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Chapter Title: Director Next Door
Rob Lucci x reader
Length: 4.5 K+
Rating: 16+ (Language)
Previous / Next
The day you once again meet Rob Lucci, you don’t know it.
You’re just at the bakery. That’s all. A simple detour before work. You’ve been traveling non-stop for weeks, inspecting shipyards, filing structural assessments, and quietly unraveling from the inside out.
You deserve a pastry. Something jam-filled and spiritually stabilizing.
You are tired. You are stressed. You have been ghosted across half the ocean by a silent, well-dressed enigma who may or may not be the reason your left eye twitches every time you see a black coat.
So when you step into the café near the port, all you want is caffeine and something flaky.
What do you unquestionably not want?
To walk in and immediately lock eyes with him.
Rob Lucci.
He is seated by the window like a knife someone forgot to put away. A white coat is draped neatly over the back of the chair. A black folder sits unopened on the table. Coffee untouched. His hair is slicked back, longer than you remember. The light hits his profile just right, and your brain takes immediate, irreversible damage.
He is so handsome, so polished, that it hurts your prefrontal cortex.
You freeze.
He lifts his eyes and meets yours. His expression is calm. His gaze was unreadable.
“Sit,” he says.
You do. Not because you want to. Not because you are weak. But because your legs stop accepting input, and your spine goes completely offline.
You stare at him.
He stares back.
Silence fills the space between you for exactly five seconds.
Then you lean back in your chair and mutter, “Nope. Absolutely not. I am not getting emotionally kidnapped by a secret agent in a nice coat.”
Lucci tilts his head slightly. “I have accounted for your full schedule, and there will be no kidnapping. Today.”
His tone is clinical. His posture could pass inspection. His expression remains entirely composed.
Which only makes it worse.
Because what he just revealed, so casually, is unhinged.
Then you see it.
Clipped neatly to his lapel is a Cipher Pol Director-level clearance badge.
And just beneath it, a second tag.
Assigned to: …
It’s your name.
Your eye twitches.
You stop breathing.
He does not react. Just nods as if this is all routine. As if he did not vanish for months, silently haunt every port you visited, and then reappear with official credentials that read like a claim.
You stare at him.
Then you try talking.
“Why are you stalking me?”
You were going to yell. You had a plan. You had a speech. Bullet points.
He answers first.
“You are my priority.”
Four simple words. Low. Steady. Delivered without hesitation.
And just like that, your entire nervous system goes offline.
He used to speak only when necessary. Now, every syllable sounds precise. Intentional. Like he knows exactly what his voice does to you and chooses every word accordingly.
“Your next inspection route passes through two flagged zones,” he continues. “I have adjusted your schedule and notified the local enforcement. I will brief the shipwright in charge before 0800. Will you be ready?”
You hear him. You process the logistics.
But your brain, already compromised by proximity and tone, detours into dangerous territory.
I have memorized the cadence of your sighs.
He did not say that.
But he could have had he not been a sleeper agent tasked to kill lesser creatures. Had he been a normal person. In a fantasy universe. One, your brain conjures as he talks in that deep voice.
You make a noise. Maybe “ah.” Perhaps the sound your dignity makes as it collapses in on itself. You nod. Or salute. Or wave. You are not sure.
Then you leave.
Quickly. Quietly. Like you are being pursued by memory, arousal, and every bad decision you ever made involving men in fitted coats.
He watches you go.
No smile. No comment. Just a quiet inhale.
And something unreadable in his eyes that lingers long after you are gone.
You make it back to your apartment in record time.
You lock the door.
You breathe.
And then you hear it.
A faint, wet-sounding coo.
No.
You turn.
Perched smugly on the back of your reading chair, beady eyes glittering with smug vindication, is Hattori.
You stare. “How?”
He coos. Lifts a wing.
You point. “This is not a state-sanctioned reentry.”
Hattori fluffs his feathers, turns for a moment.
There’s a spare key in his beak.
You gasp. “You broke into my apartment?!”
He shrugs as much as a bird can, which is somehow deeply offensive.
There’s a piece of paper tucked under his foot.
