A Series Of Poorly Planned Decisions by BadSmeagol at Inkitt

Chapter 1 - KAI

Decisions, in Kai’s experience, were like dominoes.

One tiny, clumsy nudge, and suddenly your whole life became a rhythmic clack-clack-clack of impending disaster. Most people called this consequences. Kai called it Tuesday.

He only regretted exactly three of his most recent decisions.

One: letting Lucien kiss him in a bar.

Two: kissing Lucien back.

Three: waking up the next morning and failing, spectacularly, to make him stay.

All things considered, it was a very efficient emotional collapse. Most people needed years of bad choices, unresolved childhood trauma, and a poorly timed wedding invitation to ruin their lives. Kai had managed it with whiskey, sexual tension, and a man with storm-grey eyes who looked like he had been carved out of bad ideas and black ink.

Impressive, really.

He had always lived by instinct—chaotic, enthusiastic, high-volume instinct. As a child, adults had called him endearing. As a twenty-nine-year-old photographer with a talent for impulsive hair dye and no credible five-year plan, the labels had shifted to concerning, exhausting, or, his personal favorite, a lot.

Whatever. He liked his life.

Or he had.

His life had been bright, unpredictable, and fueled by instant gratification. Parties, work, friends, dancing until his knees hurt, flirting with people he had no intention of texting back. He had been perfectly fine existing as a series of sparks. Brief. Warm. Gone before anyone could ask him to stay.

Then Aaron had fallen in love. Aaron. The man who treated emotions like suspicious skin lesions.

Kai had watched his best friend—his impossible, repressed, emotionally constipated, six-foot-something monument to avoidance—fall absolutely, humiliatingly, beautifully in love with Elena. And worse, Elena had loved him back. Not in a dramatic, tortured, will-they-won’t-they way. Not anymore. Now they were stable. Functional. Disgusting.

They cooked together. They read on opposite ends of the couch with their feet touching. They had silent conversations across rooms like elderly married people in a Scandinavian furniture catalogue. They held hands over takeout menus. It was obscene.

Even the rhythmic thud-thud of the headboard through the thin apartment walls—while objectively impressive in terms of Aaron’s stamina—felt like a personal attack. A nightly reminder that Kai was the only person in the apartment sleeping diagonally across his bed like a rejected starfish.

Watching them love each other so openly had cracked something in his chest.

At first, he’d told himself it was indigestion. Or envy. Or a cardiovascular event brought on by too much caffeine and emotional repression by association.

But no.

It was worse.

It was want.

Not for Elena, obviously. Elena was his platonic soulmate, his soft-eyed therapist gremlin, his emotional translator. Not for Aaron either, because Kai had self-respect and also valued his life.

No, the want had a name.

Lucien.

Kai groaned and rolled onto his back on the living room couch, laptop balanced precariously on his stomach. Florence + The Machine wailed from Elena’s ancient record player, all thunder and witchcraft, while Kai pretended to edit a series of moody landscape shots. The apartment smelled of stale espresso, warm dust, and the earthy, vaguely occult scent of the herbs Elena had hung to dry near the kitchen window.

It was safe.

It was home.

And still, his mind kept circling back to Lucien like a moth with a humiliation kink.

He could still hear him.

I regret every second of it.

The words had lodged under Kai’s skin like shrapnel.

Which was ridiculous. Kai had survived breakups. He had survived ghosting. He had survived waking up next to people whose names he had forgotten before breakfast. He had survived his father’s silence, his mother’s silence, and every carefully polite family gathering where nobody said the word disappointment but everyone breathed it into the furniture.

But somehow six words from a man who was not even technically his ex had flattened him.

Kai closed his eyes.

He hated how clearly he remembered that morning. The panic. The stupid scramble for clothes. Lucien’s face pale with shock, his hands shaking as he tried to button a shirt that refused to cooperate. Elena’s voice in the kitchen, too close, too bright, too awake. Kai shoving Lucien toward the door because he thought he was helping. Because he thought Lucien would want to disappear before anyone saw him. Because Kai had spent his entire adult life mistaking avoidance for mercy.

And Lucien had looked at him like Kai had confirmed every terrible thing he already believed about himself.

Since then, they had crossed paths at birthday drinks, dinners, awkward group gatherings orchestrated by people with better intentions than survival instincts. Neither of them reached out. Lucien pretended Kai didn’t exist, except when he gave him looks that could curdle milk. Kai pretended he found this hilarious, because pretending was ninety percent of his personality and the remaining ten percent was expensive conditioner.

Except…

He still found him stupidly sexy.

Those tattooed arms. That long, dark hair that looked like silk and bad decisions. Those storm-grey eyes that could ruin a man’s entire week with one blink. That mouth—wicked, soft, and just as disastrous as Kai remembered.

“Pathetic,” Kai muttered to himself.

His phone immediately burst into a high-volume Dua Lipa ringtone, because apparently the universe had a sense of timing and poor taste.

The screen flashed: Miranda — The Devil Wears Zara.

