Morning Shades and Silent Tensions

The first rays of dawn filtered through the thick curtains of the Caldwell mansion, painting the bedroom in soft hues of gold and ash. Lucien stirred, the comforting weight on his chest pulling him from slumber before the sunlight did.

His lashes fluttered open—then froze.

Sprawled across him, utterly unaware, was Haru.

One leg draped over his stomach. One delicate hand splayed across his chest, fingers curled lightly into his shirt as though claiming space in his dreams. Haru's breathing was steady, soft. His messy, dark hair was an artful storm against the pillow, and his oversized sleep shirt had slipped just enough to reveal a sliver of pale collarbone.

Lucien stared, heart thudding.

A crooked, amused smile tugged at his lips.

"My Haru," he whispered, voice thick with affection, and a pinch of disbelief. "Is this how you always sleep? It's dangerous. You're too cute for your own good."

He reached to brush a lock of hair from Haru's eyes, pausing to drink in the boy's peaceful expression. The sharp-tongued, guarded Haru was gone. This version—vulnerable, unknowingly intimate—twisted something deep in Lucien's chest.

"My cutie pie," he whispered dramatically, like he was teasing the air. "I want to eat you up right now, but alas..." He sighed theatrically, throwing his free hand over his forehead. "I shall be noble."

And then—as if summoned by the sheer ridiculousness of his words—Haru's eyes snapped open.

Their gazes collided.

There was a single, suspended beat. Then—

"W-WHY ARE YOU SO CLOSE?!" Haru shrieked, face igniting in crimson as he shoved Lucien with both palms.

Lucien laughed, rolling back with ease. "You were the one clinging to me, baby starfish."

"I-I WAS NOT!" Haru cried, scrambling upright, clutching the edge of the blanket like a shield. His eyes darted down, frantically checking if any scandalous damage had occurred. When he found nothing, he exhaled in dramatic relief. "Thank god..."

Lucien arched a brow, his smirk widening. "Aww, were you hoping something had happened?"

"Shut up!" Haru squeaked, leaping from the bed. "You stay on your side! Don't crawl into my dreams again!"

He bolted to the bathroom, his foot catching the blanket on the way. Lucien's laughter followed him, rich and unrestrained.

Left alone in the bedroom, Lucien flopped back onto the mattress, stretching like a satisfied cat.

"Well," he mused aloud, staring at the ceiling, "that was the most fun I've had in bed in years."

He turned to the empty space Haru had occupied. The warmth was already fading.

"Dad, you old fox," he whispered to himself, a smile tugging at his lips. "You knew exactly what you were doing."

One Month Ago

"You're getting married, son."

Those were the first words out of Richard Caldwell's mouth during an otherwise casual dinner.

Lucien had choked on his wine. "Excuse me?"

"It's arranged. You don't need to worry about details. Just show up and say 'I do.'"

Lucien had protested, argued, yelled. Richard remained unmoved.

"You're not getting younger. We need this alliance."

Lucien had refused to even glance at the photo. He didn't care. Or so he thought—until the wedding day, when he saw the shy boy at the altar.

Haru Nakamura.

His heart had stuttered. Five years, and yet he still remembered the storm in those dark eyes.

In the bathroom, Haru leaned against the cold tile, letting the hot shower beat down on his flushed skin.

He gritted his teeth.

"Why the hell was I in bed? I know I slept on the sofa."

The memory returned like a slap. Waking up with his limbs tangled around Lucien like a koala.

His hand was on Lucien's chest. His leg was draped over him.

He groaned.

"Damn my restless sleeping habits!"

But deeper beneath the embarrassment was fear—fear of slipping. Of believing Lucien's warmth was real. That maybe this marriage could be something more than cold paperwork and old scars.

"Don't fall for it, Haru," he whispered to himself. "You remember college. The teasing. The humiliation. He hasn't changed."

But a small, traitorous voice in his heart whispered, What if he has?

Ten minutes later, Haru descended the grand staircase, hair still damp, dressed neatly in a white shirt and jeans. The Caldwell mansion buzzed with activity. Staff moved like shadows, polishing, sweeping, trimming roses.

In the dining hall, Richard Caldwell sipped black coffee and read the newspaper like a king surveying his kingdom. The long table gleamed under the morning light.

Haru hesitated, then approached.

"Good morning, Mr. Caldwell," he said, bowing politely.

Richard looked up and smiled, eyes softening.

"Good morning, son. Come. Eat."

Haru sat, shoulders tense.

A moment later, Eleanor Caldwell swept in, heels clicking like daggers on marble. Poised, elegant, and icy as ever. Her perfectly styled hair and sharp eyes scanned the room like a hawk.

"Good morning, Mrs. Caldwell," Haru greeted with another polite bow.

Eleanor didn't smile. "Morning," she said curtly, sitting with the grace of a queen, her cold stare cutting through the room.

Then, casually venomous, she leaned forward.

"So," she said, voice sweet as arsenic. "How was your first night together?"

Haru choked on his orange juice.

His face turned scarlet. "I-It was… n-nice."

Eleanor narrowed her eyes.

Nice? she thought. Lucien swore he wouldn't lay a hand on this boy. Is he lying?

Before the awkward silence could stretch further, Lucien entered like a storm—fresh from his morning jog, in a damp tank top and track pants. His golden hair was tousled, his smile easy.

Haru's gaze flinched toward him. Then quickly away.

Lucien, noticing the tension, smirked to himself.

"Well, good morning, beautiful family. Did I miss anything spicy?"

Richard chuckled. "Lucien, go get dressed. And Haru, help your husband find something decent to wear."

Eleanor bristled. "That's not necessary. He can manage."

But Richard waved her off. "Haru, go."

Haru, caught between obedience and escape, nodded and rose silently.

As he walked past Lucien, he didn't speak.

Lucien fell into step beside him, gaze lingering on Haru's flushed ears.

There was something about Haru—the stiff shoulders, the tightly clutched sleeves, the quick glances that he tried to hide—that tugged at Lucien like a string pulling at his heart.

He didn't know what this marriage would become.

But one thing was clear:

He hadn't stopped falling for Haru Nakamura.

Not five years ago. Not now.

And maybe, just maybe...

This time, he wouldn't mess it up.