Lucien insisted on delivering me right to my bed. Like I was a parcel marked fragile and he'd just signed the receipt himself.
I had promised myself—vowed, actually, with dramatic hand gestures—that I'd never let him into my apartment. My personal space. My sad, single-person sanctuary of dishes in the sink and Ikea trauma. But alcohol, ever the enabler, whispered, what's one more mistake?
So I let him in.
He stood silently behind me as I fumbled with my keys like I was trying to perform surgery on the doorknob. My fingers missed the slot three times. He didn't say anything. Just watched.
Then, with one fluid, exasperated motion, he plucked the keys from my hand, slid them into the lock like he lived here, and opened the door. Just like that.
He didn't step in.
He held the door and gestured for me to walk in first, like he was politely escorting a drunk child to their room. I felt a sudden rush of embarrassment—like a kid whose parents had been called into school for "behavioral concerns."
"Go to bed, Reed," he said from the doorway, calm as ever.
I turned around. My body moved before my brain could catch up.
"Do you want to stay the night?" I asked.
He blinked once. Then again. Like his processor had frozen mid-command.
"I'm not sure that's appropriate," he said, voice lower now, softer.
"Says who? It's my apartment," I said, tilting my head, "and I'm the one asking you to stay. Unless it's a royal protocol thing—should I roll out the crest and get a ceremonial invite written in Latin?"
He smirked, just slightly. "No, I just think you need some sleep."
"But the alcohol's making me feel very dramatic and emotionally exposed," I said, waving vaguely at my own face. "I might cry myself to sleep if I'm left alone. Could be very ugly. There could be snot."
Lucien ran a hand through his hair, then let it rest on the back of his neck. His fingers pressed there, like the tension lived right at the base of regret.
He shook his head once, exhaled, then looked up at me. "If I stayed... would you tell me what was in the messages you deleted?"
I scoffed. Of course. Of course that's where this was going. The price of comfort was confession.
"Sure. Why not," I said, shrugging with the kind of casualness only shame can breed. "It's not like anything I say tonight won't be laced with tomorrow's regret anyway."
"Okay," he said, his grin widening just enough to be smug. "Set up the spare bed."
I turned around slowly. "Bold of you to assume there's a spare bed. I'm thankful I even have one bed."
"But now you make so much money," he replied, already toeing the line between mockery and sincerity. "You should start buying stuff for yourself, Reed."
I didn't answer right away. Because he wasn't wrong. I was finally making real money, and yet I still lived like I was about to get evicted. I didn't know what it felt like to spend without panic. Still didn't trust that I could.
"Come on," I said instead, brushing it off. "I'll give you something to wear. I have a spare of those." I turned toward my room.
Behind me, I heard him laugh—and I hated how much I liked the sound of it.
It followed me down the hall. Warm. Human.
The worst kind of danger.
He went to change in the bathroom, while I changed in the bedroom. We didn't speak. We didn't need to. The air between us was already humming with everything unsaid.
My bed was big. Bigger than I deserved. Technically, it came with the apartment, one of the few perks of renting a place that used to be an Airbnb before its owner gave up on hospitality and morality.
The only thing I ever really splurged on were the pillows. I didn't have much money—not for fancy clothes or artisanal olive oil—but that wasn't an excuse to suffer through bad sleep. If life was going to fall apart, I deserved to at least do it on a cloud.
Lucien finally stepped out of the bathroom.
My pajamas didn't fit him exactly—he was broader, built like someone who got scolded by a tailor for existing outside average proportions—but it wasn't tight enough to look absurd. Just soft cotton stretched across subtle muscle. Unfair, really.
He climbed onto the bed, casual, confident, like he'd done it a thousand times before. He sat cross-legged in the center, grabbed one of my prized pillows, and rested it in his lap like it belonged to him now.
"So," he said, with maddening calm, "tell me—what did you delete?"
I groaned and flopped backwards dramatically, covering my face with both hands like a child playing hide-and-seek with guilt itself.
"Ugh."
"Come on," he said, his voice dipped in amusement.
Then I felt it—his fingers wrapping around my arms, firm but not rough, pulling them down from my face with just enough force to make it clear he wasn't going to let this go. My heart thudded once—sharp and stupid.
I kept my eyes closed. I don't know why. Maybe I thought if I refused to look at him, he wouldn't look at me either. If I couldn't see it, it wasn't happening. Object permanence for emotional disasters.
"Come on, Reed," he coaxed, softer now. "You said you'd tell me."
"I'll tell you with my eyes closed."
There was a beat. Then, "Okay…"
So I took a breath.
Long. Slow. Embarrassed.
"I've been trying to keep you at arm's length," I began, eyes still tightly shut, "because I didn't want you close to me. Still don't. Kind of. I mean... you scare me."
