Chapter 6 – Lenoire
CHAPTER
SIX
LENOIRE
We should part ways.
That would be the most logical conclusion to this situation. A clean separation, no lingering factors or unnecessary complications carried onward simply because neither of us had the sense to disengage when we should have.
And yet even knowing this… I don’t push for it to happen.
We’ve already put several blocks between ourselves and Preston Blake’s empire by the time the thought embeds itself deep in my mind.
Magnolia walks beside me, her pace now uneven in a way that has nothing to do with fatigue and everything to do with the gradual shift happening beneath the surface.
The adrenaline that carried her through the job hasn’t faded in entirety.
No, it’s simply changing shape, her awareness turning inward now that there’s nothing left to react to.
“I… I feel like that was too easy,” she stammers after a while, her voice much quieter than I’ve heard before. “Like, we just walked in and out and now… That’s it? That’s the whole thing?”
“For tonight,” I affirm.
She exhales deeply, raking a hand through her hair as she glances over her shoulder for a split-second, then forward again. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“It’s not supposed to.”
“I think I’m waiting for something. An alarm, sirens, someone yelling, something that tells me that actually happened.”
“It did,” I chuckle. “The response just isn’t immediate.”
Her footing falters, and she stills, forcing me to stop as well. “That’s not comforting.”
“Again, it’s not supposed to be,” I repeat.
Magnolia laughs quietly, the sound filled with something that wasn’t there before.
Delayed processing is common. The body typically responds first, then the mind follows, slower and far less efficiently.
And when it finally does, the average person tends to overcorrect.
Left unchecked, that leads to poor decisions.
Regret.
Confessions.
She adjusts the bag on her shoulder for the millionth time, her fingers tightening briefly around the strap until her knuckles turn a concerning shade of white. “We really did that,” she murmurs.
I nod. “Yes.”
“And now we just…go home?”
“Yes.”
Another pause stretches between us, longer this time. I motion for her to follow me, and thankfully, she does.
“So we just pretend we didn’t commit a felony?”
“You’re free to process it however you’d like,” I affirm. “But yes, that’s typically what I do once the job is fully complete.”
Another laugh rents the cool air, though this time it’s laced with a hint of delirium. “I think… I think I might spiral,” she laughs again. “Not immediately, but…soon. Definitely soon.”
Which is exactly how we end up at my apartment.
For as much as I wanted the quiet solitude of my space to decompress in peace, I couldn’t leave her to manage the aftermath alone.
Not yet anyway. It’s too soon, and the likelihood of everything going sideways because the guilt eats her alive is more than I’m willing to bargain.
I’ve made it over a decade without incident.
I’m not about to let the one night I allowed a straggler to tag along to be my demise.
Problem is, my apartment is not designed to accommodate other people for more than a few hours, a fact that becomes abundantly clear the moment she steps inside.
While the space appears open and spacious, it’s structured for one and intentionally sparse.
Exposed red brick runs along the far wall, steel beams and piping cutting across the ceiling.
Floor to ceiling windows allow for a curtain of light during the day, and industrial fixtures prioritize function over comfort.
The furniture, all chosen meticulously, follows the same logic: iron and glass, everything placed with purpose and nothing left without one.
There’s no clutter, no excess of anything.
No indication that anyone other than me exists within it.
Just the way I like it.
Magnolia shuts the door behind herself as she takes everything in, her gaze filled with so much curiosity, it almost feels a bit intrusive. “So um… You live like this on purpose, huh?”
Here we go.
“Yes,” I reply evenly.
“It’s very…organized,” she continues, dropping her bag beside mine.
“It is, yes.”
“Very minimalistic industrial vibes.”
“Yes, again,” I grit slightly.
Those hazel eyes meet mine then, what looks like the smallest shiver racking down her spine. “A little intimidating, too, if I’m being honest.”
That, at the very least, is accurate.
Nodding in agreement, I make my way into the kitchen as the realization hits me like a ton of bricks.
This was a mistake, a big one at that. A hotel would have been more appropriate for this.
Neutral, temporary territory, entirely impersonal and devoid of this—whatever the hell this is.
But it’s too late. She’s already here, and I can’t let her leave until I know she won’t be a problem for either one of us.
And a part of me, a very small, very stupid part of me doesn’t want her to leave, either.
“Would you like a drink?” I question, inhaling a fortifying breath.
‘Cause I definitely need one.
“Yes, please. Also, where’s your bathroom?”
I gesture with a tip of my chin to the stairs at end of the room leading up to loft. “In the bedroom, en suite. And what would you like? I have whiskey and tequila.”
“Tequila,” she says over her shoulder, heading in the direction I just sent her.
I force my eyes away with a quickness, trying my damnedest not to allow the lingering image of her walking away to ingrain itself in my brain and morph into something it has no business envisioning.
It’s happened enough throughout the course of the evening, and it’s proving to be one hell of an inconvenience.
Inconvenient because my baser needs don’t seem to understand that now is not the time for this shit.
But she’s here, and she’s—
Shut up, please shut up, I think to myself, pouring our drinks as her footsteps fade into the background. Only when I hear the distant click of the bathroom door, the sounds of the city muffled behind the windows, do I exhale a flustered breath and allow myself a moment to recalibrate.
A moment I shouldn’t need. The fact I do only irritates me more than I already am. None of this should be so difficult. I’m a composed being by nature who’s not easily flustered or distracted. And yet, a couple hours with her, and suddenly I don’t know how to function?
Make it make sense.
I don’t have time for this, I really don’t because when we finally go our separate ways, I need to be certain she’s going to keep her mouth shut. Not to mention, I’m not entirely sure she’s gay. Are there little things that make me think she could be? Sure. But she hasn’t expressly sa—
“Uh, Lenoire?”
I turn at the unexpected sound of my name and find her one hand braced against the railing. The other holds something I recognize immediately.
“So, uh, questionnn,” she drawls jovially. “What exactly is this?”
Taking a long sip from my glass, I hold her stare from over the rim before setting it back down onto the concrete counter. “Put it back.”
She doesn’t, of course. Instead, her lips curves slightly in amusement as she continues to look at me like this is a puzzle she fully intends to solve.