Chapter 9 – Lenoire
CHAPTER
NINE
LENOIRE
I’m awake before she is.
Not because I slept well—I haven’t—but because rest, for me, has always been a matter of timing rather than comfort, and timing, at the moment, is something I can’t afford to miscalculate more than I already have.
For the longest while, I don’t move. There’s no immediate need to.
The apartment is quiet in that particular early-morning way where even the city seems to hesitate, the light filtering in through the windows soft enough to leave most of the room in shadow.
All of it is familiar except for the fact that I’m not alone in it.
Magnolia shifts beside me, not abruptly, but gradually, the kind of movement that signals awareness returning in stages.
I register it without turning, tracking it the same way I track everything else—without urgency, without reaction, simply noting that the situation has shifted from temporary stillness to something more active.
Which means the window for a clean separation is closing.
I allow my gaze to settle on the ceiling, following the lines of exposed beams overhead as I run through the events of the night again, not out of habit but necessity.
Entry was clean, the execution precise. Exit without incident.
No alarms triggered, no immediate interference.
By every standard that matters, the job was successful.
But there is now a variable I did not account for. One that is currently lying in my bed, breathing evenly, and very likely already awake.
“Are you actually asleep,” Magnolia murmurs after a moment, her voice still rough at the edges, “or are you just pretending so you don’t have to deal with me yet?”
There’s a faint thread of humor in it, light enough that most people would take it at face value.
I don’t.
“I’m awake,” I answer evenly.
There’s a soft exhale beside me, something that might be a laugh, and I can already feel the direction this is going in before she says another word.
Which means I need to redirect it before it settles somewhere less manageable.
“You should probably head out soon,” I tell her. I don’t soften my tone or choose my words carefully. There’s no practical reason to. The statement isn’t personal, and framing it as such would only complicate something that doesn’t need further complication.
There’s a shift beside me as she turns, more fully now, her attention settling on me in a way that is distinctly more focused than it was a moment ago. “Good morning to you, too.”
“It’s not a dismissal,” I clarify, finally turning my head just enough to meet her gaze. “It’s a precaution.”
Magnolia hums as if considering this, but the look she gives me suggests she’s already decided what she thinks of it. “Feels a little like a dismissal.”
“It isn’t.”
“So you’re not kicking me out,” she says slowly, “you’re just…strategically encouraging my departure.”
“Yes.”
She takes a moment, not reacting immediately, but pushing back either. Not initially anyway. “I’m not leaving yet.”
There it is.
Exhaling slowly, I swallow down the frustration lightly simmering at the surface. This is not unexpected. It is, however, inconvenient. “Magnolia—”
“No,” she interjects. “You don’t get to do that.”
My gaze settles on her more fully now. “Do what?”
“Pretend that last night was something you can just set aside. Like it doesn’t affect anything else.”
“It doesn’t,” I reply.
That is both the most efficient answer, and the most accurate one, too.
She doesn’t believe me, though. I can see it written all over her beautiful face.
“Yeah, sure, how convenient.” And somehow that response aligns with everything else I’ve seen from her so far.
She doesn’t disengage, she presses, and that is where the situation becomes less straightforward than it should be.
Before I can redirect it again, my phone vibrates against the nightstand, the sound cutting cleanly through the space between us in a way that feels like it’s begging to be acknowledged.
I reach for it without much thought, more instinct than urgency, my gaze flicking briefly to the screen as a name lights up against the dim glow. It’s Elliot, prompting me to silence it almost immediately and turn the phone face down onto the nightstand again without answering it.
He knows better than to call this early.
If it’s urgent, a text will suffice.
Magnolia notices because of course she does. She seems to notice everything, the chaos queen she is. “You’re not going to get that?”
“Not now.” That’s it, that’s all I offer, already moving past it in a way that should signal the conversation is closed.
There’s a quiet hum of acknowledgment from her, and when I glance back, she’s watching me in that same open, unguarded way she seems to default to. “You’re very committed to this whole compartmentalization thing, aren’t you?” she questions.
“Yes.”
“And it actually works?”
“For what it’s designed to do, yes.”
“Which is?”
“Maintain control.”
She lets that sit between us for a beat, her gaze lingering, clearly searching for an answer I haven’t given her.
