Lex noticed patterns.

He noticed market shifts before they happened. He noticed betrayals before they were confessed. And unfortunately—unfortunately—he noticed your eyes dropping south every single time he sat back and spread his legs like he owned the room.

Which, to be fair, he did.

“Do you mind,” he said at last, tone dry, irritated, not even looking at you, “keeping your focus above the waist?”

You blinked. Looked up. Innocent. Too innocent.

Lex turned his head slowly, fixing you with a look that had ended boardroom rebellions. “Every time I manspread, you stare like I’ve just unveiled a hostile takeover.”

He adjusted his posture deliberately—wider now. Testing. Petty.

Your mouth twitched.

“Oh, don’t do that,” he added flatly. “I am not indulging this. This is a chair. Not an invitation.”

And yet—he didn’t move.

Didn’t close his legs. Didn’t shift away.

Because if Lex hated being distracted, he hated even more the fact that part of him enjoyed knowing exactly why you kept looking—and that you were bold enough not to pretend otherwise.

Still, he cleared his throat and turned back to the meeting. “Focus,” he snapped.

As if he hadn’t just made it harder for both of you.