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Valentine’s Day. It was gaudy. Loud. Commercial. A holiday invented by greeting card companies and florists to fleece the emotionally vulnerable. Peter had said as much, at length, with citations while Noah made coffee and Chris pretended not to listen because Peter had also said it while buttoning a three-thousand-dollar suit like the world itself owed him rent.
Chris Argent knew something was wrong the moment Peter walked into the kitchen.
Not wrong in the usual sense. Peter always walked into rooms like a challenge. Like gravity had adjusted itself in anticipation. But today there was an extra… something.
Smug satisfaction riding just beneath the surface, like he was carrying a private joke and the punchline involved emotional damage.
Peter poured himself coffee. He leaned against the counter, suit immaculate, posture infuriatingly relaxed. Chris narrowed his eyes.
“You’re insufferable today,” he said flatly.
Peter smiled. Slow and feral. “And yet you woke up and chose to share oxygen with me.”
Noah snorted into his mug. Chris glanced between them. “Why do I feel like I’m missing something.”
Peter lifted his cup. Took a sip. His gaze flicked to Chris, then deliberately to Noah, then back again.
“Oh,” he said. “You are.”
That did it. Chris’s shoulders tightened. Years of hunter instinct screamed threat, except the threat was apparently expensive tailoring and whatever smug nonsense Peter was about to unleash.
“What did you do?” Chris asked.
Peter’s smile widened. “Why, Christopher. That sounds like an accusation.”
“It’s a question,” Chris said. “Because you only look like that when you’re about to ruin my day.”
Noah, ever the traitor, merely shrugged. “He’s been like this since he got dressed.”
Chris snapped his head toward Noah. “You know?”
“Know is a strong word,” Noah replied calmly. “More like observed. Accepted. Continued drinking my coffee.”
Chris stared. “That’s worse.”
Peter set his mug down with exaggerated care. “You wound me.”
“I aim to,” Chris muttered.
Peter straightened, smoothing invisible lint from his jacket. The suit was obscene; black, perfectly tailored, subtle sheen under the lights. The kind of suit that didn’t just fit, it conspired. Every line precise, every movement deliberate.
Peter looked like money, power, and bad decisions. Chris hated that he noticed.
“Okay,” Chris said slowly. “Out with it. What’s the joke.”
Peter tilted his head. “Who said it was a joke?”
“That’s way worse.”
Peter’s fingers went to his tie. He loosened it just enough to make Chris’s pulse do something unpleasant. Noah, infuriatingly composed, leaned back against the counter. “Chris.”
“What.”
“You’re pacing.”
Chris stopped pacing. “I am not.”
“You took three laps.”
Chris glared. “This is psychological warfare.”
Peter hummed. “Finally. Recognition.”
Then, without ceremony Peter opened his jacket. Not wide. Just enough. Chris’s brain stalled.
Black lace.
Delicate. Intricate. Hugging Peter Hale’s torso beneath the pristine white shirt like a secret meant to be discovered slowly and weaponized immediately.
A sheer black lace top, barely visible beneath the fabric, straps framing muscle and arrogance in equal measure. Chris swallowed.
“No,” he said faintly.
Peter watched him with open delight. “Oh yes.”
Chris took a step closer without realizing it. “Is that—”
“French,” Peter supplied. “Hand-finished.”
Chris dragged a hand down his face. “Why.”
Peter closed the jacket again, like slamming a book shut mid-chapter. “Because it amused me.”
Noah glanced over, eyes flicking briefly before he nodded once. “Nice.”
Chris whipped around. “Nice?”
Peter beamed. “See? Appreciation.”
“That’s lingerie,” Chris hissed.
“Technically,” Peter said, “it’s an undergarment.”
Chris stared at him. “You are wearing lace.”
“Yes.”
“Under a suit.”
“Yes.”
“On Valentine’s Day.”
“Yes.”
Chris laughed once, sharp and hysterical. “This is worse than you asking if we’d still love you if you were a worm.”
Peter’s eyes lit up. “You said you would.”
“I was humoring you!”
Noah smirked into his mug. “Sexy dirt noodle.”
Chris made a strangled noise. “Do not encourage him.”
Peter preened. “I feel very supported.”
Chris paced again. “You can’t just...walk around like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because...because —” Chris gestured vaguely. “Because it’s you.”
Peter leaned closer, voice dropping. “And what, precisely, does that mean.”
Peter’s scent, warm, sharp, unmistakably Hale wrapped around him. Lace or no lace, Peter radiated menace and desire in equal measure, and Chris hated how easily his brain betrayed him.
“It means,” Chris said carefully, “that you are doing this on purpose.”
“Yes,” Peter smirked.
Noah set his mug down. “You look good.”
Chris stared at Noah. “You’re just… okay with this?”
Noah shrugged. “He likes nice things.”
Chris sputtered. “That is not the same thing.”
Peter adjusted his cuffs. “Actually, it is.”
Chris turned back to Peter. “Are there —” He swallowed. “Is there more?”
Peter’s eyebrow arched. “Would you like to find out?”
Chris took a step back. “Absolutely not.”
Peter laughed. “Pity.”
Noah glanced between them. “Chris.”
“What.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
Peter leaned in again, voice silk and sin. “You are.”
Chris closed his eyes. “I hate Valentine’s Day.”
Peter smiled like a man who had already won.