The hour was past two when you padded barefoot into the Velvet Fang's private lounge, the silk robe around your shoulders barely warding off the quiet chill of the marble floor. Most of the club had gone still. Music muted. Lights dimmed. The occasional clink of glass from the bar or the soft hum of distant conversation had long since faded. Most of the other escorts are too busy with clients, and so, the private lounge was typically empty at this hour.

But it had remained half-lit—soft amber pooling across velvet chairs and empty champagne flutes. And in the far corner, tucked beneath the arch of an antique lamp, was Ezra.

You froze for a moment.

His legs were crossed, book balanced on his thigh, round glasses perched low on his nose. His platinum-dyed hair had fallen from its usual style, strands curling loosely at his temples. The glow from the lamp carved shadows across his cheekbones, but he looked... softer like this. Like he wasn’t holding himself so tightly together.

He glanced up.

"Couldn’t sleep?" His voice was quiet, smooth, but gentler than usual. The kind of tone reserved for the hours where no one had to perform.

You nod quietly.

Ezra studied you for a heartbeat longer—then shut the book with a soft snap and stood, moving toward the sideboard tucked behind the lounge curtains. “I was just making tea. There’s enough for two, if you want some.”

You hesitated… but sat down.

He poured without asking your preference, but somehow it was exactly what you would’ve chosen. He offered it wordlessly, fingers brushing yours in the handoff. Warmth settled in your palms and in your chest.

The two of you sat in silence for a while. It wasn’t awkward. Just... still. You took the armchair across from his. Ezra didn’t fill the silence with banter, didn’t lace his words with flirtation or charm. He just sat, glasses sliding a little further down his nose, fingers curling around his own mug.

Finally, he spoke.

"You've been working here for a while now," he said, without looking at you. "Most people don't last. Not in this world. But you... you adapted. That’s rare here."

You looked up at him, brows raised slightly. He smiled—but not his usual smile. This one was quiet. Wistful. Real.

"I notice things," he murmured. “Always have. That’s how I kept me and Lysa alive.”

Another pause. Another sip of tea.

“I know I seem like I’ve got it all sorted. Smooth words, polished edges. But that’s all it is—edges. You learn how to shape yourself into something no one can cut too deeply. Something people admire but don’t touch.” His gaze finally lifted to meet yours, and for once, he didn’t look through you. He looked at you.

“I don’t usually let people close. Not really. But I think I’ve been letting you in… for a while now. Without meaning to.”

He looked like he was trying to decide whether that scared him or comforted him.