Kai answered with the bleak resignation of a man about to be professionally inconvenienced.

“Hello, Boss. To what do I owe the pleasure of this ear-splitting interruption?”

“Kai,” Miranda said, without greeting or warmth, because she considered both inefficient. “I need you to cover a photo-book for a tattoo studio next week. Urgent favor for an old friend. New website, social media campaign. Clean, editorial, moody. Don’t make it look like a biker bar with ring lights.”

Kai perked up despite himself. “A tattoo studio? Are we talking ink close-ups, artist portraits, or brooding men staring into the middle distance while holding needles?”

“Both. All. Whatever sells the place. I’ll text you the address. Don’t be late, and for God’s sake, don’t flirt with the clients.”

She hung up before he could explain that flirting was at least seventy percent of his artistic process.

Kai stared at the phone. “Great,” he muttered, tossing it onto a throw pillow. “Another tattooed bad boy. Maybe this one won’t threaten bodily harm the moment I adjust his lighting.”

“Are you talking to yourself again?”

Elena stood in the doorway wearing one of Aaron’s old T-shirts and holding a steaming mug in both hands. Her dark hair was twisted into a bun that had clearly lost a fight with gravity, and she had the soft, sleepy look of someone who had been thoroughly loved and then given tea.

Kai resented her on principle.

“I’m manifesting a professional life that doesn’t involve brooding men,” he said. “It’s not working.”

Elena smiled and came to sit beside him. “We’re grabbing beers at the pub later. Come with us.”

“No.”

“You didn’t even ask who’s coming.”

“I don’t need to. If this is your twelve-thousandth attempt to orchestrate a peaceful summit between me and Lucien, I’m staying right here. My tolerance for dirty looks has hit its seasonal limit.”

“Kai,” she said gently.

He hated that tone. That tone could convince wild animals to attend therapy.

“I just want you two to stop vibrating with rage every time you’re in the same room,” she continued. “It’s exhausting to watch.”

“We are oil and gasoline, El. One spark and the whole block explodes.”

“That metaphor makes no scientific sense.”

“It makes emotional sense, which is worse.”

She studied him over the rim of her mug. Her expression softened in a way that made him want to climb out a window.

“You don’t look happy,” she said.

Kai gave her his brightest smile. The one with teeth. The one designed to end conversations.

“I’m gorgeous. People often confuse the two.”

Elena didn’t laugh.

Damn her.

Neither of them said anything for a moment. Florence screamed in the background about shaking it out, which felt pointed.

“He doesn’t look happy either,” Elena added quietly.

Kai looked away first.

That was the humiliating part. Elena wasn’t wrong. Lucien never looked happy. He looked angry. Wounded. Sharpened to a point. Like every room was a battlefield and every person in it was either a threat or a mistake.

And somehow Kai had become both.

“I’ll go next time,” Kai lied, reaching for his laptop. “I have to prepare. Apparently, I’m descending into the underworld of tattoo parlors next week.”

“You’re such a drama queen.”

“And yet I remain underappreciated.”

She stood, smiling despite herself. “Fine. I’ll leave you to your work.”

“El?”

She turned.

Kai almost said it. He almost asked if Lucien had mentioned him. If he was okay. If he still hated him. If hate was better than indifference. If Elena thought there was any possible version of the universe where Lucien didn’t look at Kai and see the worst night of his life.

Instead, he waved one lazy hand.

“Tell Aaron to keep the headboard down tonight. Some of us are grieving.”

Elena went scarlet.

Kai smiled.

Deflection: flawless.

Emotional wellbeing: catastrophic.

The heatwave hit on Tuesday like a physical punishment.

By the time Kai reached the tattoo studio, his yellow linen shirt had glued itself to his chest, and his sunglasses were sliding down his nose with the exhausted persistence of a man trying to flee a sinking ship. The air smelled of hot asphalt, city dust, and everyone’s collective bad decisions.

He had dyed his hair over the weekend.

Crimson.

Not red. Not auburn. Crimson. Aggressive, dramatic, borderline criminal crimson. Every time he caught his reflection, he looked like a side character in a high-stakes manga who was about to betray the protagonist for complicated reasons.

Honestly, it suited him.

The Sin, read the neon sign above the door in elegant script. Kai stopped on the pavement and stared at it.

Of course.

Of course the universe had sent him to a place called The Sin. Subtlety had apparently died of heatstroke.

He pushed the door open and was met with a grateful blast of air-conditioning. The studio was immaculate: dark wood, polished chrome, black leather chairs, framed minimalist line drawings. It was sophisticated, moody, and deeply intimidating. The kind of place where people paid a painful amount of money to look like they had survived something interesting.

Behind the counter stood a tall, dark-skinned woman with silver piercings along one ear and a shaved undercut sharp enough to cut glass. She looked up from a tablet.

“Hi,” Kai said, slipping smoothly into professional mode. “I’m Kai. Photographer for the launch shoot.”

Her face brightened. “Oh, great. I’m Ava. The artist you’re shooting should be out any second. He’s finishing a sketch.”

