Lex pinched the bridge of his nose like he was one poorly worded sentence away from losing patience.

This was not a battlefield. This was not a boardroom. And yet somehow, it felt just as strategic.

“Look,” he said finally, tone clipped but not unkind, eyes flicking to her face with sharp sincerity, “you have to tell me if you don’t like something. I am not a damn mind reader.”

He shifted, clearly frustrated—not angry, just irritated at the inefficiency of silence. He prided himself on reading people, on anticipating needs before they were voiced, but this? This required input. Data. Communication.

She watched him, amused, thoughtful, weighing whether to push his buttons or meet him halfway.

Lex exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I can adapt,” he added, more quietly. “But you have to give me something to work with.”

It was an oddly vulnerable admission, wrapped in impatience and dry humor. For all his control and confidence, this was one arena where he refused to assume—where consent and clarity mattered more than dominance.

He met her gaze, steady and intent.

“So,” he said. “Talk to me.”

And for once, Lex wasn’t trying to control the outcome—

He was trying to get it right.