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"Okay, what is up with you, Cassie? You've been Little Miss Sunshine all day," Lia asked, not raising her gaze from where she was meticulously painting her pinky finger a shade of glossy black.
She was currently lounging on the desk in Sloane and Cassie's room while the other two girls were working through case files, occasionally asking for Lia's input while she worked on her manicure.
"Is it that obvious?" Cassie muttered, a tad embarrassed.
"Well, I'm no emotion-reader, but you're practically glowing. And I can't imagine the horrific details of that file are making you this happy," Lia quipped.
"You're smiling twenty-six percent more than usual," Sloane chimed in from her spot on the floor. Lia wasn't quite sure why Sloane wasn't sitting on her perfectly good bed, but then again, it was Sloane so Lia didn't question it too much.
"Sorry, it's just Dean," Cassie explained, a soft smile gracing her lips. "We were up late last night working on a case and I was getting really frustrated. He just... said something really sweet."
"What did he say?" Sloane inquired.
Cassie looked down, her cheeks lightly flushing. "He just held my hand and told me that it's okay if we don't catch every minute detail right away. He told me that my mind is brilliant, and that I'm the most compassionate person he's ever known, and that we'd figure it out together."
Lia’s brush hovered a millimeter above her pinky nail. She didn't look up, but her eyes narrowed into sharp slits. "Dean said all that? The same Dean who communicates in brooding stares?"
Cassie merely nodded, her smile widening.
"Statistically speaking, verbal affirmations of affection reduce cortisol levels by twenty-four percent in long-term relationships," Sloane announced, entirely unfazed by her own clinical description of romance. "Which makes sense. Celine is highly efficient with her verbal praise. Last night, when I was at her apartment, she told me that my capacity for data retention was exquisitely attractive and that she admires my intellectual stamina. It was highly validating."
Lia slowly lowered her nail polish brush, capping the bottle with a sharp, definitive click.
A cold, sudden realization washed over her. Dean was apparently whispering poetry to Cassie in dark corners. Celine was validating Sloane's intellectual stamina. And Michael? When was the last time he had even given her a straight, unprompted, genuine compliment?
Lia racked her brain, searching through the archives of their entire relationship. Not a sarcastic remark about her lying skills, not a teasing comment during a verbal sparring match, and certainly not some breathless murmur in bed. A real, soft, sweet compliment. The fact that she had to think this hard was a glaring, flashing red flag.
Lia stood up, smoothing down her shirt. Her expression was perfectly serene. "I finished painting my nails. I'm going to my room."
Cassie's brows furrowed, her radar picking up on the sudden shift. "Lia—" she started, but Lia closed the bedroom door behind her with a resounding thud.
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Lia found him in the study, draped lazily across the leather armchair with a Jane Austen novel in his hands. He looked up the moment she walked in, his dark eyes tracking her with that sharp, analytical focus he always tried to pass off as casual boredom.
"Well, if it isn't my favorite deception expert," Michael drawled, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face as he snapped the book shut. "Come to grace me with your presence?"
Lia ignored the bait. Instead, she crossed the room with deliberate, slow steps. She leaned against the edge of the desk right in his direct line of sight, crossing her legs and letting her freshly painted nails rest against her knee. She was wearing a new maroon sweater—a color that perfectly complemented her dark hair and skin, a fact she knew with absolute certainty.
"I just finished working on a grueling two-hour cold case this morning," Lia sighed, leaning her head back slightly to expose the long, elegant line of her neck. "They said it was thanks to me that they were able to catch the perp. Briggs was very pleased, but I'm completely exhausted."
She paused, looking down at him. Waiting. This was where he was supposed to say, 'You're incredible, Lia. They're lucky to have your brain.' Or at the very least, 'You look stunning in that maroon, by the way.'
Michael tilted his head, studying her face for a long, agonizing moment. The corner of his mouth twitched.
"How will the FBI ever survive without their resident lie detector holding their hand?" Michael sighed, his voice dripping with theatrical, faux sympathy.
Lia gritted her teeth. "I did an exceptional job today."