You unfold it.
“I told him he’d need to speak. He’s terrified. You’re winning. I missed your leftovers. Also, I’m retired from speaking.”
You sit down.
Put your head in your hands.
And whisper, “I’m going to marry him or kill him. There’s no in-between.”
Hattori coos again, softly.
Like he approves of either option.
At precisely 0800, there’s a knock at your door.
Not early. Not late. Not impatient. Just precise, like everything else about him.
You’ve had two hours to prepare. Two hours to pace the room, drink lukewarm tea, and reason yourself out of whatever hormonal freefall you almost had in that café. Two hours to move past the white coat, the sharp jawline, and that voice that made your spine forget how to function.
Two hours to remember the vital part.
He hurt your heart.
So when you open the door and see Rob Lucci standing there, perfectly composed, gloves on, collar straight, eyes fixed on you without a flicker of doubt.
You do the only respectable thing.
You slam the door in his face.
Not dramatically.
Not in rage.
Just with the quiet, measured finality of a woman who has been stalked through six ports, emotionally blindsided by government paperwork, bamboozled by an unusually expressive bird, and flirted with via disapproval and occasional eye contact.
You have entered the “I’m done” stage of emotional maturity.
“Goodnight, Director Lucci,” you say calmly through the door. Your tone is polite. Chill. Professional. The kind of courtesy that cuts.
“But I’ve extended my stay.”
The door locks shut.
Clean. Decisive.
Click.
Behind it, you lean your forehead against the frame and breathe.
You are proud of yourself.
He is good-looking. He smells like warm leather and moral compromise. His voice makes vowels feel illegal.
But he does not get to come in.
Not here. Not now.
Across the hall, Rob Lucci stares at your door for exactly six seconds.
Then he turns and calls a real estate agent.
Within twenty-four hours, the apartment next to yours is purchased under a fake name tied to a Cipher Pol-adjacent shell company.
The agent barely asks questions.
He does not furnish the space. Not with anything useful.
Just a desk. A chair. Six high-grade surveillance nodes aimed directly at your hallway.
He installs a coffee machine.
He installs Hattori.
He installs a listening device calibrated to your sighs.
When Kaku hears about it, he mutters, “This is how war crimes happen, emotionally speaking.”
Lucci does not respond.
He is too busy analyzing the way you walk when you are annoyed versus when you are lonely.
You do not find out immediately.
But you notice the shift.
The way the hallway feels different. The way your locks click a little too crisply, like they are being observed. The faint scent of coffee and government regret seeping under your door.
So you start whispering to the room, just to mess with him.
“I am going to adopt a third bird.”
“I have started dating a mime. We communicate through longing and interpretive dance.”
“If he wears another turtleneck, I am going to snap.”
Across the wall, Lucci listens. Still as glass. Quiet.
He does not smile.
But he starts wearing crewnecks.
You see him every day now.
Not inside your apartment. Not at work. Only in the hallway.
Like clockwork. Between 7:32 and 7:35 in the morning. And again between 6:14 and 6:20 in the evening.
Every single day.
He does it so badly.
So obviously.
Like a cat crouched behind a couch with its tail sticking out, absolutely convinced it cannot be seen.
Lucci rounds the corner with all the grace of a horror movie extra pretending to be local wildlife.
“Ah,” he says, that rich, sin-soaked voice casually pretending this is a surprise.
You stare him down. “Are you lost, Director?”
“No,” he replies. Hands clasped behind his back like this is a military drill and not the world’s least romantic slow-burn stalking comedy.
“I live here.”
You squint. “Next door?”
He nods once. Like a man confessing to tax fraud.
You nod back. “Of course you do.”
The first three times, you brushed it off. Government weirdos have no sense of boundaries.
The sixth time, you left a sticky note on his door that read, “Stalking is still stalking, even with a clearance badge.”
The next morning, you found a reply slid under yours. Simple. To the point.
“You locked me out. I adapted.”
You sit in your apartment one night, sipping wine and staring out the window while Hattori softly coos from his new perch on your curtain rod.
And you say aloud, just to make it real.