“Perfect.” Kai glanced around, already framing the space in his mind. “The lighting is gorgeous. Very moody confessional booth meets luxury crime scene.”

Ava blinked.

Kai smiled. “That was a compliment.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

The voice hit him before the meaning did.

Low. Gravelly. Familiar enough to make his stomach drop straight through the polished floor.

Kai closed his eyes for half a second.

No.

Absolutely not.

He turned.

Lucien stood in the doorway to the back room.

Black ribbed tank top. Dark hair loose around his shoulders. Ink climbing up his arms like living shadow. A smear of black on one forearm. Mouth set in a hard line. Eyes like a storm deciding whether to become weather or a natural disaster.

Kai’s heart did something deeply undignified.

“Good afternoon to you too, sunshine,” he said.

He aimed for breezy. It came out breathless.

Lucien’s gaze moved over him once—quick, furious, involuntary. It caught on the crimson hair, dropped to the yellow shirt, flickered toward his mouth, then hardened.

“Get out.”

Ava looked between them. “You two know each other?”

“No,” Lucien said.

“Yes,” Kai said.

They both glared.

Kai’s professional mask slid into place with a metallic clink. “I’m here for work. My boss sent me. If I’d known this was your studio, I assure you, I would have gladly developed a sudden, tragic illness.”

Lucien took one step forward. “I said get out.”

“And I heard you. Beautiful projection, by the way. Very theatre kid with unresolved rage.” Kai lifted the camera bag on his shoulder. “Unfortunately, I have a contract.”

Ava cleared her throat, looking down at the tablet. “Lucien, this is the photographer Kyle hired for the launch. We can’t cancel. The portfolio has to go live on Friday.”

Lucien’s jaw clenched.

Kai had once had that jaw under his mouth.

Horrible thought. Treacherous thought. Down, boy.

Lucien looked at Ava, then back at Kai, as if deciding which one of them he could legally throw through the window with fewer consequences.

“I’m not doing this today,” he said.

Kai’s temper flared.

It was sudden and hot, born not of anger but of weeks of humiliation, wanting, rejection, and the unbearable fact that Lucien still looked at him like Kai had done something unforgivable by existing.

“I’d rather not be here either,” Kai said, voice dropping. “But here we are. Look at us. Two professionals. One camera. Minimal bloodshed. Inspirational.”

“Go fuck yourself somewhere else.”

Ava’s eyebrows shot up.

Kai smiled slowly.

He knew better. He did. Somewhere inside him, the tiny responsible adult he kept locked in a basement banged against the pipes and begged for restraint.

Kai ignored him.

“I’d rather not fuck alone today,” he said softly. “But thanks for the suggestion. Maybe you can join me and finish the job.”

Lucien went still.

Completely still.

Instead of cracking, his expression hardened further—jaw locking, eyes going flat and cold, like a door slamming shut behind reinforced steel. Whatever flicker might have been there vanished instantly, buried under something sharper, meaner.

“Keep talking,” Lucien said, voice low and lethal. “See how far that gets you.”

Kai felt the hit anyway.

There it is, he thought. Well done. Found the line. Crossed it. Again.

Ava’s voice cut through the silence, careful and tense. “Lucien. We need this shoot.”

Lucien didn’t look away this time. He held Kai’s gaze like a challenge, like a threat.

“Fine,” he said at last, each word clipped. “Take your pictures. But keep your mouth shut. If I hear one more comment like that, I won’t bother with the street. I’ll deal with you right here.”

Kai gave him a bright, poisonous smile. “Lucky for you, my work is mostly visual.”

The next hour was a slow-motion car crash wearing good lighting.

Kai photographed the lobby first. Dark wood grain. Chrome edges. The soft glow of the neon sign reflected in black tile. He adjusted angles, shifted stools, asked Ava to move a plant three inches to the left, then two inches back, then apologized because apparently grief had turned him into Miranda.

Ava, to her credit, behaved like a woman witnessing a live-action psychosexual drama and choosing professionalism over gossip.

Lucien stayed in the back room as long as possible.

Kai pretended not to notice.

He photographed sterilized tools laid out with surgical precision. Ink bottles in disciplined rows. Flash sheets pinned to a matte-black wall. Ava at the counter, smiling with practiced ease, arms folded, piercings catching the light.

Eventually, though, there was nowhere else to point the camera.

The artist at work.

Kai stopped beside Lucien’s station. He was bent over a sketchpad, pencil moving in smooth, controlled strokes. His hair had fallen forward, a dark curtain partially hiding his face. The ring light caught the blackwork on his arms and the sharp line of his jaw.

Kai lifted the camera.

Click.

Through the lens, everything narrowed. The concentration in Lucien’s expression. The slight furrow between his brows. The loose strands of dark hair brushing his cheek.

God.

He looked beautiful.

It was infuriating.

Click.

Lucien’s pencil paused.

“You done?”

“Almost.”

Kai adjusted the focus.

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

“I love your hair.”

Silence.

The pencil stopped moving.