Ollie tried to run.
It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t even fast. But he turned on his heel like a spooked colt and took two staggering steps toward the door.
Lex caught his arm.
There was no struggle. No flailing.
Lex pulled him back and whispered, “Now, Ollie.”
Ollie’s knees buckled. He hit the floor.
Lex didn’t gloat. He didn’t mock. He just guided him—hands at his shoulders, knees to the carpet—until Ollie was in front of the crate.
Morgan’s hand stilled, drink halfway to his mouth.
He didn’t interfere.
Not when Lex opened the cage door and brushed a piece of hair behind Ollie’s ear.
Not when Ollie whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m really,reallysorry,” in a voice that already sounded hours older.
“I know you’re scared,” Lex said. “That’s why this isn’t punishment. It’s structure. It’ll be okay. I promise.”
Morgan knew those words. He’d used them himself once or twice.
Hearing them now, in Lex’s mouth, didn’t feel like flattery. It felt like acknowledgement.
That’s when the tears started to fall. Slow at first, traveling down Ollie’s cheeks, then faster, like he couldn’t contain them.
“Now,” Lex whispered, and that was all it took.
Ollie crawled in.
He didn’t cry out. He didn’t fight.
He curled, as best he could, into the space that wasn’t built for him. And Lex, humming under his breath, shut the door behind him. The latch clicked like a lock on a vault.
Ollie looked toward Morgan once, just once—as if asking for something neither of them would say aloud.
Now he doesn’t know who to trust.
Morgan raised his eyebrows. Took a drink.
That could’ve gone far worse.
Lex may have more of a knack for this than he first thought.
Lex didn’t speak for a while.
Not right away.
He kneeled beside the cage with deliberate grace, smoothing the towel Ollie was curled on. His palm brushed against bareskin—Ollie’s ankle, pale and goose-pimpled. The contact was light, meaningless. But Ollie flinched anyway, like he’d been struck.
Lex didn’t react.
He reached for the room service cart and opened the cloche.
Dinner arrived on time.