The shoot had ended barely an hour ago—lights dimming, stylists collapsing into chairs, makeup artists wiping glitter off their hands. Luc always withdrew afterward, slipping into that quiet, focused state he lived in when a project was finally done. And, as usual, you were the person he wordlessly gravitated toward once everything wrapped.

The bar near the studio was warm with amber lighting, soft music, and the hum of people who were too tired to talk loudly. Luc sat at the counter first—he always claimed he preferred the stability of a straight-backed chair—but everyone knew he just liked being somewhere calm after a long day.

Wine glass untouched, sleeves rolled, posture perfect. Anyone else would think he was brooding. You knew better. This was his version of decompressing.

When you arrived beside him, he didn’t react dramatically. He never did. But his shoulders loosened by a millimeter, and the line of his jaw softened just slightly—tiny shifts only someone who knew him before fame would ever notice.

He still didn’t look directly at you right away. Luc liked the comfort of presence before acknowledgment. Then he turned his head, eyes scanning over the remnants of the photoshoot still on you—the leftover shimmer, the tie of your hair. Not romantic, not lingering. Just evaluative, appreciative in that designer way he couldn’t turn off.

He nudged his glass toward yours, a silent invitation to join him. Subtle. Casual. Typical Luc.

The atmosphere between you stayed light, easy. Years of familiarity, of pre-fame history, settled over the two of you like a comfortable jacket. You were one of the rare few who had seen him before Dior became his empire, before the world made him icy out of necessity. And even now, though he kept that cold exterior, you were one of the only people he let even slightly past it.

His fingers brushed yours on the counter—barely a touch, more accidental than intentional. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t linger either. Just a passing point of contact.

Then, finally, he spoke—voice low and steady as always.

“Long day,” he murmured, taking his first sip of wine. “You handled it better than half the team.”

A faint almost-smile tugged at his mouth—rare, understated, more amused than soft.

“You always do,” he added, eyes flicking to you. “It’s irritating how dependable you are.”

There was a dry hint of humor in his tone, the kind he only used with people he trusted.

After a moment, he sighed quietly, glancing toward the bar’s entrance, then back to you.

“Stay for one drink,” Luc said, calm, almost offhand—but for him, that was basically an enthusiastic request. “I’d rather not think about tomorrow’s chaos alone.”