“I have a stalker.” There is a pause. You nod once, solemn. “But at least I know his name.”
You are not even mad anymore.
Just tired.
Tired of the emotional whiplash. Tired of being watched through vents. Tired of men who do not know how to use their words unless they are designed to wound or seduce.
But most of all?
You are tired of caring.
Because, despite everything he has done (the bird, the mask, the hallway ambushes, the unholy level of government surveillance), you still want to open the door.
You try to move on.
You even sneak out your window to make a last-minute boat ride.
New port. New assignment. New coworkers who didn’t know about the masked lunch incident, the hallway surveillance, or your emotionally unprocessed almost ex-lover with murder certifications.
Things were looking up.
Until he walked in.
He doesn’t even knock.
Just strolls into your new office; uniform, crisp coat swinging, hair obnoxiously perfect, like he was carved out of a security brochure titled “Lethal and Available.”
The room goes silent.
One of your new coworkers, a brilliant systems engineer with a PhD and zero resistance to tall men in gloves, whispers: “Oh my god.”
You sigh.
She adds, “Who is that and why haven’t we made him illegal?”
You sip your coffee and mutter, “Rob Lucci. And he already is.”
Lucci steps up to your desk and says, voice smooth and saturated with unearned composure:
“Director Rob Lucci, newly appointed regional oversight liaison. I’ll be observing your department for the next six weeks.”
You stare at him.
Then glance at your calendar. Then sigh, deep and tired. “Of course you are.”
The women in your department are feral.
You can’t blame them.
He’s infuriatingly graceful. Speaks like war crimes, reads poetry on the weekends. Walks like he knows exactly where every vulnerable spot in the human body is, but chooses not to exploit it yet.
He bends over the filing cabinet once, and someone drops a stapler.
You do not judge them.
You mourn.
Because you know better.
You know that beneath the perfection is a man who can kill you with a teacup.
(You once asked him directly if he had feelings for you. He blinked. Stared. Said nothing. The bird whispered: “Yes.”)
Now he’s here. In your office. Looking like every wrong decision you ever almost made, and somehow worse now that he talks, because his voice is stupidly good.
You make it two days before you corner him in the file room.
"Why are you here?”
“I’m assigned.”
“Did you assign yourself?”
He doesn’t answer.
You groan. “You know they’re all in love with you, right?”
He frowns faintly. “That seems inefficient.”
You throw a pen at his chest.
He catches it.
Of course he does.
Later, one of the newer women sighs dreamily and asks, “Do you think he’s single?”
You sip your coffee, eyes dead. “He’s emotionally spoken for by a bird.”
She blinks.
You nod slowly. “You’ll see.”
You’re trying to focus. Trying. Genuinely.
You’ve accepted your fate: Lucci works in the building now as a cover to stalk you. He’s hotter than sin and twice as silent, but you’re a professional. You can handle it.
You can ignore how his coat fits, how his voice sounds, how every other woman in the building has a “Director Lucci Watch” group chat.
You can even ignore the occasional hallway glance that feels like he’s counting your vertebrae in soft regret.
You. Are. Fine.
Until the bird shows up.
Hattori lands on your desk at 10:03 a.m. with the smugness of a creature who once ran emotional circles around you and is ready to do it again.
You freeze mid-keystroke.
Across the room, heads turn.
Someone gasps.
One of your coworkers (bright, sweet, and entirely unprepared for your complicated history) whispers, “Oh my god. It’s the bird. That’s his bird. Why is it with you?”
You don’t respond.
You don’t have to.
Because Hattori hops onto your keyboard, preens, and deposits a tiny, folded letter between your hands like a cursed love note forged in espionage and broken boundaries.
You open it.
It reads: You’ve stopped speaking to me. Hattori says I’m handling it poorly. This letter is an act of cowardice. I apologize. I’ll remain... nearby. —R
You stare at it.
Then at the bird.
Then, at your coffee, which is nowhere near strong enough to combat this level of government-funded emotional sabotage.
Your coworkers are spiraling.
“Wait. That’s a letter.”
“Did you guys date???”
