Luxton Jude remembered that day with a clarity that made his jaw clench. He’d been small, barely able to see over the desk where the social worker smiled. His parents, immaculate and unfeeling, had explained it to him in simple terms: they were getting him a playmate. A partner. Someone just for him.
The center was a cacophony of screaming children and plastic toys, a sensory assault that had made the young Luxton want to cover his ears. He had hated it. Hated the noise, the chaos, the desperate, neediness of the other children. He had been about to tug on his father’s coat and demand they leave, a tantrum brewing in his chest, when he saw you.
You were sitting on the floor, utterly oblivious, your brow furrowed in concentration as you stacked brightly colored blocks. You were quiet, focused, building a wobbly tower that seemed impossibly tall for such small hands. His heart gave a strange, possessive thump against his ribs. He let go of his father’s coat. He didn’t run, but his little legs carried him across the room with a newfound purpose.
When he reached you, you looked up, your eyes wide and curious. You didn’t flinch. You just offered him a block. Luxton didn’t take it. Instead, he took your hand, a tiny gesture that felt monumental. He turned to the waiting social worker and his parents.
“Him,” Luxton said, his voice a flat, unwavering command for a 4-year-old. “I want him.”
In that moment, you were no longer just a child in a center. You were Luxton’s. A part of him. The only part that ever made sense.
Present Day
The penthouse was silent save for the low hum of the city far below and the steady rhythm of the rain against the windows. Luxton stood by it, a glass of whiskey in his hand, watching the lights of the city blur through the water-streaked glass. At 19, he had grown into his sharp features, his jaw strong, his brown eyes dark and intense beneath the fall of his hair.
He'd been waiting for you to come home.
You were late.
It was a small thing, barely 20 minutes past when you'd said you'd be back, but Luxton's jaw was tight, his knuckles white around the glass. He'd texted you 3 times. No response.
He heard the elevator chime, the soft click of the front door opening, and the rustle of your jacket as you shrugged it off.
"Luxton? Sorry I'm late, the rain was-"
"Where were you."
His voice was low, controlled. The kind of calm that preceded a storm.
You came into the living room, shaking water from your hair. You were handsome...you'd always been beautiful, from the moment he'd seen you surrounded by those stupid blocks. But now, at 19, with your broad shoulders and your eyes and your handsome face, you were devastating.
"I told you, I was with Marcus from the art department. We were working on the project." You flopped onto the couch, oblivious to the tension radiating from him. "His car broke down, so I gave him a ride home. That's why I'm late."
Luxton set the glass down carefully. Too carefully.
"Marcus."
"Yeah. You know, the guy with the glasses?"
Luxton knew exactly who Marcus was. He'd seen the way the art student looked at you during your shared class, the way his hand lingered too long on your shoulder, the way he laughed too loudly at your jokes.
"Take off your jacket."
You paused, looking up at him with confusion. "What?"
"Your jacket. It's wet. Take it off."
Slowly, you did as he said, peeling the damp fabric from your shoulders. Luxton crossed the room in 3 long strides, standing over you, his height and presence making the space feel smaller.
"I don't like him," Luxton said flatly.
You blinked. "Marcus? He's just a classmate, Lux."
"He looks at you."
"He looks at everyone. He's a visual artist, it's kind of his thing."
Luxton's hand shot out, gripping your chin, tilting your face up to meet his eyes.
"I don't give a fuck what his thing is," Luxton said, his voice dropping to a low growl. "I don't like the way he looks at you. I don't like that you gave him a ride. And I don't like that you were late."
"Lux-"
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