Corbeau didn’t notice it at first.

You bringing Philippe a cup of coffee was normal. Harmless. Something partners did for each other. You’d even bring him coffee on occasions (though he could be a bit picker about his coffee). But it wasn’t until he started really paying attention to your behavior, and Philippe’s, when you’d show up that Corbeau started to think that he was missing out on something.  

And that realization—small as it was—set his teeth on edge. It pissed him off, really. You all were a throuple, after all. How dare you leave him out!

When you’d arrive with the warm beverage you’d blush prettily—why on earth were you blushing? It was just a cup of coffee!—while handing Philippe the cup. And Philippe would respond with a warm, loving, almost shameless look. Not out of character in the bedroom—but jarringly out of place on the clock. Corbeau expected Philippe to play the part of his right-hand man seriously. He had a reputation to uphold after all, and expected strict professionalism from all of his employees. But there he was, acting like a boyfriend who struggled to keep his lewd thoughts to himself.

Corbeau would watch Philippe take a long sip from the cup you’d handed to him. Watched as his tongue flicked out afterward—an absent, almost indulgent gesture, like a kitten catching the last drops of milk, before turning to you and making a comment prompting you to laugh. The larger man would then offer you a sip, and you’d blush again—embarrassed this time—before politely declining, bringing him down to kiss him sweetly on the lips, and then be on your merry way.

Over a fucking cup of coffee.

But today—today was different.

When you handed Philippe the cup today, you had a worried expression as he took a drink. Corbeau wondered if, perhaps, you tried something different and were worried that he wouldn’t like it. Which didn’t make sense, really. Contrary to popular belief, Philippe could be quite picky about his coffee—more-so than him!—so if you had tried something knew, Philippe would have approved it first.

In any case, Philippe’s expression didn’t change much when he took a sip, but he was quick to murmur something to you as you turned red again and began fidgeting with your hands.

Corbeau strained to hear the conversation from his desk.

“It seems a bit more bitter this time,” he heard Philippe say. “Did you put chocolate in it as well?”

“I didn’t produce a lot today, so I added it to make up for the lack of sweetness and I didn’t want to add just sugar.”

“I see.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Perhaps I’m not doing an efficient job.”

That made no sense. Efficient at what?

He couldn’t tell if Philippe’s gaze lowered to your chest, but he watched closely as the larger man lifted a hand and gently felt your breast through your clothes—cupping it, testing the weight—before switching to the—

—WHAT?!

Corbeau’s tapped a finger on his desk in annoyance. Why on earth was Philippe fondling your breasts (which he agreed were lovely and gorgeous) on company time? That’s not what he was paying him for, damnit!

He continued watching as you pecked Philippe on the cheek—mindful of the spikes on his mutton chops—and turned to leave, and then squealed when the large man slapped your ass.

Corbeau took a deep breath and exhaled. He’ll get to the bottom of things one way or another.

As Philippe made his way back to his normal spot, slightly off to the side and behind the chair—Corbeau removed his glasses, reaching underneath his desk for a microfiber cloth.

“So…is that a new blend of coffee I should know about?” he asked, wiping the lens of his glasses.

Philippe paused mid-step, cup still in his hand. “Hmm?”

“The coffee she brought,” Corbeau clarified mildly, placing his glasses back on his face. “You seem…particularly invested in it today.”

Philippe’s mouth curved—not a grin, exactly. Something warmer. Amused. “It’s a special one,” he said.

Corbeau finally lifted his gaze, sharp and assessing. “Special how?”

Philippe glanced toward the door you’d just exited through, then back to Corbeau. “It has a special ingredient.”

Corbeau’s fingers stilled against the arm of his chair. “You’re being evasive.”

“I’m being considerate,” Philippe corrected easily. “You know how possessive you can be.”

That earned him a faint huff of irritation.

“I also know when something doesn’t add up,” Corbeau pointed out.

Philippe took a slow sip, eyes never leaving Corbeau’s. “You noticed, then.”

Corbeau clenched his jaw as he pounded a fist on his desk. “You groped our lovely do-gooder in front of me, in my office, on company time, and expect me to not notice??”

“Why are you so upset? We've agreed to share her, with her consent.”

"That—that's is not the point, Philippe!" Corbeau sputtered for a moment, before collecting himself. “Considering you’re the one who is picky about coffee,” he inhaled through his nose, “you described today’s as lacking sweetness. Which struck me as odd, considering you’re the one who insists on bitterness.”

Philippe’s smile deepened. “Ah. Then perhaps you should taste it yourself.”

He extended the cup.

Corbeau eyed it like it might be a challenge. “What are you doing?” he said.

“Sharing,” Philippe replied. “Hardly unprecedented between partners.”

That gave him pause. Then, Corbeau reached out and took the cup and took a sip.

The bitterness hit first. Then the chocolate, faint but present. And beneath it all…something else. A softness. A subtle creaminess that didn’t belong to dairy or sugar. It lingered at the back of his tongue, unfamiliar and strangely warm. Pleasant. Warming. Comforting.