“Did he follow you? Oh my god, girl, you pulled him?”
“Oh, course she did. She’s a sharp woman who has clearly survived betrayal and still has good hair.”
“Oh god, I’m in love with you too.”
You stand up.
You look at Hattori.
And very, very quietly, you say, “Tell him I intercepted the delivery. No comment.”
Hattori fluffs his feathers.
Then coos once and flies away like a messenger of psychological war.
You spend the next three days engaging in a strategic counteroffensive.
You leave subtle notes on memos Lucci reads: “You used to be better at hiding surveillance equipment.”
You adjust the thermostat every time he enters a room. Cold. Warm. Cold. Warm. Confusing. You change your office ringtone to a bird call. Every time it rings, you glance meaningfully at the ceiling.
And when he passes by your desk?
You smile.
Sweet.
Controlled.
Terrifying.
Lucci starts unraveling in slow, observable increments.
He knocks over a pen. Once. He stares too long at a hallway plant. He compliments someone else’s handwriting, then immediately walks into a doorframe.
The man is fraying.
It’s the fourth day of the emotional stalemate.
Hattori’s been banned from the break room after trying to steal someone’s blueberry muffin.
Lucci hasn’t made direct eye contact in thirty-six hours.
You’ve maintained perfect posture and exactly 1.5 micro-expressions of disapproval per interaction.
Your coworkers? They’re thriving.
They’ve taken sides. Bets. One of them, Yvette, has started a spreadsheet titled: “Will They Bone or Kill Each Other First.”
The tension is delicious. Office productivity has never been lower.
So when you drop the letter on Lucci’s desk, the entire department stops breathing.
No envelope.
Just a plain white fold. His name on the outside, handwritten in your sharp, looping script. No Den Den delivery. No bird. Just you. He reads it alone. The note is short.
What do you want, Rob?
He disappears for two days.
Not a word. No explanation. The office goes feral.
“I think she killed him.”
“No, he’s emotionally combusting somewhere in a trench coat.”
“Do you think they’ll make out in the file room?”
“I’d pay to see it.”
“You will pay. We’re charging admission.”
You come in the third morning, eyes tired, patience threadbare, ready to move on. He awaits you, prepared to prevent you from moving on.
You’re expecting something complicated.
A slow confession. Maybe a tear-stained apology. Possibly some awkward hand-holding or a vague reference to feelings with a chart.
Instead?
He raises your note. Raises his eyes.
And says, flatly, “I find you physically compelling.”
You wince. “...That’s it?”
He nods. “Among other things.”
You stare. “You stalked me through six ports, rerouted military operations, bought property next to my apartment, sent a pigeon-letter through inter-office mail, and emotionally torpedoed two of my relationships—because you find me physically compelling?”
He’s quiet for a moment.
“And I believe we would be genetically compatible.”
You nearly choke. “I’m sorry??”
He steps forward, calm as a church fire.
“I’m trained to eliminate threats, not explore casual courtship. I am… inefficient with uncertainty. If I am drawn to something, I remove the variables.”
You narrow your eyes. “...Are you saying I’m a… project or a variable?”
His gaze is steady. Heavy. Devastating.
“You are the only one I haven’t neutralized. That is... telling.”
Your coworkers are once again watching through a glass panel, mouths open, absolutely spellbound.
Somebody mutters, “Are we witnessing a marriage proposal or a targeted abduction?”
Another sighs, dreamy. “God, I wish a man with an elite body count would find me genetically compatible.”
You rub your temples. “Rob. Let me just… clarify something.”
He tilts his head, like a hawk analyzing a smaller bird that just got interesting.
“You don’t want to date me?”
“No.”
“You don’t want to flirt with me?”
“I don’t possess the training.”
“But you want to… marry me and have children?”
He nods without hesitation.
Like you just asked him if he’d like water with dinner.
You sit down slowly.
Across from you, Lucci remains standing like a tall, terrifyingly attractive monument to emotional bypassing and state-sanctioned pining.
You exhale. “I genuinely don’t know if I’m terrified or flattered.”
He considers. “Is it both?”
“Correct.”
