6. Michael
Chapter six
Michael
M ichael woke slowly, pleased to find he hadn’t completely smothered Henri during the night, though they were still tangled together. Henri stirred in his arms, turning to face him with a soft, sleepy sound.
Michael tightened his hold, drawing Henri closer against his chest. Henri melted into the embrace without hesitation, his body relaxing completely as though this was exactly where he belonged.
His face was peaceful in the morning light, free of the tension that had marked it the night before.
The soft rise and fall of his breathing, the way his lashes rested against his cheeks, the slight part of his lips.
Something warm unfurled in Michael’s chest as he studied Henri’s features.
He’d never been one to believe in love at first sight.
Had always thought it was romantic nonsense, the stuff of movies and novels.
But if he were the type to believe in such things, if he allowed himself to entertain the possibility, this moment would make a compelling argument.
Henri’s eyes fluttered open, meeting Michael’s gaze. A small, genuine smile curved his lips. “Morning,” he murmured, voice sleep-rough.
“Morning,” Michael replied softly, unable to resist pressing gentle kisses along Henri’s jaw. Henri hummed contentedly, tilting his head to give Michael better access.
They lay there for several minutes, neither wanting to break the peaceful moment. Henri’s fingers traced lazy patterns on Michael’s chest while Michael’s hand smoothed through his hair.
“Stay here,” Michael said eventually, pressing one more kiss to Henri’s temple. “Relax. No rush. I’ll get breakfast started.”
“You sure?” Henri asked, though he made no move to leave the warmth of the bed.
“Absolutely.” Michael reluctantly disentangled himself and stood, pulling on yesterday’s clothes.
As he headed toward the door, he glanced back. Henri had already shifted to Michael’s side of the bed, face buried in Michael’s pillow, arms wrapped around it. The image sent another wave of warmth through Michael’s chest.
He smiled and headed downstairs, already planning pancakes in his head.
The kitchen felt too quiet without Henri’s presence, so Michael hummed softly while he worked.
He mixed the batter from scratch, heated the griddle, and prepared coffee with generous cream and sugar.
Henri seemed like he’d have a sweet tooth, and the thought made Michael smile.
Something about imagining Henri’s face lighting up at the first sweet sip felt unbearably endearing.
He was flipping the last of the first batch when Henri appeared in the doorway, the borrowed sleep pants rode low on his hips, and Michael’s shirt hung loose on his frame.
“Perfect timing,” Michael said, sliding a plate across the marble counter. Steam rose from the golden stack, and Henri’s eyes widened slightly.
Henri wrapped both hands around the coffee mug Michael had left for him, inhaling deeply before taking a tentative sip. His face relaxed into surprise. “How’d you know how I take my coffee?”
“Lucky guess.” Michael flipped another pancake onto the growing stack, glancing over to catch Henri’s skeptical expression.
“Bullshit,” Henri said, but he was smiling.
Michael just grinned, focusing on sprinkling fresh blueberries onto the pancake still cooking. He could feel Henri watching him, could sense the quiet contentment radiating from where he sat at the breakfast island.
Henri cut into his pancakes, studying the bite before taking it. His eyes closed briefly as he chewed. “These are incredible. I haven’t had pancakes since I was a kid.”
“Really ?” Michael turned to face him fully, spatula still in hand. “Not a breakfast person?”
Henri’s fork paused halfway to his mouth.
“No, it’s...” He set the fork down, pushing a blueberry around his plate with his finger.
“Marc keeps me on this special diet. You know, for bottoms.” The words came out matter-of-fact, like he was discussing the weather.
“Lots of protein, limited carbs. Though these are definitely worth breaking it for.”
He took another bite, but Michael had gone very still.
The soft sizzle of butter on the griddle suddenly seemed too loud. Michael turned off the heat and moved the pan aside, then walked around the island to sit beside Henri.
“Sorry,” Henri said quickly, his shoulders tensing. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know why I—”
“Don’t apologize.” Michael reached for the syrup bottle, his movements deliberate and calm. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”
He poured syrup generously over his own pancakes, then held the bottle over Henri’s plate. Henri started to shake his head, but Michael was already drizzling it over the stack.
“Eat what you like, Henri,” Michael said, setting the bottle down and cutting into his own breakfast.
Henri stared at his syrup-soaked pancakes. “I... I don’t really choose for myself much.” His laugh was soft, confused. “Even when I go out without Marc, I stick to what I know he’d approve of. It’s easier that way.”