"So? Do you want a hug?" He reached out, tossing his book onto the desk and offering her a wide, open-armed invite. She wasn't sure if Michael saw the flash of irritation crossing her face—though knowing him, he did, and just wanted to bait her further.
"I don't want a hug, Michael. I'm simply stating a fact."
"Oh, your work is always exceptional, sweetheart," Michael chuckled, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head. "You're a terrifyingly efficient little machine. Now, are you going to keep sitting on that table, or are you going to come over here and sit with me?"
Lia inhaled sharply through her nose. A machine.
"I have better things to do than sit here with you," she snapped smoothly, turning on her heel and marching out of the room.
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Later that afternoon, the team was in the archives digging through old case files. Cassie and Dean were on the sofa, whispering about a suspect's handwriting, Sloane and Celine were analyzing blood stains, and Michael was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by manila folders.
Lia was standing by the high shelves, translating a series of handwritten letters from a suspect who had fled to Taiwan years ago. She didn't actually need to read the letters aloud but, still, she waited until Michael stopped reading to grab at another folder.
She cleared her throat to grab his attention before she began to read the Mandarin text, her voice flowing in flawless, rhythmic cadences. She deliberately leaned into the elegant, poetic nuances of the language, letting her voice drop into a silky tone. She knew she sounded sophisticated.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Michael stop flipping through his folders. He turned his head, watching her intently. He was listening. Really listening.
Lia finished the paragraph, letting the final words linger in the quiet archives. She slowly lowered the paper, turning her gaze down to him. She offered him a small, mysterious smirk.
"Mandarin is a very precise language," Lia declared, her eyes locked onto his. "It takes years to master the subtle shifts in tone and inflection. It requires a highly disciplined mind."
She waited. Surely, this was it. He was a guy who appreciated art, theater, and flair. Flawless trilingualism had to be attractive to him. 'Your voice sounds mesmerizing when you speak like that, Lia.' Or 'You're so cultured.'
Michael blinked, his expression unreadable. Then, a slow, delighted grin spread across his face.
"Wow," Michael said, leaning back on his hands. "That was incredibly impressive, Zhang."
Lia’s heart did a tiny, hopeful flutter. "Was it?" she shrugged coolly.
"Oh, definitely. It sounded exactly like the automated voice on the subway system in Beijing," Michael teased, his eyes dancing with pure mischief. "Very professional. Very robotic."
Lia’s hand clamped down on the case file so hard the paper creased beneath her fingers.
"You are an illiterate caveman," she hissed under her breath, turning her back to him so fast her hair whipped through the air.
"Come on, it was a compliment!" Michael called out after her, chuckling. "The subway voice is very authoritative! Very sexy!"
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Lia didn’t cook. There was no need, really. In the cult, food was provided—most days, at least. On the streets, she stole to survive, never having access to a functional kitchen. And at the house? Judd took care of everything.
But desperate times called for calculated, high-effort measures.
Today, she woke up early, hijacked the kitchen before anyone else could stumble downstairs, and set to work. By the time Michael strolled in, yawning and running a hand through his messy hair, the kitchen smelled like rich vanilla and caramelized sugar.
On the counter sat a perfectly arranged plate of French toast, dusted with powdered sugar, topped with fresh berries, and drizzled with honey. It looked like a photograph from a gourmet magazine. Lia was standing over it, looking proud. If it tasted half as good as it looked, Michael would drop to his knees. The kitchen behind her was an absolute disaster zone, but she figured she could let Judd scold her for it later.
Michael stopped in his tracks, blinking at the spread. "Did Judd hire a private chef, or did I accidentally walk into an alternate dimension?"
"I felt inspired," Lia drawled, her voice smooth and entirely nonchalant. She gave him a look of pure, engineered innocence. "I decided to make breakfast. Go ahead. Try it."
He glanced at it for a few moments longer before meeting her eyes again. "Is it poisoned?"
Lia smiled sweetly in response and handed him a fork and a knife. Michael hesitantly grabbed it from her hands, cut off a massive piece, and shoved it into his mouth. Lia watched him like a hawk, waiting for the inevitable: 'Lia, this is incredible. You’re amazing at everything you do. Is there anything you can't do?'