Corbeau frowned. “…What is that,” he asked slowly.

Philippe watched him with open interest. “You can’t place it.”

“No,” Corbeau said. “And I don’t enjoy not being able to identify what I’m consuming.”

“That’s understandable.”

“Well?” Corbeau prompted.

Philippe leaned back, unbothered.

“It’s breast milk.”

Silence.

Corbeau stared at him.

“…Excuse me?”

“Yours,” Philippe clarified mildly. “Or rather—hers.”

Corbeau set the cup down with deliberate care. “She isn’t pregnant.”

“No,” Philippe agreed. “She isn’t.”

Another pause.

Then, incredulous: “Then how—”

“There are other ways, boss,” Philippe said, clearly enjoying this now. “Induced lactation doesn’t require pregnancy. Just…consistent stimulation.”

Corbeau’s brow furrowed. “Consistent stimulation?” he repeated.

“With hormone supplements.”

“And you’re telling me this,” Corbeau said carefully, “as though it’s common knowledge.”

Philippe shrugged. “Common enough.”

Corbeau leaned back in his chair, expression shifting—not disgusted. Not angry. Thinking. “…Huh,” he murmured after a moment. “I never thought of that.”

Philippe’s eyes flicked to him. “Most people wouldn’t. It’s not really a…common interest, as you well know.”

“I see,” Corbeau said, “Is that why she’s been bringing you coffee every day.”

“Yes.”

“And the concern earlier?” Corbeau pressed. “her comment about 'not producing' as much.”

Philippe nodded, and sighed, almost woefully. “Yes, apparently she didn’t have much today.”

Corbeau exhaled through his nose, something dangerously close to a laugh threatening to surface. “So, I’ve been watching you drink—”

“—a very personal beverage,” Philippe finished smoothly.

Corbeau pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right…I honestly had forgotten about your breast-feeding kink, Philippe.”

“Or you blocked it out,” Philippe offered.

Corbeau looked up sharply. “You enjoy this.”

Philippe shrugged. “Perhaps. Though if I also recall, you seemed interested in it when we first talked about it before we got her involved.” He looked down at Corbeau with a smirk.

Corbeau lifted a brow. “Careful,” he warned. “You’ll give people ideas.”

That earned him a look—sharp, assessing. Interested.

“You are enjoying this…” Corbeau sighed.

Then, casually—almost too casually—Philippe added, “You should ask her sometime. I’m sure she’ll be willing. After all, it’s far more enjoyable, for both parties, when it’s taken directly from the source.”

Corbeau’s eyes glittered with interest.

“From the source, you say?”

“Right off the teat,” Philippe clarified, utterly unapologetic, lifting the cup and draining it.

Corbeau watched him swallow. Then, he laughed—low, amused, the sound of a man who’d just had a suspicion confirmed rather than learned something new.

“God, damn. You really are living your best life,” he said lightly. “And here I thought you’d grown subtler with age.”

Philippe set the cup on the desk, licking his lip. “She might be in a little discomfort today,” Philippe said, tone deceptively offhand. He tilted his head, considering. “Perhaps she used the right side and that's why not much came out. The left side’s definitely fuller.”

Corbeau’s jaw tightened—just briefly.

Philippe leaned back, considering. “I was planning on stopping by tonight,” he said. His gaze flicked to Corbeau. “But you’ve been staring at that cup like it owes you something.”

A pause.

“Care to step in?”

Silence.

Then, Corbeau rose from his chair, straightening his coat with deliberate calm. “You really do know how to make an offer, Philippe,” he said quietly.

The kitchen smelled different tonight. Not thick and spiced like gumbo, but lighter: tomato, garlic, and basil. The kind of smell that clung to curtains and made a place feel lived in.

You set the large plate down between the three of you on the low coffee table, tucking your legs beneath you on the floor. Corbeau sat back against the couch, jacket off this time, sleeves rolled, watching with the same quiet focus he gave most things you made.

Philippe had already claimed a fork.

“You made the noodles from scratch?” he asked, twirling experimentally.

“Obviously,” you replied.

Corbeau leaned forward slightly. “Ambitious.”

“It’s just pasta.”

Philippe lifted a forkful and paused.

“…It’s also approximately the length of a legal contract.”

You gave a sheepish laugh. “I—uh…might’ve cut them a little generously.”

“A little,” Corbeau echoed dryly.

Philippe, unfazed, took a bite, lifting the noodles as he ate. He kept lifting.

And lifting.

And lifting.

The end wasn’t in sight.

You blinked.

“Why is it still going?”

“I’m beginning to suspect,” Philippe said calmly around it, “you vastly underestimated how generous you were with those cuts."

You rolled your eyes and speared your own fork into the bowl, determined to prove him dramatic, twisting for a second, and then bringing the bite to your mouth.

The sauce was warm, bright with tomato and garlic, the noodles just firm enough to have bite. You hummed faintly in satisfaction as you chewed, more of the noodle moving into your mouth, and felt something tug. It was subtle at first. A faint resistance when you tried to pull back. You frowned slightly and glanced down.

