Chapter 376: Shopping pt 3

Noah

I frowned, my suspicion flaring instantly. "What was that?"

Cyan blinked innocently, his face a picture of total purity. "What was what, darling?"

"That look," I said, glaring at them. "You two just did a look."

"We didn’t do a look," Étienne said, smoothing down his silk scarf with a practiced, airy gesture. "I don’t do looks. They cause wrinkles."

"There was absolutely a look," I insisted, my face burning hotter by the second.

Neither of them answered, which was an answer all on its own. They just stood there smiling at me like a pair of well-dressed cats that had successfully cornered a mouse.

"I’m taking it off," I snapped, pulling the curtain back toward the wall.

"We’re buying it!" Cyan called out over the fabric.

"I will NEVER wear this anywhere!" I shouted from behind the velvet.

"You don’t have to wear it to the grocery store, Noah," Cyan’s voice came closer, his heels clicking against the floorboards until he was standing right outside the curtain. His voice dropped into a low, conspiratorial whisper right near the fabric. "Just... once. For a very specific person who would probably lose his entire mind if he saw you in it."

"Don’t finish that sentence!" I yelled, retreating to the furthest corner of the cubicle.

I looked at myself in the mirror again, my face a shade of dark crimson that probably didn’t have a name in any language. I am not buying it, I whispered to the empty space. I am absolutely not buying it. The things Cassian would do to me... NO.

When we finally left the boutique twenty minutes later, my arms were full of heavy, expensive paper bags.

We didn’t buy the nurse costume... or at least, I had firmly refused to let them scan it but we left with two dark, structured shirts that fit my frame perfectly, a pair of charcoal trousers that Étienne had spent seven minutes adjusting by hand, and a sleek jacket that still surprised me every time I looked down at the sleeve.

There was also a smaller, unlabelled paper bag that Cyan had slipped into the stack while I was changing back into my old clothes. I didn’t ask what was inside it because I knew exactly what it was, and I didn’t have the energy to start another argument.

Étienne stood in the doorway of his shop, leaning against the frame as he kissed Cyan on both cheeks.

"Bring him back soon," he murmured, before turning his sharp eyes toward me. He pointed a long, manicured finger at my chest. "And you—you have extraordinary posture when you stop apologizing for taking up space in the world."

I blinked, completely caught off guard by the sudden sincerity.

"That’s... thank you."

I didn’t know what else to say, but Étienne didn’t wait for a conversation. He turned around and drifted back into the white depths of his shop like a retreating tide, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.

"Right," Cyan said, throwing his arm over my shoulder and nearly knocking me off balance with the weight of his shopping bags.

"Fashion haul is complete. Now I am absolutely starving."

"Starving?" I asked, looking at him in disbelief as we walked down the cool sidewalk toward his orange car. "Cyan, you had three large macarons and a frosted cupcake while we were waiting for Étienne to hem the trousers."

"That was an hour ago, Noah," he said, his face completely serious as he unlocked the doors. "Sugar doesn’t count as real sustenance. It just coats the stomach. We need real food. Tacos."

The restaurant he took us to wasn’t one of those high-end, silent places where people went to be seen by photographers. It was a slightly loud, incredibly warm spot with old wooden tables and the delicious, heavy scent of lime and grilled meat hanging in the air.

It was the kind of place people returned to week after week because the food was actually good.

Cyan took the menu from the waiter, glanced at it for approximately forty-five seconds, and then began pointing at items with his thumb.

"We’ll do three steak tacos, two chorizo quesadillas, a double side of rice, a large bowl of black beans, and the churros for later," he said, before looking up with a bright smile. "Oh, and whatever that massive specialty drink is that comes in the glass that looks like a flower vase. Bring two of those."

I waited until the waiter walked away before leaning over the small table. "Is someone else joining us?"

"No," Cyan said, pulling a paper napkin out of the dispenser.

"Cyan, that is enough food for an entire family."

"I told you, I’m hungry," he said simply, already snapping his chopsticks apart even though we were eating Mexican food. He caught himself, laughed, and tossed them onto the table.

When the food arrived, I watched him eat with a sense of pure wonder. Cyan was tall, slim-waisted, and possessed the kind of toned, elegant figure that looked like it survived on green tea and fresh air, but he cleared the first plate of tacos in less than three minutes. He didn’t eat like a delicate socialite; he ate with the rapid, unbothered speed of a natural phenomenon.

"Where exactly does all of that go?" I asked, staring at the empty plates. "How do you keep your figure if you eat like a linebacker?"

Cyan didn’t look up from his quesadilla, his fingers slightly covered in cheese as he took a massive bite. "I burn it off, darling."

"How?"

He lifted his eyes, a tiny, knowing smile touching his lips as he chewed. "Just by living. Being this fabulous takes an immense amount of caloric energy."

Between bites, he didn’t even bother asking for permission before his fork darted across the small table, sliding a chunk of grilled chicken directly off my plate and popping it into his mouth without breaking eye contact.

"That was mine," I said, my fork hovering in mid-air.

"It was just sitting there looking lonely," he said cheerfully.

"I was literally about to eat it."

"Were you, though? You were just moving the rice around," he said, already reaching for a chip.

The conversation drifted easily after that, moving without anyone trying to manage the flow or keep it professional.