Page 45 of A Mistake of Worth
Michael bent, pressing a slow, grounding kiss to his mouth. “Don’t message him. Promise me?”
Henri’s voice barely cleared his throat. “I won’t.”
“Good boy.” Michael kissed him again, softer this time. “I’ll be in the living room when the food arrives. Join me when you hear the doorbell.”
Henri nodded, the smallest motion. Michael squeezed his shoulder, then stepped out.
When the bell finally chimed, Michael returned with the bags to find Henri in the kitchen, barefoot and quiet, pulling plates from the cabinet. His movements had an ease to them that made Michael’s chest warm. Henri looked comfortable here, belonged here. The careful way he handled each dish suggested he was still mindful of making noise, but there was something almost domestic about it, natural in a way that felt right.
Michael set the food on the island and arched a brow. “What are you doing? We have boxes.”
Henri froze mid-motion, a porcelain plate still in his hands. Slowly, almost guiltily, he slid it back onto the shelf.
Michael crossed the room, wrapping his arms around Henri’s waist from behind. “Was that a Marc thing?”
“Yes.” Henri’s voice was barely audible. “‘Eating out of boxes is barbaric.’” He didn’t mimic Marc’s tone, but the disdain was easy to imagine.
“Well,” Michael murmured into his hair, “I happen to enjoy a little barbarism.”
Henri let out a huff that might’ve been a laugh. Michael felt the tension in his spine ease.
“I’ll get the silverware,” Michael said, brushing a kiss against Henri’s temple before pulling back. “But we’re not doing dishes tonight.”
They settled at the island, the takeout containers opened between them. The smell of basil and lemongrass filled the kitchen.
After a few bites, Michael bumped Henri’s shoulder gently. “See? Isn’t this fun?”
Henri poked at his pad thai with exaggerated suspicion. “It’s weird. And not much different than eating off a plate.”
“Ah, but it is.” Michael pointed at him with his fork. “No cleanup. Efficiency and rebellion, all in one.”
Henri shook his head, but a reluctant smile ghosted across his lips.
They ate in comfortable quiet for a few minutes. Then Michael set down his fork, wiping his hands on a napkin.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said, “we’re getting you a new phone. New number. Clean start.”
Henri’s fork stilled halfway to his mouth. “I don’t need a new phone.”
Michael raised an eyebrow.
“The one I have is fine.”
“The one you have is powered off and hidden behind a bookshelf because it was making you panic. That’s not fine, Henri.”
Henri looked down, picking at his food. “You don’t understand. If I’m not available...”
“Then what?” Michael asked softly. “What happens? He’s an ocean away. He can’t reach you.”
Henri didn’t look up. “He always finds a way.”
Michael reached across the island, gently brushing his fingers against Henri’s wrist. “Not this time. The new phone will have a UK number. He won’t know it. He won’t have access.”
Henri’s voice was barely a whisper. “Until I go back.”
“You’re not going back.”
That made Henri look up sharply. “I have to go back. Eventually. I’m CFO, Michael. I have responsibilities.”