Michael chewed slowly, waiting.
“Honestly,” Henri continued, his voice growing smaller, “I’m not even sure what I like anymore. It’s been so long since I had to think about it.”
Michael set down his fork, studying Henri’s face in the morning light streaming through the kitchen windows. “Then we’ll figure it out.” He kept his voice gentle, matter-of-fact. “Starting with breakfast. Do you like the blueberries?”
Henri chewed thoughtfully, considering the question as if it were a complex business problem. “I... yeah. I think I do.”
“Good. We can try other things too—strawberries, chocolate chips, bananas.” Michael took another bite of his own pancakes, letting the offer settle naturally.
Henri’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “You’d make different kinds?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Michael reached for his coffee, the question genuinely puzzling him. “Food should be something you enjoy.”
A small smile tugged at Henri’s lips. “Maybe we could try banana tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.”
They finished eating in comfortable quiet, Henri taking his time with each bite like he was cataloging the experience. When he finally pushed his plate away, he slumped back in his chair with a satisfied exhale.
“I’m so full.” He pressed a hand to his stomach, looking almost surprised. “I can’t remember the last time I felt this full.” He laughed softly. “Marc would be furious. He hates when I’m bloated.”
The laughter died as quickly as it came, Henri’s expression shifting to something apologetic. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Michael said firmly. He reached over and rubbed Henri’s stomach fondly. “I love a good food baby.”
Henri shoved his hand away with a playful swat, a genuine smile breaking through. “Stop that.”
Michael grinned and stood, gathering their plates. “Never.”
Henri immediately pushed back from the counter. “Let me help—”
“I’ve got it,” Michael said, already moving toward the sink. “Just rinsing and loading the dishwasher.”
But Henri was already at the griddle, scraping off remnants of pancake batter with focused efficiency. “At least let me do this.”
Michael paused at the sink, watching Henri’s careful movements. “You don’t have to earn your keep here, you know.”
Henri’s hands stilled for just a moment. “I like to be useful,” he said quietly, but his smile was genuine when he glanced over.
Michael stepped behind him, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.”
They finished cleaning in companionable silence, Henri methodical with the griddle while Michael loaded the dishwasher. When everything was put away, Michael led him to the living room.
The oversized sectional dominated the space—all cream leather and overstuffed cushions. Michael settled into the corner and pulled Henri down beside him, then guided him to lean back against his chest.
Henri melted into the position with a contented sound. “This couch is ridiculous. Like being hugged by a cloud.”
Michael wrapped his arms around Henri’s waist, feeling the tension in his shoulders gradually ease. They sat like that for several minutes, Henri’s breathing growing deeper as he relaxed fully for what might have been the first time since arriving in London.
“We should talk about last night,” Michael said eventually, his voice low against Henri’s ear. “About Marc.”
Henri’s body went rigid immediately. “My phone—I left it upstairs—”
“Stay.” Michael’s arms tightened gently, keeping him in place. “What time is it in Porte du Coeur right now?”
Henri’s breathing had quickened, but he answered. “Just after three in the morning.”
“Is Marc usually awake at three AM?”
“No.” Henri’s voice was small. “He doesn’t get up until five on weekdays. Seven on weekends.”
“Then we have time.” Michael pressed his lips to Henri’s temple. “Help me understand what happened last night.”
Henri was quiet for so long that Michael wondered if he would refuse to answer. His fingers traced anxious patterns on Michael’s forearm, and Michael could feel the rapid beat of his heart against his chest.
“Take your time,” Michael murmured, pressing another gentle kiss to Henri’s temple.
Henri’s breathing gradually slowed. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “I’ve been his since I was seven.”
Michael’s hand stilled on Henri’s arm. “His?”
“It’s...” Henri’s fingers twisted in the fabric of his borrowed shirt. “Not many people know the whole story. Gabriel does now. Marc, obviously. Jean knows pieces.” He swallowed hard. “But no one knows everything.”
“I’m listening,” Michael said softly.
Henri leaned deeper into Michael’s chest, as if drawing strength from the contact.
“La Sauvegarde almost went under when I was seven. The market crash hit us hard, and we would have lost everything.” His voice grew distant, remembering.
“Father was desperate. Olivier Saint-Clair offered to save us with an exclusive insurance contract worth millions.”