s shoulder using tequila and YouTube.”

Lucien’s eyes lifted slowly back to hers.

“That sentence raised several concerns.”

“It worked.”

“I’m somehow more concerned now.”

Ivy grabbed his wrist gently before he could pull away.

And—

nothing happened.

No flinch.

No immediate withdrawal.

Lucien froze slightly beneath her fingers instead.

Tiny reaction.

Still there.

Interesting.

Ivy noticed immediately.

“You hate being touched.”

The observation came out softer than intended.

Lucien’s jaw shifted once.

“Not hate.”

“That looked pretty hate-adjacent.”

His eyes stayed on her hands.

Not her face.

Her hands.

The room fell quieter somehow.

Ivy poured antiseptic carefully across the cut.

Lucien didn’t react outwardly.

Still—

she felt the tension move through his arm beneath her fingers.

Controlled.

Contained.

“You should probably stop punching people and bookshelves,” she murmured.

“I punched neither.”

“Then how’d this happen?”

Silence.

That answered enough.

Ivy sighed softly.

“You really do spend your nights committing emotional crimes.”

Lucien looked at her now.

Firelight moved faintly across gray eyes gone unusually calm.

“You stayed.”

“What?”

“In the library.” His gaze lingered briefly on her face. “Most people avoid me after seeing violence.”

The words landed quietly between them.

No manipulation.

No self-pity.

Just fact.

Ivy focused carefully on wrapping the bandage around his hand.

“You make it difficult sometimes.”

“I know.”

Another strange silence settled.

Not awkward.

Worse.

Comfortable.

Ivy hated how dangerous that felt.

The bandage slipped slightly beneath her fingers.

Lucien’s hand moved automatically to steady hers.

Skin against skin.

Bare palm against bare palm.

The contact stopped both of them cold.

Lucien’s fingers tightened slightly around hers.

Not enough to trap.

Enough to feel.

Ivy looked up slowly.

Big mistake.

Lucien was already watching her.

Too closely.

The air shifted hard between them.

Fireplace crackling softly nearby.

Rain tapping the windows.

Neither moved.

Lucien’s thumb brushed once unconsciously against the side of her hand.

Tiny movement.

Still enough to send heat sharply up Ivy’s spine.

And Lucien—

Lucien looked almost startled by himself.

Like his body moved before permission arrived.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Ivy swallowed once.

“You’re doing the thing again.”

Lucien’s voice came lower now.

“What thing?”

“The staring.”

His eyes dropped briefly to her mouth.

Then back up.

“I wasn’t aware I stopped.”

That answer hit dangerously hard.

Ivy looked away first.

Survival instincts finally attempting participation.

She focused aggressively on the bandage.

“Okay. Great. Awesome. Hand repaired. Everybody calm down.”

Lucien still hadn’t let go of her hand.

Ivy noticed.

Unfortunately.

“So…” she said carefully. “You can release me now, mafia king.”

His fingers loosened instantly.

Again—

that brief flicker crossed his face.

Something almost frustrated with himself.

Lucien leaned back slowly against the couch.

Distance returning.

Control rebuilding piece by piece.

Ivy suddenly missed the warmth immediately.

Horrible development.

Absolutely horrible.

“You should sleep,” Lucien said quietly.

“That sounded weirdly caring.”

“You look exhausted.”

“I climbed furniture for entertainment.”

“You nearly died reaching for Dostoevsky.”

“That man writes depressing books at dangerous heights.”

A tiny breath of amusement escaped him.

Almost a laugh.

Ivy stared openly now.

“Oh my God.”

Lucien closed his eyes briefly.

“Don’t start.”

“You almost laughed.”

“I didn’t.”

“You’re becoming emotionally available.”

“That sounds unpleasant.”

“It’s terrifying for all of us.”

Lucien shook his head once softly.

The movement looked tired.

Human.

More human than she’d ever seen him.

That realization settled strangely in Ivy’s chest.

The rain softened outside.

The fire burned lower.

And somewhere during the quiet that followed, exhaustion finally caught up to her.

Ivy curled sideways against the couch cushions without really meaning to.

“Five minutes,” she mumbled sleepily.

“You said that an hour ago.”

“That feels fake.”

Lucien looked down at her.

Hair messy.

One sock missing.

Still clutching the first-aid tape loosely in one hand.

She looked entirely too comfortable beside him.

Dangerously comfortable.

Ivy’s eyes drifted shut slowly.

“You’re less scary in sweatpants,” she murmured half-asleep.

Lucien looked toward the fireplace before answering quietly:

“That’s unfortunate.”

A weak laugh escaped her.

Then she fell asleep completely.

The library settled into silence after that.

Rain against windows.

Fire crackling low.

Ivy breathing softly beside him.

Lucien stayed exactly where he was.

One hand still bandaged carefully in white.

The other resting motionless near Ivy’s shoulder on the couch cushion.

He looked down at her sleeping face for a very long time.

No fear there now.

No distance.

Only trust softening the lines of her expression in sleep.

That trust hit harder than knives ever had.

Lucien leaned back slowly against the couch.

And for the first time in years—

he allowed himself to stay still beside another person without pulling away first.