Chapter 52: Recovery With Romcoms

The next morning’s unlight filtered through the partially drawn curtains, casting golden waves across the Poseidon Suite.

Kane sat nestled in a mountain of pillows on the enormous sofa, swaddled in the plushest bathrobe he’d ever worn and wrapped in no fewer than three blankets despite the room’s comfortable temperature.

A silver room service tray balanced precariously on his lap, loaded with an assortment of pastries, fresh fruit, and a steaming pot of tea.

"This is how you recover from heatstroke," Kane declared, popping a chocolate-covered strawberry into his mouth.

He flicked through channels on the massive television mounted on the wall opposite the sofa.

"Five-star recuperation. Much better than the Bureau infirmary’s plastic chairs and vending machine crackers."

Cyrus stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the ocean stretch to the horizon. He’d been in the same position for nearly twenty minutes, his posture rigid.

"You’re missing the premium cable experience," Kane called, patting the empty space beside him.

"They have a documentary about ancient artifacts. Might give us some insight on our chalice-hunting friend."

Cyrus glanced over his shoulder but didn’t move.

"Come on, you’re making me nervous hovering there like some brooding gargoyle." Kane waved a croissant enticingly.

"I promise not to get crumbs on your side."

"I’m perfectly fine where I am," Cyrus replied, but his eyes lingered on the sofa longer than necessary.

Kane sighed dramatically.

"More blankets for me then." He burrowed deeper into his cocoon and changed the channel to a cooking competition.

"Oh! Look at that soufflé disaster. Reminds me of when I tried to make one for my academy graduation party."

A small twitch at the corner of Cyrus’s mouth betrayed his amusement.

Kane continued flipping through channels, pausing briefly at a news segment about European politics before clicking forward again.

Suddenly, the familiar swell of orchestral music filled the room as the screen displayed a sleek corporate office where a woman in a tailored suit paced nervously.

"Wait, is that—" Kane sat up straighter, a grin spreading across his face.

"Oh my god, it’s ’The CEO’s Secret Baby!?" They made a movie of that romance novel you had in your secret lair!"

Cyrus’s head snapped toward the television, his expression flickering between horror and interest.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he said stiffly, but his eyes remained fixed on the screen.

"Come on, your copy was practically falling apart from being read so many times." Kane patted the sofa beside him.

"You know you want to watch it. I promise not to tell anyone about your secret love for cheesy romance."

Cyrus hesitated, his jaw working silently before he finally moved from his post by the window.

"Purely for research purposes," he muttered, settling rigidly on the opposite end of the sofa.

As the movie progressed—the hard-hearted CEO gradually falling for his assistant, who harbored a life-changing secret—Kane noticed Cyrus inching closer, his posture relaxing incrementally.

By the time they reached the dramatic confession scene, their shoulders were nearly touching.

"They changed the confrontation," Cyrus commented, frowning slightly.

"In the book, she reveals her pregnancy during the charity gala, not at the board meeting."

Kane turned to him with delighted surprise. "I knew it! You’re a total romance junkie!"

Cyrus’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile. "The literary analysis of human mating rituals is a valid area of study."

"Sure it is, dragon boy," Kane replied, leaning comfortably against Cyrus’s shoulder. "Sure it is."

The movie’s tension built as the protagonists found themselves trapped in an elevator, their faces inches apart in the dim emergency lighting.

"This isn’t in the book," Cyrus muttered, his body tensing beside Kane.

On screen, the CEO cupped his assistant’s face, years of restraint crumbling as they crashed together in a desperate kiss.

Kane shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware of Cyrus’s proximity. His heart thudded a little too loud for comfort.

It was just a movie, just Cyrus... So why did it feel like they were the ones caught in the elevator?

Cyrus sat perfectly still with measured breathing, but Kane noticed that his hands were gripping the edge of the sofa.

"Is it hot in here?" Kane murmured, loosening his bathrobe slightly.

"Quiet," Cyrus replied, not taking his eyes from the screen.

When the inevitable bedroom scene arrived, Kane expected Cyrus to look away or make a dismissive comment.

Instead, he watched with unwavering focus, his crimson eyes reflecting the flickering images.

Kane found himself watching Cyrus more than the movie—the subtle changes in his expression, the almost imperceptible swallow when the characters whispered declarations of love.

As credits rolled, Kane stretched, breaking the strange tension that had settled between them.

"Well? What did you think?"

Cyrus stood, straightening his shirt with precise movements.

"The book ending was superior," he declared.

"Their reconciliation at the winter estate had more... emotional resonance. This was merely physical attraction disguised as love."

Kane grinned. "So you did read it for the plot."

"Fine," Cyrus admitted with exaggerated reluctance.

"The narrative structure was... adequate, and the character development showed marginal competence."

Kane’s grin widened. "I knew it! You’re a romantic at heart under all those scales."

"I wouldn’t go that—" Cyrus began but was interrupted by the suite’s doorbell chiming.

Kane frowned. "Did you order something?"

"No." Cyrus’s posture instantly shifted to alert, his eyes narrowing.

"Did you?"

"Not since breakfast."

Kane struggled to extract himself from his blanket cocoon, but Cyrus motioned for him to stay put and strode to the door.

He opened it to reveal Bob Holloway, his honey-blond hair tousled by the sea breeze, arms loaded with a colorful gift basket and what appeared to be garment bags.

"Hey! I was hoping you guys would be in." Bob’s smile faltered slightly when he saw Cyrus’s expression.

"I, uh, brought some recovery stuff for Kane."

Kane called from his nest of blankets, "Is that Bob? Let him in!"

Cyrus stepped aside with visible reluctance, his jaw tight.

Bob entered, placing the basket on the coffee table.

"I brought electrolyte drinks, some aloe vera for any sunburn, and chocolate because... well, chocolate helps everything, right?"

"You’re a lifesaver," Kane said, immediately grabbing a chocolate bar.

"Oh, and these—" Bob held up the garment bags.

"Dad wanted me to deliver your masks for tomorrow’s masquerade. Custom-made. Pretty fancy stuff."

Cyrus took the bags, examining their contents with suspicion.

"Yeah, well..." Bob rocked on his heels, glancing between them.

"Hope you’re feeling better, Kane. See you tomorrow night?"