Reborn as a villain:Claim the omega, Kiss the beta, Kill the dukes Chapter 53: Clean doors

Chapter 52

Nolan

The world is a little brighter today.

I vacuum the floor, the steady hum filling the house while my thoughts drift sowhere else entirely. My body moves on autopilot, guiding the vacuum across the carpet, up the steps, down the hall.

Haaa.

Each ti I close my eyes—even for just a blink—I picture being with Ciel.

His lips. Soft and insistent against mine. The way he gasped when I bit his bottom lip, the sound slipping free before he could stop it. That noise... it replays in my head like a song I can’t get rid of.

I pause at the top of the stairs, leaning against the wall, vacuum still buzzing at my side. My chest tightens, a painful, wonderful ache. For years, I’ve imagined him like this but it was always fantasy.

I run a hand down my face, groaning.

"Idiot," I mutter to myself.

Operation not be in love with your best friend has officially reached an impossible level. There’s no coming back now.How am I supposed to go back to normal now that I know what his lips feel like, what it’s like to hear him gasp for ?

Seriously.

I’m fucked.

The vacuum suddenly roars louder, rattling against the wall it just bumped into. I jolt back to reality, fumbling to pull it away before it scratches the paint.

"Right. Cleaning," I mutter. "Cleaning is good. Cleaning is safe."

I grip the handle tighter, guiding it in neat, sharp lines across the floor. Focus. Just focus on the dust, the crumbs, the stupid lint that keeps showing up no matter how many tis I sweep.

Not on his lips. Not on the way his fingers tugged my hair.

Not on the way he kissed back.

I push the vacuum harder, like I can grind the thoughts out of existence. The cord tangles behind , catches on the corner of the couch. I curse under my breath, kneeling to untangle it. My hands are shaking.

I tell myself it’s from the frustration. From the cleaning. Not from the fact that every part of is still buzzing with the mory of him.

"Focus," I whisper, yanking the cord free.

But no matter how much I clean, the ss inside isn’t going anywhere.

***

Jack

I’m minding my business, sorting through my shots from earlier seriously, father–son duo are the perfect subjects. No bad angles, ever. It’s almost unfair how photogenic they both are.

That’s when I catch sight of Nolan.

He’s at the glass door leading to the balcony, waging war on what has to be the cleanest surface in the entire house. Yellow gloves on, sponge in hand, scrubbing with the kind of grim focus you’d expect from a surgeon, not a guy ard with Windex. His jaw is tight, brows furrowed, lips pressed together like this is life or death.

I snicker.

Only Nolan could make cleaning look like a battlefield.

I lift my cara from around my neck, flick it on, and fra him through the lens. The gloves, the rigid stance, the way his reflection stares back at him through the glass like he’s glaring at himself—it’s too perfect to pass up.

Click.

The shutter snaps, crisp and satisfying.

He doesn’t even notice. Too busy scrubbing an invisible speck that probably doesn’t exist.

I lower the cara, grinning. Damn, I’ll admit it—he photographs well. There’s sothing sharp about him, all edges and restraint, but the lens softens it, makes him look almost... human, less glares and scowls.

I shake my head, still smiling to myself. "Man, you’re sothing else, doggy."

*

I head back from my darkroom, still slling faintly of chemicals, a handful of freshly processed prints tucked under my arm. My head’s buzzing with images, framing, light, composition—but the second I step into the hall, I freeze.

Nolan.

Still at the damn glass doors.

Gloves on, rag in one hand, spray bottle in the other. He’s hunched forward just slightly, shoulders tense, muttering under his breath like he’s squaring off with an enemy. Sa patch of glass. Sa relentless focus.

I blink.

Seriously? He’s still at it?

A laugh catches in my throat, low and quiet, but I don’t stop it. Of course it’s Nolan. The guy could probably scrub the whole ocean clean if you gave him enough Windex.

I’m unable to help it.

I walk toward him, quiet on my feet, watching his shoulders hunch tighter and tighter with each furious swipe of the rag. He doesn’t notice —too locked in, too intent on annihilating whatever imaginary sar he thinks is there. Just squeak, squeak, squeak.

Hmmn.

Well.

I plant both palms against the glass, one on either side of him, leaving bold prints right over the patch he’s been obsessing over.

The rag freezes mid-motion.

Slowly, his head turns, and the look he gives could kill a man twice over.

His eye twitches.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he glares.

This is the part where a sane person would back off, apologize, maybe even flee for their life.

But ?

What can I say? I love the thrill.

"I was trying to get your attention," I say smoothly, dragging my palms down the glass just enough to leave sared streaks—right over his pristine work.

His jaw drops, then clenches so hard I hear it.

I spread my fingers wide and plant my hands again, pressing harder this ti. "Look, two more. Now it’s even."

***

Ciel

I’m walking with Lanny in my arms, humming softly to keep him from fussing, when I pass by the balcony doors.

And stop.

Jack is there, crouched low with a rag in hand, scrubbing at the glass like Cinderella on caffeine and there’s also a very visible bump swelling on his forehead.

I blink.

Lanny coos.

Jack freezes, rag mid-swipe, glaring at like t’s my fault.

I shake my head, pressing a kiss to Lanny’s hair, to hide my amusent.

"...Don’t say it," he growls and keeps wiping.

I bite my lip, failing miserably not to laugh.