You stare up at him.
Tall. Dangerous. Completely sincere.
He just proposed. Or… something like it. In a tone better suited to outlining a kill order.
And you are tired, wrecked, fed up with emotional hostage negotiations as well as the unprocessed attraction, so you do what any rational, overwhelmed woman would do.
You snap.
You smile sweetly, lean back in your chair, and say:
“Sure, Rob. Let’s get married. You buying the cake or killing the baker?”
He pauses.
Not in shock.
In deep, silent logistics calculation.
Finally, he nods once, slow and deliberate.
“Buying is acceptable. But only if they meet structural integrity standards.”
You blink. “That was sarcasm.”
He blinks back. “The commitment was not. I will allow the verbal distraction, but I will not allow withdrawal of your acceptance, regardless of tone. It is cowardice to disguise your willingness to copulate.”
Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
Behind the glass, your coworkers completely lose it. One drops a protein bar in pure awe. Another gasps, “Is this what courtship feels like on his level?” A third yells, “KISS HIM FOR SCIENCE.”
You raise a hand to them without breaking eye contact.
“Quiet. I’m trying to figure out if I just got married.”
Then you look at him.
Really look at him.
And, damn it all, he’s beautiful. In that ‘sharpened blade that wants to make you soup’ kind of way. You know he’s serious.
You know if you don’t stop him, this man will file marriage paperwork through three encrypted channels, relocate your entire apartment by force, and begin security protocols for offspring you haven’t agreed to create.
You inhale sharply and say, “Rob. If you want to make me your wife, you have to date me first. Like a human man. Not a sniper.”
A beat.
Lucci lowers his head slightly. Blinks once.
Then says, like it’s a vow:
“I will research.”
Part One: The Mission Known as 'Dating'
Lucci takes your words seriously.
Possibly too seriously.
Within 24 hours of your sarcastic-engagement-turned-conditional-dating declaration, he submits the following to Cipher Pol’s internal scheduling system:
MISSION CODE: D-01 “THE DATE”
OBJECTIVE: Secure emotional foundation for long-term mate-bonding.
SECONDARY GOAL: Confirm mutual willingness for romantic engagement.
TERTIARY GOAL: Do not fail.
STATUS: CRITICAL.
He prepares like he’s storming a fortress.
There is route optimization. Three escape plans. Seven backup venues.
A surveillance sweep. He has Kaku inspect the restaurant for “civilian threats” (Kaku finds a violinist and a crêpe cart, reports “minimal danger but high fluff content”).
Interestingly enough, and very on brand, an outfit selection. He nearly wears a suit designed for state funerals. Hattori intercepts it and brings him a navy button-up instead, and then gets a matching vest.
He has conversation flashcards.
They include:
“How was your day?”
“I like your laugh.”
“I apologize for past surveillance.”
“Your genetic structure continues to impress me.” (Hattori eats that last one.)
When you show up at the restaurant, you’re wearing a lovely dress and a healthy dose of skepticism.
When you see Lucci already standing beside your chair, hands clasped, back ramrod straight, and eyes laser-focused, you mutter, “Oh god, he actually did research.”
Hattori does not come, for his own blood pressure.
The date goes... surprisingly well.
He's awkward. Formal. But he listens.
He tries.
He frowns when the waiter brings your food first. You joke that chivalry is dead. He replies, “Not if I’m alive.”
You laugh so hard you nearly choke.
By dessert, he says, with quiet gravity, “You are the most dangerous variable I’ve ever failed to eliminate. And I… choose not to.”
You sip your wine slowly.
“...You really don’t know how to flirt, huh?”
“No.”
Part Two: The Office Degenerates
Back at HQ, the entire department is completely feral.
They’ve created a betting pool that’s unhinged.
Categories include: Time until he moves in (in days, weeks, or hours). First public kiss (will it occur in front of a printer?). Number of dates before Lucci proposes again, and whether Hattori will serve as best man.
Someone prints fake wedding invitations and tacks them to the break room.
Someone else writes a ballad.
HR sends a memo titled “Please Stop Referring to Director Lucci’s Romantic Activities as 'Operation: Breed and Wed.’”