Michael chewed, his eyes widening in genuine delight. He swallowed and pointed his fork at her. "This is surprisingly edible."
Lia's eyes narrowed. "Edible?"
"Absolutely," Michael said, already cutting another piece. "I didn't have many expectations considering it's, well, you, but it's really not bad."
Not bad?
Lia snatched the plate away from him mid-bite.
"Hey!" Michael protested.
"You've had enough," Lia snarled, her eyes flashing fire as she walked the plate over to the trash can and ruthlessly scraped the rest of the food into it. "I'm sure you can find something else to eat in the fridge."
Michael stared at her, utterly baffled. Just as he opened his mouth, Lia cut him off by pointing a sticky knife directly at his chest.
"I am this close to stabbing you, Townsend. Don't test me."
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Currently, she and the rest of the girls - Celine, Sloane, and Cassie - were upstairs in Cassie and Sloane's room, transforming it into a chaotic blur of hairspray, makeup palettes, and silk. They were all getting ready for a fancy art gala Celine was hosting. For Lia, however, the evening had officially morphed into a much more critical mission: psychological warfare.
Lia stood before the full-length mirror, smoothing the black silk of her evening gown. The dress was a masterpiece—low-cut in the back, hugging every curve, and slit high up the thigh. It was expensive, elegant, and paired effortlessly with her loose curls. Glittery silver eyeshadow and a bold red lip completed the flawless look.
As she hung cascading crystal earrings in, next to her, Celine was putting the final touches on Sloane. Truth be told, Celine was an amazing artist and was good with the makeup brush, too. It made Lia's job of helping Cassie and Sloane get ready all the more easy.
Celine finished by dabbing highlighter powder on Sloane's cheekbones. Sloane was blinking rigidly at her own reflection, wearing a tailored navy gown that she looked entirely unaccustomed to. Celine stepped back, a soft, admiring smile gracing her lips. Without warning, Celine reached out, gently tugging Sloane against her side by her waist.
"You look absolutely stunning, Sloane," Celine stated, her eyes warm and entirely sincere.
"My heart rate has just spiked by twelve percent, which is a physiological reaction to your proximity and validation," Sloane claimed in response.
Celine let out a light laugh, entirely too used to this. "Good."
When they finally headed downstairs, Dean and Michael were waiting by the front door. Both boys were dressed in tailored black tuxedos. Michael looked entirely too attractive for his own good. Dean was leaning against the wall, staring at nothing in particular, but he instantly straightened up the second Cassie stepped into view.
Cassie descended the stairs in a vibrant, floor-length red gown, her hair swept up into a sleek bun. The moment her gold heels clicked onto the bottom step, Dean walked over and caught her hand.
"You're perfect, Cassie," Dean whispered, his voice low and private, but loud enough to echo in the quiet foyer. Cassie beamed, leaning into him.
Lia’s took a deep breath. Perfect. Stunning. The pressure was on.
Lia didn't just walk down the stairs; she descended them. Her posture was striking, her chin tilted at the perfect angle, as the heavy black silk of her gown trailed down the steps with every slow, deliberate movement.
Michael, who had been casually tossing the keys to the sports car in the air, caught the motion and froze. His hand trapped the keys hard against his palm. His dark eyes locked onto her, starting from her silver heels, tracing the long line of her leg through the high slit, up to the exposed skin of her shoulders, and finally meeting her gaze.
Hook, line, and sinker, Lia thought, a smug, triumphant victory blooming in her chest. She stepped off the final stair, stopping a mere foot away from him.
Michael blinked, recovering his composure with frustrating speed. A slow, wicked smile spread across his face.
"Well," Michael drawled, tucking the car keys into his pocket as he looked her up and down. "You look like a very expensive distraction, Zhang."
Lia’s smile faltered. "Is that it?" she asked, her voice dangerously smooth as she crossed her arms, completely ruining the clean line of the dress. "A distraction?"
"Oh, absolutely," Michael agreed easily, completely unfazed as he turned to open the front door for her, gesturing out toward the car. "Now, shall we all go?"
Lia’s teeth ground together. She walked past him into the cool night air, the black silk of her dress swishing aggressively against her legs.
