Coffee in the Break Room

Lucian hadn’t stopped thinking about him.

It was ridiculous, even by his own standards. He was a man of empire, of precision, of control. Yet in the twenty-four hours since stepping foot inside Saffron Crest’s ER, every spare thought had been bent around a single figure: the omega in wrinkled scrubs who hadn’t looked twice at him.

Elias Mendez.

The name had come easily—Lucian always got what he wanted, even if it was information. A call here, a favor there, a hospital database accessed under the polite veil of investor transparency. Within hours, a dossier had materialized.

Trauma nurse. Six years’ experience. Excellent reviews from superiors. Colleagues described him as calm under pressure, tireless, dependable. Financial records suggested long hours, too many debts, and a salary laughably unworthy of the weight he carried in that ER.

Always volunteering for the night shift. Always tired.

Lucian read every line. Memorized it. But it wasn’t enough.

Files couldn’t capture scent. Paper couldn’t recreate the way Elias’s hair had fallen messily over his brow, or how his lips had parted in irritation and exhaustion. Words on a page didn’t explain the way Lucian’s chest had tightened when their eyes had met.

No—he needed more.

So he made a call. To the board, to the administrators, to anyone who would bend under the pressure of his name. Lucian Drax was interested in being “hands-on,” he said smoothly. He wanted to be closer to the team he was funding, to understand the people whose work he was investing in.

They tripped over themselves to accommodate him.

Which was how, the very next evening, Lucian Drax walked into the ER’s break room as though he owned it—because, in a way, he did.

The space was a mismatch of peeling wallpaper, scuffed tables, and a perpetually humming refrigerator. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, tinting everything with a faint green pallor. It smelled faintly of stale coffee and hand sanitizer, with a faint undertone of sweat. A place of exhaustion, not respite.

Lucian’s presence didn’t belong here, which was precisely why it mattered that he stood in the middle of it.

In his hands, he carried a tray. Not the flimsy cardboard kind pulled from a fast-food counter. This was a custom leather carrier from Rossi & Cane, embossed with gold lettering, each cup sealed with care. Coffee that cost more per serving than most of the staff earned in an hour.

“Thought I’d treat the hardest workers in the hospital,” Lucian said, voice rich, smooth. He set the tray down on the table, the faintest smirk curving his lips.

At first, the nurses hesitated. Then the aroma spread, sharp and tempting, and fatigue overrode suspicion. They swarmed, offering polite smiles and grateful murmurs.

Lucian barely noticed.

His gaze had already locked onto the doorway.

And then—there.

Elias walked in like he’d been dragged backward through exhaustion. His hair was rumpled, his scrubs wrinkled, a faint red pen mark streaking across his cheek where he’d clearly rubbed his face against his hand while charting. He looked half-asleep, half-broken, entirely beautiful.

Lucian’s pulse kicked hard.

He had been patient, planning this moment. Every cup on the tray had been chosen at random. Except one.

The last cup in his hand. Black. Two sugars. Hot enough to burn. Exactly as Elias liked it.

When Elias neared, Lucian stepped forward smoothly, holding the cup out like an offering.

“Yours,” Lucian said softly.

Elias blinked, confused. “You… how did...?”

Lucian tilted his head. He let the pause stretch just long enough to unnerve, then said, low, “I notice things.”

It wasn’t I notice everything. It wasn’t I notice everyone.

It was I notice you.

The words Elias didn’t hear but felt anyway.

There was a flicker in Elias’s eyes—wariness, discomfort, something he couldn’t quite name. He hesitated, but tiredness and courtesy won out. He reached for the cup.

Their fingers brushed. Barely a touch. Skin to skin.

Lucian felt it like a brand, searing through his nerves. His control threatened to slip. His instincts pressed hard, urging him to close the distance, to inhale deep, to take. But he didn’t. He only watched Elias lift the cup, watched him sip, watched his throat work as he swallowed.

And Lucian smiled.

Not the charming corporate smile he wore at board meetings. Not the shallow grin designed for photographs.

This smile was darker. Sharper. Possessive.

And then, deliberately, Lucian turned and left.

Because obsession didn’t need to announce itself. It only needed to return.

---

Elias was too tired to think straight.

Six hours of trauma rotation behind him. Two near-code blues. A fellow nurse vomiting mid-shift. By the time he stumbled into the break room, he was half-convinced he’d imagined the smell of decent coffee.

Until he saw him.

Lucian Drax, standing in the middle of the dingy break room like some wolf in designer wool, his coat draped elegantly, silk tie loosened just enough to look effortless. He didn’t belong there. That was the point.

A tray of luxury coffee sat on the table, and of course the staff had fallen on it like it was manna from heaven.

Elias hovered in the doorway, pulse stumbling. He hadn’t forgotten that stare yesterday. That unblinking, dissecting stare. It had burned in the back of his skull all night, replaying in moments when he should’ve been focused on his patients.

And now, here he was again.

Elias should’ve turned around. Should’ve gone straight for the vending machine and taken his punishment in the form of stale muffins and lukewarm sludge.

But instead, he walked forward.

Lucian was waiting. Holding the last cup, his gaze heavy, like Elias had been the one he’d been waiting for all along. The man’s eyes lit faintly, a private gleam Elias almost mistook for satisfaction.

“Yours,” Lucian said. Smooth. Certain.

Elias frowned faintly. “You...how did..?”

“I notice things.”

Not everyone. Not everything. Things.

The implication scraped against Elias’s nerves.

Their fingers brushed when he took the cup. The contact was fleeting, accidental. Elias still felt it run sharp and hot up his spine, curling low in his stomach. He told himself it was nothing. Just exhaustion. Just nerves.

He lifted the cup. Took a sip.

Exactly right. Black, two sugars. Exactly the way he liked it.

Elias’s chest tightened. How did he know?

He glanced up, about to ask, but Lucian was already moving. Already leaving.

Not lingering. Not pressing. Just walking away, his shoulders broad, his stride purposeful. But his smile—

That smile wasn’t polite.

It was dark. Quiet. Certain.

Like he knew something Elias didn’t.

The break room was noisy again. Someone laughed. Someone else cursed at the fridge. The moment should’ve dissolved.

But Elias stood there, fingers warm around the cup, unsettled in a way no caffeine could soothe.

That night, when he finally collapsed into bed, socks still on, sheets half-pulled, he dreamed.

Of sharp suits and shadowed eyes.