The noodle hadn’t separated. In fact, it hadn’t ended. Slowly—very slowly—your gaze followed the strand stretched between your lips…

…to Philippe’s, who had gone still. The single noodle ran from your mouth to his, unbroken and unmistakable.

For one suspended second, no one moved.

Then, your eyes lifted to meet Philippe’s. He didn’t look embarrassed. Amused, yes. Intrigued, certainly. But not embarrassed.

You felt heat rush into your cheek, and heard Corbeau sputtering from your other side.

Philippe raised a brow ever so slightly.

Well?

The noodle remained, gently taut between you.

You swallowed. And instead of pulling away, you leaned in and resumed chewing

The noodle shortened. Slowly. You could hear the faint scrape of Philippe setting his fork down somewhere beside him, freeing his hands as the distance narrowed. The apartment seemed to quiet around you, the hum of the city outside fading beneath the ridiculous intimacy of a single strand of pasta connecting you.

Another bite.

Your knees brushed.

Another.

Philippe didn’t rush it. He didn’t tease. He just held your gaze, steady and open—as if asking without words. You answered the only way that made sense.

You kept going.

The noodle grew shorter, and shorter, until the space between you thinned to almost nothing.

Your breath mingled. Your noses brushed lightly first—a soft, accidental graze that made you hesitate for half a second.

Philippe didn’t pull back. His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up again.

One final bite, and your lips met. Warm. Gentle. Brief. Not frantic. Not heated. A soft press of familiarity and ease—as natural as the way you’d been sharing the plate minutes ago.

You broke the noodle immediately, the strand snapping clean between you, leaning back as your heart thudded a little faster, cheeks warm.

Philippe exhaled softly through his nose—something that might have been a quiet laugh—and tilted his head just slightly. He didn’t look rattled in the slightest, tilting his head slightly, considering.

“…Hm,” he murmured, as if evaluating a wine. “Bright acidity. Balanced. Slightly sweet at the finish.”

You blinked. “Okay…?”

“…Everything was well-made,” he said thoughtfully, licking his lips. “Though I suspect I tasted something else at the end.”

Your jaw dropped slightly.

“It’s very good,” he added mildly.

Feeling giddy, you turned your gaze back to the plate of pasta, cheeks still warm, when someone cleared their throat.

You turned

Corbeau was staring at you. His expression was composed. Calculated. His mouth, however, was occupied. A single strand of spaghetti extended from between his lips—not hanging loose, but pulled taut, leading directly back into the bowl. And in his hand, closest to you, was your fork. Another bite carefully twirled. Deliberate. Suspiciously long.

You blinked.

“…What are you doing?”

Corbeau did not remove the noodle from his mouth. Instead, he lifted the fork slightly, eyes never leaving yours. The strand between his lips shifted—not by accident.

Philippe leaned back against the couch, watching this unfold with open fascination.

“You’re such a jealous man, boss,” Philippe smirked.

You stared at Corbeau. “Really?" you raised a brow at him. "That’s what this is about?”

A faint narrowing of his eyes. Not denial, but confirmation. He leaned back just slightly, keeping the noodle steady between his teeth, clearly waiting.

“You are unbelievable,” you muttered—but you took the fork anyway and placed the bite in your mouth.

Corbeau’s gaze softened, just barely.

The noodle shortened. Deliberate this time. Measured. No accident. No chaos. Just the slow, ridiculous narrowing of space.

Philippe watched on, amused.

Another bite.

Closer.

You could see the faintest smirk forming at the corner Corbeau's mouth even as he held the strand steady.

One more.

Your lips brushed his.

For half a heartbeat, it was just that—a soft, deliberate contact.

And then Corbeau moved. His hand came up to the back of your neck, fingers firm and certain, pulling you fully into him before you could process what was happening. The kiss deepened instantly—not frantic or not messy—but unmistakably possessive. Claiming.

It stole the air from your lungs in the best way.

You made a startled sound against his mouth, one hand bracing against his chest as he angled you closer, as if to underline the point: this was not accidental. This was not shared by mistake. This was his.

You barely registered Philippe shifting beside you—only the faintest amused exhale somewhere to your right.

Corbeau finally pulled back just enough for you to breathe, taking in your swollen lips, your mouth slightly parted as you tried to catch your breath, and the slight daze in your eyes. He smirked, looking much like the cat that got the cream.

“That was unnecessary,” you managed, cheeks warm.

Corbeau regarded you evenly, thumb brushing once along your jaw.

“I refuse,” he said calmly, “to be left out of my own relationship.”

From beside you, Philippe lifted his wine glass. “Let me know when you’re finished with your claim, boss,” he said dryly. “I’d hate to interrupt.”

Corbeau didn’t look away from you. “We are three,” he added, tone firm but not sharp. “Let’s not forget that.”

You blinked at him.

“You could’ve just said you wanted a kiss.”

He tilted his head slightly. “I did.”

Philippe raised his glass from the couch. “In fairness, the execution was very thorough.”