For whatever reason, it’s unnerving, enough that I sit up slowly, creating space where there wasn’t any.
It gives me just enough distance to reestablish a boundary that should have been there from the start.
“You really should leave,” I say again, not unkindly, but without any adjustments.
“And I said no,” she fires back.
Exhaling harshly, my gaze drifts briefly to the far wall as I let the response sink in, weighing it the way I weigh everything—against risk, against outcome, against the version of this situation that ends cleanly instead of like this.
She should go.
This is still the correct decision.
But when I steal a peek at her from over my shoulder, she hasn’t made a single move to get up, hasn’t reached for her clothes or made any gesture toward leaving. Instead, she’s watching me, patient in a way that gives this energy like she’s waiting for me to make a different decision.
And the moment I expel another breath, I realize I’m fucked.
“This is temporary,” I relay firmly, rising to feet if nothing but for control. “You can stay until I’m satisfied you won’t turn last night into a problem.”
Magnolia arches a brow, her mouth curving slightly. Something almost pleased paints over her features, but she reins it in quickly. “You have a very specific way of offering people hospitality.”
“This isn’t hospitality,” I clarify.
“It kind of is,” she counters, pushing herself upright as she holds the sheet against her chest. “It’s just aggressively framed.”
I don’t respond to that because it doesn’t require one.
She knows I’m not going to, either, smirking as I pull a fresh pair of briefs and a sports bra from my dresser.
That I was almost expecting, but watching her rise from my bed—completely naked—nearly trips me over my own two feet as I step into my underwear.
She was a sight to be seen last night, but in the light of day.
Fuck.
The sight of all her curves makes my mouth water in seconds flat, forcing me to dress faster, to exit the room and put some much needed space between us before I push her onto the bed and bury my face between her delicious legs again.
It’s not until I’m in the kitchen, setting the coffee pot to brew, that I feel like I can breathe again.
The task doesn’t take much time, though, and it’s not long until I find myself collecting ingredients for a whole meal.
I’m not sure why. I don’t normally have time to make myself an elaborate breakfast in the mornings.
Usually, I just pop a bagel into the toaster, slather on some cream cheese with everything bagel seasoning, and rush out the door to my day job.
The legal one where I manage people’s finances.
But that’s neither here nor there at the moment.
“Do you always cook after a sleepover?” Magnolia’s voice meets my ears. “Or is this just for me?”
I still for a split-second, then proceed to crack another egg into the bowl without uttering a word.
What surprises me is that she allows the silence to fill the space between us.
I hear the moment she sits on one of the stools, and the light tap of her thumb against the screen of her phone, but other than that, she doesn’t force a conversation.
For some people, the quiet is unpleasant.
It makes them paranoid or anxious, or both.
For me, it’s preferred.
It’s when I do my best work, when I lock in and hone my focus, which is how I set a plate of scrambled eggs, waffles, and a small bowl of mixed fruits in front of her in under ten minutes.
She looks down at it, then back up at me, something softer settling across her expression before it reverts back to one I know to be more familiar. “You’re full of contradictions, you know that?”
“If you say so.”
“I do,” she insists with a soft chuckle, picking up her fork. “You just don’t categorize it that way.”
Turning to pour the now freshly brewed coffee into two mugs, I let that one go unanswered, too. The tension doesn’t dissipate, though. If anything, it feels like the live wire from last night has returned.
“You’re going to do it again, aren’t you,” she asks after a beat.
“Do what?”
“Act like this is nothing,” she gestures lightly between us, “like it fits neatly into whatever system you’ve built for yourself.”
“It does.” I meet her gaze without hesitation.
“And me?”
“That’s not relevant.”
She studies me for a moment longer, then exhales softly, something almost amused threading through it. “That’s not true,” she murmurs, stating it like a fact she’s already accepted.
I don’t correct her, but I don’t confirm it either. I simply watch as she sets her fork down and hops off the stool, coming around the counter to where I stand. She doesn’t crowd me, but she’s close enough that I swear I can feel her.
Smell her.
Smell me on her.
“You can keep pretending if you want,” she adds, her voice quieter now, warmer in a way that doesn’t quite belong in this room, “but you made me breakfast.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Mhmm,” she hums, unconvinced, her gaze holding mine a second longer than necessary. “We’ll see about that.”