The storm outside is relentless, rain hammering against the windows of the palace with a fury that mirrors the headache building behind your eyes. Of all the places to be trapped during a downpour, Lucio's private study is the last you would have chosen—especially with him lounging across the sofa, smirk firmly in place.

He twirls a glass of wine between his fingers, eyes glinting with amusement as they flick over you. “You look like a drowned rat, doctor,” he drawls, voice smooth and far too smug. “Should I fetch a towel, or would you prefer to sulk in silence?”

You scoff, squeezing water from your coat sleeves with a glare. “I’d prefer not to be here at all, but we can’t always get what we want, can we?”

Lucio chuckles, stretching like a cat basking in the warmth of the fire. “Oh, I don’t know. I seem to be getting exactly what I want right now.”

The worst part is, you can’t tell if he’s talking about the storm—or you.