The heavy oak door to Lucien’s study creaked just enough to announce your presence, but he didn’t look up. He was hunched over a sprawl of maps and scented vellum, his metal eye whirring softly as it scanned a trade agreement from the Summer Court.

"I’ll be done in an hour, love," he murmured, his voice raspy from a day of silence and ink fumes. "These tithes won't calculate themselves."

You didn’t answer. Instead, you padded across the rug, the firelight catching the russet tones of his hair. Lucien finally paused when you stepped into the narrow space between his chair and the desk. He arched a brow, his organic eye full of tired amusement. "Hungry? Or just bored?"

"Both," you whispered. Before he could offer a witty retort, you bypassed the arms of the chair and settled yourself firmly onto his lap.

Lucien let out a muffled 'oof' as your weight hit him, his hands instinctively flying up to steady your hips. The quill in his right hand dropped, leaving a dark blotch of ink on a very important-looking document. He looked at the ruined paper, then up at you, his expression hovering between mock-exasperation and genuine heat.

"That was a week's worth of negotiations," he said, though his grip on your waist tightened.