Dorian never slept. He negotiated rest the way emperors negotiated peace: unwillingly, temporarily, suspiciously.
Lila first witnessed his midnight ritual by accident.
She was still awake testing formula stability at 1:09 AM when she stepped into the hallway to find light existing where sleep should have evicted it by now.
His office door was slightly open.
He was sitting at the all-glass desk in a white shirt, sleeves rolled, city lights outlining him like a nocturnal empire of pressure and pulse. His breathing was slow, measured, a controlled thing barely containing its own cracks.
A small strip of paper sat on his desk.
One of her scent test strips. Ocean base, lemon-top notes, cedarwood anchor, saline truth she designed without naming it yet.
Instead of reading documents, he was inhaling the strip quietly.
She watched—fascinated by the contradiction of a man allergic to vulnerability but dependent on a fragrance that smelled like it.
He exhaled lightly.
Lila whispered accidentally, "You don't sleep. You just smell loss."
He looked up immediately, but without anger.
"I supervise quiet hours," he corrected.
"You occupy them."
"And you haunt them like lemon ghosts."
She frowned. "Citrus isn't ghosting. Citrus is honesty without sugar."
"Exactly," he said, "which makes it terrifying."
She exhaled back. "Emotions terrified you and jackets simultaneously. I must bottle that dual disorder someday."
He actually laughed then. Real laughter, not calibrated laughter. The moment flickered like unauthorized warmth.