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The gala was in full swing when Lia slipped out to the terrace, the crisp night air catching her curls. A moment later, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye as Michael stepped into the moonlight, a champagne glass in hand. She wasn't quite sure how he'd gotten that considering he was underage, but she didn't question it, especially since she was just two minutes away from lying her way into a free drink herself.
"You're going to freeze to death out here," his smooth voice called out.
Michael moved to stand right beside her, leaning his elbows against the railing. "Lia, what's going on? You seem upset and I can't really figure out why. So, talk to me."
"Then stop reading me," she countered, keeping her gaze locked on the horizon. "Why do you insist on analyzing my every micro-expression?"
"Because I like reading you," he supplied, dodging her attempts at an argument.
"But you never just look at me!" Lia snapped, finally turning to meet his hazel eyes. "Dean tells Cassie she's perfect in her dress. Celine tells Sloane she's stunning. And you? You tell me I'm a 'terrifyingly efficient machine' or an 'expensive distraction.'"
Michael stared at her, his expression completely blanking for a fraction of a second as her words processed. The tension in his shoulders vanished, replaced by a soft, uncharacteristic warmth in his eyes. "Lia," Michael said gently. "You know I think you're beautiful."
Lia rolled her eyes. It wasn't that she didn't know. It was the fact that he rarely told her.
"I know I didn't say it downstairs," he continued, stepping closer until the warmth of his tuxedo-clad frame blocked out the chill of the wind. His eyes were bright and sincere. "I was waiting until we were alone to tell you that you look absolutely gorgeous in that dress. I could barely breathe when I saw you."
True.
Her heart thudded in her chest. "It doesn't matter. It doesn't count if I have to drag it out of you."
She uncrossed her ankles, her dress swishing at her feet as she turned away. "We're not talking about this again. Call it a momentary lapse in judgment and ignore it."
Michael looked like there was more he wanted to say, but she merely walked away from him. She'd make sure to dodge any effort he made to talk to her for the rest of the night.
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After the gala, the formal wear was abandoned for cozy pajamas as everyone gravitated toward the living room to wind down. The sound of light chatter and laughter filled the room as Cassie recounted a story about their latest grocery run. Dean didn't say anything, just watched her fondly from the couch.
"And then, I caught him buying every shade of red lipstick for me because I never specified which one," Cassie grinned, leaning into her boyfriend.
“Awwww. You’re adorable, Redding,” Michael teased from his armchair.
Lia’s mouth practically dropped open. The sheer, unmitigated audacity of him to fling that word out so easily to Dean, after she'd been trying to drag any sort of compliment from his lips for the past three days.
She abruptly stood up. “That's a sweet story, Cassie, but I'm feeling really tired. I’m going to sleep,” she seethed, leaving no room for argument as she marched up the stairs.
As soon as she got to her bedroom, she threw herself onto the bed, fuming. She stared at the ceiling, her hands clenched into fists against the mattress. The nerve of him. The absolute, insufferable nerve.
Not even five minutes later, she heard her door open and close. Michael stood in front. He didn't look apologetic; he looked observant, his eyes tracking her rigid posture.
"I notice you've been more pissed at me than usual these past three days," Michael stated, a cool fact.
"You've noticed for three days but didn't say anything," Lia hissed, glaring at him from the bed as she started to sit upright.
Michael rolled his eyes, a dry, familiar amusement twitching at the corner of his lips. "Sweetheart, please, you're pissed at me during like half of our relationship."
Lia didn't respond to that. Mainly because she couldn't logically argue with it.
"Anyways," Michael drawled as he slinked closer, his movements fluid and entirely unbothered by her radiating hostility. "Care to tell me why you seem annoyed every time I open my mouth?"
"Maybe it's because you never say the right things."
"Okay," Michael said slowly, jaw clenching in a way that meant he was trying to contain his anger. His patience was wearing thin, the teasing edge briefly giving way to genuine frustration. "Care to elaborate?"
Lia's eyes narrowed. "You called Dean adorable? Seriously?"
