The Art of Secrecy
Moving into Adrian’s spacious, modern apartment felt less like a transition and more like a tactical deployment. Luciel’s primary objective? Complete and utter concealment of his rogue biological functions.
Within forty-eight hours, Luciel had established a strict, anxious routine.
The hormone suppressants Dr. Evans prescribed were tucked safely inside an empty, unlabeled vitamin bottle at the very back of his toiletry bag.
But the medicine was slow to work, and his chest was still actively working overtime.
“Okay, just a little longer,” Luciel whispered to himself on his third morning at the apartment.
He stood in the guest bathroom, meticulously applying a fresh pair of disposable nursing pads he had smuggled in from his old apartment.
He smoothed his shirt down, checking every angle in the mirror. Good. Completely invisible.
But he was running dangerously low on his stash.
Panicking at the thought of a catastrophic leak at the café, Luciel had spent the previous evening discretely ordering a bulk supply of premium, ultra-absorbent breast pads online.
To avoid any awkward questions, he used a fake name on the shipping label—L.
Vance—and set the tracking notifications to alert him the exact second the courier arrived.
“If Adrian brings in that package, I will literally evaporate into thin air,” Luciel muttered, adjusting his apron as he prepared to head out for the day.
----
For the past week, Luciel had become a master multitasker.
By day, he took Kai with him to the café.
The baby slept snugly in a bassinet behind the counter, lulled by the whirring of the espresso machine and the gentle jazz music.
The customers adored him, and Luciel found himself fiercely protective of the little blonde bundle.
By night, while Adrian slumped on the couch answering urgent emails from the tech CEO, Luciel took over the nighttime duties—pacing the living room floor, rocking Kai, and whispering soft lullabies.
But on the tenth day of their arrangement, the domestic rhythm shattered.
It started in the afternoon. Kai had been unusually fussy all day, refusing his formula and letting out sharp, pathetic little wails. By the time Adrian got home from work, the baby was completely inconsolable.
“Is he still crying?” Adrian asked, his voice laced with exhaustion as he loosened his tie, stepping into the living room.
“He won’t take the bottle, Adrian. I’ve tried everything,” Luciel said, his face pale with worry as he bounced Kai gently in his arms. The baby’s skin felt radiating, a stark contrast to Luciel’s cool hands.
Adrian stepped closer, placing a large, calloused hand against Kai’s forehead. His green eyes instantly widened with alarm. “Luciel, he’s burning up. He’s completely flushed.”
“Let me get the thermometer,” Luciel said, rushing to the kitchen. When he slid the digital thermometer under Kai’s tiny armpit, the device beeped aggressively a moment later.
102.8°F
“Oh my god,” Adrian breathed, the color draining from his face. The muscular man looked suddenly terrified, his hands trembling as he reached for his son. “That’s too high for a two-month-old. That’s dangerously high.”
“We need to go to the emergency room. Right now,” Luciel said firmly, his maternal—or rather, parental—instincts kicking into overdrive.
In the chaotic scramble that followed, the atmosphere in the apartment turned frantic. Adrian grabbed the diaper bag, accidentally knocking over a stack of mail on the counter, while Luciel carefully bundled a crying, shivering Kai into a warm blanket.
The stress and the piercing sound of Kai’s distressed wails did something unexpected to Luciel’s body. A sudden, heavy ache bloomed deep within his chest. The sharp spikes of adrenaline and emotional distress triggered a massive rush of oxytocin through his system.
Luciel gasped quietly, freezing in his tracks. Oh, no. No, no, no. Not now.
He could feel it immediately—a sudden, hot let-down reflex.
His breasts swelled, tightening painfully against his shirt.
Within seconds, his existing nursing pads were completely saturated, struggling to contain the sudden, heavy rush of milk brought on by the baby’s cries.
The damp warmth began to creep past the edges of the cotton padding.
“Luciel? What’s wrong? Let’s go!” Adrian urged, holding the apartment door open, his green eyes frantic.
“Coming!” Luciel squeaked. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, pressing his elbows against his sides to physically stem the flow and hide any potential damp spots forming on his shirt.
They rushed down the hallway and piled into the elevator, the tension in the small space thick enough to cut with a knife.
Adrian was sweating, his eyes locked on his sobbing son.
Luciel stood right beside him, battling two crises at once: a terrifying fever in his beloved nephew, and a pair of heavily leaking, aching breasts that threatened to expose his deepest secret in the middle of a hospital waiting room.