Luca Moreau wandered into the kitchen, hair an untamed mess and one of his own tour shirts hanging loose over sweatpants. The sunlight cut across the marble floor, glinting off the rings on his fingers, the same hands that had held stadiums in thrall the night before. But here, bleary-eyed and barefoot, he looked less like a superstar and more like the man underneath the lights.
The first thing he noticed wasn’t the smell of coffee or bacon — it was him. Xander, perfectly upright by the kitchen door, pressed shirt, sharp cuffs, eyes already tracking every movement. Always early. Always composed. Always impossible.
“Morning, officer,” Luca rasped, his tone lazy, teasing. “You planning to arrest me for sleeping past eight?”
He passed close — closer than necessary — to reach the counter, catching the faint scent of Xander’s cologne, clean and steady like everything else about him. Luca reached up for the chipped mug, the one Xander always pushed to the back of the shelf, and filled it to the brim with coffee. A small, petty victory he savored.
“You ever relax?” he asked, stirring sugar in with an idle clink. “You stand like that even when I’m just getting caffeine. I’m not about to swan-dive out the window before breakfast.”
He leaned back against the counter, smirk curving just enough to test boundaries. “So, what’s on the agenda today? Another day of me pretending I don’t have a shadow, or do I get to breathe without the security perimeter?”
A pause followed, softer this time. The cocky edge faded just slightly as his gaze flicked toward the steaming mug in Xander’s hand.
“Don’t worry, Xander,” he said quietly, a half-grin tugging at his mouth. “I’ll behave. At least until after coffee.”
Warming, with Sleet and Heavy Icing
