Gift Number One

The ER smelled like old coffee, bleach, and burnt nerves.

Thirty-two hours. That was how long Elias had been on shift between trauma and peds, bouncing between emergencies like a ball caught in a relentless tide. His entire body felt hollowed out, his mind fogged with lack of sleep. He was running on fumes, half-caffeine and sheer willpower, the edges of his vision prickling with exhaustion.

All he wanted was to shove his bag into his locker, splash cold water on his face, and catch the first bus home. Maybe collapse into bed fully clothed. Maybe not wake up for twelve hours.

The corridor to the locker room was mercifully quiet. Elias dragged his feet inside, kicked the door shut with his heel, and started spinning the lock. His fingers trembled as the numbers clicked into place. He tugged it open, already imagining the stale gym bag smell and his spare scrubs.

Instead—he froze.

There was something sitting on top of his folded clothes.

Not a misplaced pen. Not a note from a coworker.

A watch.

Sleek. Black-on-black. TAG Heuer Carrera. The kind of luxury that didn’t belong within five miles of these scuffed metal lockers. The protective plastic was still sealed on the strap, the price tag discreetly clipped off. It gleamed under the fluorescent light, quiet and deliberate.

Beneath it, a note.

The handwriting was neat, elegant, the kind that belonged on a fountain pen, not a sticky note.

> Time is precious. You shouldn’t waste it.

—L.D.

Elias’s blood surged hot and cold at once.

Lucian.

Of course.

The room swayed faintly. Elias grabbed the locker door, steadying himself. His pulse hammered too loud, too fast.

At first, he tried to reason it away. Maybe someone left it by mistake. But no—this wasn’t a mislaid trinket. It was pristine. New. Chosen.

His throat tightened. The thought of Lucian’s hands placing it there, sliding it into his locker, knowing the exact number, the exact row—it was too much.

Elias snatched the watch and the note, shoving them back into the box. He slammed the locker shut with a metallic clang, startling himself. Then he was moving—storming down the hallway, sneakers squeaking on tile, heart climbing higher with every step. Rage. Confusion. Shame. Something nameless burning under his skin.

And Lucian was waiting.

Leaning casually against the wall near the exit, hands tucked into his pockets, posture loose in a way that screamed control. He looked like he’d been there forever, patient, inevitable. As if he knew Elias would come.

The sight only fueled Elias’s fury. He thrust the box out, fingers trembling.

“What is this?” His voice was sharp, ragged.

Lucian’s smile was not sheepish. Not apologetic. Smooth. Certain.

“A gift.”

“You can’t just—” Elias’s voice caught. The hallway was empty, but still he lowered his tone, as though the walls themselves might eavesdrop. “You can’t just leave expensive things in my locker like we’re—like we’re something.”

Lucian tilted his head. His gaze was unwavering, sharp enough to cut.

“We’re not,” he said, softly. Then, after the faintest pause: “Yet.”

The single word snapped through Elias like an electric wire. His stomach lurched. His hands clenched tighter around the box, as though he could crush the watch back into nothing.

“You shouldn’t even know which locker’s mine.”

Lucian’s smile didn’t waver. “I know many things. I make it my business to know.”

Elias stared at him, throat working. Anger sputtered, tangled with a heat he didn’t want to name.

“You can’t—” He shook his head, cutting himself off before the words spiraled out. His exhaustion was pressing down, fogging his logic, making everything too sharp and too blurred at once. “I’m returning it.”

Lucian nodded, as though amused. “You’re free to try.”

But he didn’t take the box back. Didn’t move. Didn’t so much as shift an inch closer. He simply stood there, letting Elias drown in his own reaction, in his own breathless fury.

The seconds stretched, taut and unbearable.

Elias turned sharply on his heel and walked away.

The glass doors to the outside slid open with a hiss, spilling him into the chill night. The air tasted like rain, sharp against his tongue. He walked fast, his sneakers slapping against the pavement, every step carrying him further, but not far enough.

At the bus stop, he sat hard on the bench, dragging a hand through his hair. His chest rose and fell too quickly, his pulse still unsteady.

He looked down.

The box was still clutched in his hand.

The note, folded neatly on top.

Time is precious.

His jaw locked. His throat burned.

And yet—when he caught the bus home, he didn’t leave the box behind.

When he stumbled into his apartment, collapsing against the door, he didn’t throw it away.

He set it carefully on the counter.

The next morning, when sunlight cut through his blinds and exhaustion still clung to his bones, his hand reached for it.

The watch was heavy. Cool against his skin. The strap fit as if it had been measured for him.

He told himself it was just practical. He needed a good watch for shift. That was all.

But when he checked the time later, in the middle of triage, the black face gleaming under hospital lights—

It didn’t feel like a watch.

It felt like a chain.

---

Lucian hadn’t slept.

Not in the restless, wasted way of mortals. His body had stilled, but his mind replayed, frame by frame, the coffee encounter from the night before. Elias’s eyes narrowing. His hesitation. The spark when their fingers touched. The faint furrow of suspicion, gone almost as soon as it appeared.

Lucian collected details. Patterns. Information. It was what had built his empire—knowledge leveraged into control.

And Elias was the one puzzle he couldn’t yet solve.

Couldn’t yet claim.

So he’d left the gift.

Not flowers—too obvious. Not candy—too cheap. A watch. Precision. Permanence. Weight.

Time is precious.

So are you.

It wasn’t only a present. It was a message. A quiet reminder that Lucian could reach into Elias’s private space at will. A nudge of pressure. A test.

He had considered other gestures—something dramatic. A car. A key to a penthouse. But no. Too soon. He wanted to watch Elias struggle first. Wanted to see if he would fight, if he would bend, if he would break.

And then Elias had stormed down the hall, box clutched tight in his hands, fire burning through exhaustion.

Lucian’s restraint had nearly snapped. That flush on Elias’s cheeks, the quick rise and fall of his chest—God, his scent was richer when he was angry. Spicy, sweet, laced with defiance. The kind of scent that drove instincts to the brink.

But Lucian didn’t touch him.

Not yet.

He simply watched.

“You shouldn’t even know which locker’s mine,” Elias hissed.

“I know many things.”

He’d let the words drop into the silence like pebbles into water, rippling outward. Elias’s reaction had been perfect—confusion, fear, heat, all tangled into one raw expression.

And then he’d walked away. Still holding the watch.

Lucian’s smile had been slow, sharp, deliberate.

He didn’t need to chase. Not now.

Because Elias would wear it. He knew he would.

And when he did, Lucian would already be there. A shadow ticking on his wrist.

A quiet, relentless reminder:

Time belonged to Lucian.

And soon—so would Elias.

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