It is ignored.
The next day, you arrive at work and find a small box on your desk. You fear it’s a ring.
But no, he's learning.
Inside?
A folded note.
I am available for a second trial- Rob
You smile. Then flip it over.
Hattori has scribbled in tiny, angry bird-scratch:
PLEASE. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. MATE HIM AND LET ME MOVE OUT.
Back at local Cipher Pol headquarters, something… strange is happening.
It starts with a flag in the internal system—a mission logged under Lucci’s new clearance code.
“He doesn’t even know what a birthday cake is, how is he planning a domestic union?”
“What kind of monster labels romantic progression as a mission tree?”
“…I’m sorry, did that say breeding rights?”
Blueno, calm and wise, sips tea. “I always said he’d fall hard once he fell.”
Someone in the corner just whispers, “He’s preparing a den.”
They start analyzing the data.
This includes the number of unexplained reroutes, the Frequency of bird-delivered communiqués, and Surveillance notes titled ‘Observation of Mating Cues: Blushing, Eyebrow Raise, Verbal Teasing.’ As well as A budget expense for what appears to be a ring.
Kalifa finally mutters: “None of this is sanctioned.”
You have a folder. A report. You’re wearing a blouse that says “I’m emotionally stable,” and you mean it this time.
You walk into Lucci’s office. Three agents are seated inside—serious types. Numbers people. One glances at your heels. Another glances at Lucci, who stands as soon as he sees you.
Unnecessary.
Intentional.
You offer the report with a tight smile. “Here’s the shipment dossier. Signed and reviewed.”
Lucci takes it with both hands like it’s a sacred scroll. Doesn’t sit back down. Doesn’t blink.
Instead, very calmly, he says, “You’d look good in white.”
The room freezes.
You do too.
A secretary slowly lifts a pen to her lips like she’s hiding a smirk.
The rookie analyst next to her goes pale. The third agent opens his briefcase and physically hides inside it.
You blink. “I’m sorry?”
Lucci stares directly at you. Calm. Stern. Intentional.
“White. The color of commitment. It suits you.”
You, professional woman of focus and principle, do what any rational person would do.
You turn around.
And walk straight into the doorframe.
The moment you leave, a coworker bursts into the office.
“Tell me you didn’t just soft-propose in front of the entire economic review team.”
Lucci is silent.
“It was not soft.”
After a full day of emotional damage, you agree to another date.
Because you’re too far in.
Because you need to see it through.
Because, let’s be honest now, you are desperately, tragically, in love with this disaster of a man who uses his bird as a human resources department.
Lucci chooses a quiet place. Simple. Elegant.
Too elegant.
The waiter bows and brings the wine list. Lucci smiles.
Smiles.
And the waiter stumbles backward.
“Apologies,” the poor man gasps. “I—I didn’t realize he had emotions. I mean—teeth. I mean—water?”
You hide behind your menu.
Lucci frowns. “Was that incorrect?”
You peek over the top. “That wasn’t a smile, Rob. That was an interrogation with molars.”
The rest of the evening goes surprisingly well.
You tease him. He listens.
He orders you dessert without asking, and correctly.
He even walks you home like a gentleman who’s read at least one romantic protocol manual.
At your door, he hesitates.
Then says softly, “I am still learning. But if I am capable of devotion, if only for you.”
You kiss him.
You kiss him like it’s overdue. Like you’ve spent months circling this slow-burning, pigeon-mediated, bureaucratic whirlwind, and you’re finally allowed to exhale.
He’s still for half a second.
Then his hands find your waist. Firm. Restrained. Like he’s holding back a weapon instead of touching a person. Like if he lets go, the floor will vanish beneath him.
You part only when breath insists on it, and even then, his eyes don’t move from yours.
“I didn’t authorize this,” he mutters.
You arch a brow. “Want me to file a formal withdrawal?”
His mouth twitches. Barely.
“No,” he says, voice low. “I want you to do that again.”
And this time, when you pull him down to you, he doesn’t hesitate.
This could be the end. If I liked myself more, and Lucci less.
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