He was now sitting beside her on the edge of the mattress, the tension instantly draining out of him as a look of sheer disbelief took its place. "You're jealous of Redding? I know you're possessive, Lia, but isn't this a bit much even for you? We both know he's not my type."
"What is your type then, Michael?"
"You." It was a truth, plain and simple. No hesitation, no sarcasm. Just the blunt reality of how he felt.
But it wasn't enough. Not tonight. "Elaborate! What am I? Funny, nice, pretty?"
"I think I see what this is about," Michael said lightly. His amusement only pissed Lia off even more. He was decoding her emotions and he found it entertaining.
Furious, she reached to her side and grabbed a plush white pillow to hit him over the head with.
"Haha, laugh at me. Let's see if you're laughing when you're single again because I'm br—"
She didn't get to finish that sentence as Michael pressed his mouth against hers.
Dammit.
The kiss was sudden, hot, and entirely effective at cutting off her rant. She dropped the pillow she was holding and moved her arms to his chest, intent on pushing him away to maintain her righteous anger. But Michael was faster. His fingers latched around her wrists and brought them strictly to her side, pinning them gently but firmly, refusing to let her retreat.
He was kissing her deeper now, demanding her focus, turning her anger into something entirely different. Refusing to go down without a fight, Lia bit at his lip—hard enough to make him recoil.
Michael pulled back, a sharp intake of breath escaping him as his tongue ran over his bottom lip, now lightly bleeding.
"What do you even like about me? Why do you never compliment me?" Lia asked, the venom suddenly draining from her voice, leaving it softer, more genuine this time. The underlying insecurity of the past three days finally slipped through her guard.
"For starters, ouch," Michael murmured, thumbing at his lip. "Secondly, there's a lot of things I like about you."
He shifted, cuddling closer to her on the bed, and Lia let him this time. The fight was gone. She let him wrap his arms around her back, letting him tug her effortlessly into his lap.
"You want to know why I don't say the 'right' things? Why I don't give you normal, simple compliments?" he asked.
"Enlighten me," she muttered grumpily.
"Because normal compliments feel too small for you," Michael confessed, his fingers sweeping her hair to one side of her shoulder so he could lean into the crook of her neck. "Anyone with eyes can see you're pretty, Lia. But I love the things people don't see. I like that you're smart enough to crack cold cases. I mean, fighting with you infuriates me entirely beyond reason, but I love that you're feisty enough to do it anyway. I love that you're adventurous enough to keep up with me, and always down for anything. You're funny, you're sarcastic, and you're strong."
Lia held her breath, listening intently to every last word as she leaned more fully against his chest, entirely captured by his warmth radiating through the soft fabric of her silk pajamas.
"I like that, even though you would never admit it, you care for people more than you let on," he continued, his tone dropping its usual theatricality entirely. "I like how selfless you are. You never let anyone know if something is affecting you. It makes me glad that, whether you like it or not, I'll always know and I'll always be there."
Truth. Truth. Truth. Every word was the truth. Every heartfelt admission was sincere.
Lia relaxed into him, the words washing over her in soothing waves, melting away the lingering irritation. He noticed, as always. He noticed everything.
"And lastly," Michael smiled, his breath warm against her skin as his words were punctuated with a soft, lingering kiss against her forehead. "You're adorable, too, Lia."
She shifted slightly in his lap, tilting her head up just enough to look at him. Her eyes had lost their sharp, defensive edge, replaced by something much quieter.
"Want to say something nice about me?" Michael teased, his fingers skimming up and down her bare arm.
"You're an idiot, Michael Townsend," she murmured, though there was no real heat left in it.
Michael’s quiet chuckle vibrated against her chest. "Is that your way of saying thank you?"
"No. It's my way of saying you make me work entirely too hard for a compliment," she said, a small, genuine smile finally tugging at the corner of her lips. She reached up, her fingers lightly tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "You're insufferable, too smug for your own good, and drive me absolutely insane..."
"But," Michael raised a brow.
"There is no but. That's it."
"Who's being difficult now?" Michael whispered into her ear.
"But," Lia continued with a light roll of her eyes, "there's no one else I'd rather be insane with."
"Good, because you're stuck with me, Zhang."
The truth hummed deep in her heart.