FLUENT IN FORBIDDEN — CHAPTER THREE

"The clock has struck three, the coffee is cold, and the shadows are beginning to speak. Welcome back to the desk of The Night Writer, where the stories are brewed in the dark."

The Al-Faye library was a tomb of books that no one read, bound in leather and smelling of vanilla and dust. I was supposed to be inventorying the collection—a task the Boss gave me to keep me out of sight while the "adults" discussed the shipping scandal downstairs.

The heavy oak door creaked. Julian stepped in, but he wasn’t carrying a drink for once. He was carrying a slim black notebook and a look of intense, focused curiosity.

"Spanish," he said, without preamble. He leaned against a mahogany shelf, crossing his arms. "I told my brother I’m interested in expanding our interests in Madrid. He thinks I'm finally taking the business seriously. He told me to hire a tutor."

I didn't look up from the ledger. "I am sure there are many qualified professors in Beirut, Mr. Julian."

"I don't want a professor. I want someone who knows how to keep a secret phone from being traced." He stepped closer, his shadow stretching over the desk. "I want to know how a man who scrubs floors knows the difference between a Cyrillic script and a security encryption."

I finally set the pen down. "What is it you actually want, sir?"

"Teach me," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave. He sat on the edge of the desk, dangerously close to my personal space. "Not just the words. I want to know how you do it. How you hear everything and stay so...calm."

I looked at him. Up close, Julian wasn't just a mess; he was a beautiful disaster. His eyes were the color of the Mediterranean just before a storm.

"Very well," I said, my voice slipping into the cold, precise tone of a teacher. "Sit. We will start with the phonetics of desire and distance."

He blinked, surprised by my sudden authority. He sat.

"In Spanish," I began, leaning in until I could smell the faint scent of his aftershave, "the way you breathe is as important as the way you speak. Repeat after me: ‘Estoy atrapado.’"

"Es-toy a-tra-pa-do," he repeated, his accent clumsy but his gaze locked onto my lips.

"Better. It means, 'I am trapped,'" I said softly. I reached out—a bold, calculated move—and placed my hand over his pulse point on his neck. His skin was hot. His heart hammered against my palm.

"You are tense. If you speak with a tight throat, you sound like a tourist. You must relax the muscle here."

I let my thumb graze the line of his jaw. Julian didn't pull away. He leaned into the touch, his breath hitching. The air in the library suddenly felt thick, charged with the kind of electricity that precedes a lightning strike.

"Now," I whispered, my face inches from his. "Try: ‘Quédate conmigo.’"

"Qué-date... con-migo," he breathed.

"Good," I murmured. "It means, 'Stay with me.'"

Julian’s hand came up, catching my wrist. He didn't move it away from his neck; he held it there, pressing my palm harder against his skin. "You're a dangerous man, Mikael. I think you've been 'staying' with us for a long time, watching us while we played our little games."

"I see everything, Julian," I said, dropping the 'sir.' "And I think you’re tired of playing alone."

For a moment, neither of us moved. The library was silent, the only sound the ticking of the grandfather clock and the heavy, synchronized thrum of two hearts.

Then, the floorboards outside groaned.

Julian snapped back, releasing my wrist as if it were white-hot. He opened his notebook to a random page just as his brother’s footsteps passed the door. I picked up my pen and returned to the ledger, my hand perfectly steady, though my blood was singing.

He looked at me, a mix of frustration and newfound hunger in his eyes. He realized then that I wasn't just his tutor. I was his mirror. And he was starting to like what he saw.

"Daylight is coming to claim the quiet, but these words stay with you. If you enjoyed this journey into the midnight hours, leave a heart or a tip to keep the candles burning. Sleep well—if you can. — The Night Writer."