"…Honestly? I want to commit several misdemeanors."
Lucius lets out a quiet laugh—the sound is low and warm, the kind of laugh that wraps around my spine and squeezes.
"There she is," he murmurs. "My favorite criminal."
I glare. "I'm serious. I feel like throwing Dante off the balcony."
"That's a felony," he says. "Not a misdemeanor."
"Semantics."
He smiles, and something in me cracks; I can feel it in my chest, a soft seam splitting open, and before I can stop myself—"I don't… hate that you're here."
Why would I say that? Why?
I immediately regret everything, I don't know what it is about this fucking guy that makes me lose every ounce of critical thinking—but it's going to kill me. Probably literally.
Lucius goes still, his hand slowing on the small of my back. "…Good," he says quietly. "Because I don't hate being here."
The admission sits on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I clear my throat and try to brush it off, "You don't hate business summits?"