The silence stretched.
"But not in a bad way," I rushed, "just in a way that feels like if I let you all the way in, I won't recognize myself anymore. And the way you act—it's so casual. Like everything's convenient. Like nothing costs you anything. Like I'm a passing comfort station on your way to something else."
The words came out faster now, unfiltered.
"When you hugged me, it messed me up. I didn't know what it meant. Still don't. And you showing up at my grandma's? That... rattled me. You came into my world like it wasn't sacred, like it wasn't mine. And I should've been angry but I wasn't. I was just confused."
I swallowed. "And then tonight, that message. It came from my phone. No name. No details. You didn't ask questions. You just came."
The silence grew louder.
It wasn't just stillness—it was presence. That charged quiet that comes right before something shifts, when your skin knows before your brain does.
Then I heard it. The soft drag of fabric beneath weight. The sheet stretching as the mattress dipped—once, then again—closer. Measured, deliberate. Like he was approaching something fragile, or maybe like he didn't trust the floor to hold him if he moved too fast.
There was a faint rustle—cotton sliding against cotton, knees pressing down into the mattress as he inched forward. I could feel it. Each shift translated through the bed into my spine. The air between us changed too, thickened slightly, warmed. That subtle pressure you only notice when someone is right there, just a breath away from you, waiting.
And then I felt it—his exhale against my face. Not dramatic, not performative. Just warm and human and impossibly close.
My pulse spiked. I didn't move. Didn't open my eyes.
I couldn't.
Because part of me thought—if I looked at him, this would turn back into the real world. And I didn't want that. Not yet.
And then he kissed me.
No warning. No prelude. Just—
His lips on mine.
Soft, yes—but sure. There was no question in the way he did it. No hesitation. Just a quiet, impossible confidence. Like he'd decided in that moment to tell me something without words.
The contact was gentle at first, almost reverent. Lips pressing slowly, testing, like he wasn't sure if I'd vanish or shatter. He didn't move quickly—didn't rush or deepen it. He just stayed there, steady, his breath blending with mine, the warmth of his mouth cradling something I didn't even realize I'd been holding back.
His hand brushed against my jaw—light, tentative—fingers skimming the edge like he was mapping the shape of restraint.
I didn't kiss him back.
Not because I didn't want to. But because I didn't trust myself to stop if I started.
And in that still, hushed moment—his lips on mine, his hand curled near my face, the steady sound of our twin breaths—I felt something peel open inside me. Slow and quiet and devastating.
My eyes stayed closed. Because if I looked, it might end. Because if I opened them, he might pull away. Because I wanted to believe in this one small softness, just for a second longer.
I didn't know what this meant. Didn't know if he'd regret it. Didn't know if I would.
But for now, for this breathless sliver of time—I let myself feel it.
Let myself be wanted.
Let myself want him back.
When I finally opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was Lucien's face.
Still close. Still calm. Still unreadable in that maddening, infuriating, him kind of way.
His gaze was soft—but watchful, as if he were studying my reaction like it might rearrange the outcome.
And, because I am me—because I had no idea how else to survive the weight of that kiss—I said the dumbest thing that came to mind.
"Wow. That was very… diplomatic of you."
Lucien blinked.
Once. Then twice.
"Diplomatic," he repeated flatly, like I'd just insulted the entire French language.
"I mean," I added, scrambling now, "very... courteous. Regal. Like, if kissing had a constitution, you followed it."
He stared at me.
Then leaned back just slightly and said, deadpan: "I could beat the living shit out of you right now."
I laughed—loud and real and embarrassingly fond.
And maybe it was the intimacy of the moment, or the fact that he looked a little bit like he was sulking in the aftermath of his own vulnerability, but I couldn't stop grinning.
"Are you sulking?" I teased.
"I am restraining myself," he replied, with the dignity of a man who refused to be caught pouting in borrowed pajamas.
I scooted a little closer, the sheet dragging with me, the mattress dipping again beneath my weight. "Alright, Your Highness. It's your turn now."
He narrowed his eyes. "My turn for what?"
"Close your eyes."
"No."
I tilted my head. "Why not?"
He didn't answer right away. His jaw ticked once—tightening with something unreadable.
"It's not very safe to close my eyes," he finally said, voice quiet but firm. "Not... around people."
Something about that sentence made the back of my throat go tight. But I didn't say anything. Not right away.
Instead, I reached out gently, fingers brushing past his cheekbone, slow enough that he didn't flinch. I cupped my hand over his eyes, shielding them with my palm.
"Then I'll keep watch," I whispered.
For a moment, he didn't move.
Then he exhaled—like surrender—and let me.
I leaned in.
Our lips met again, but this time I didn't hold back. I tilted my head, deepened the angle, parting my lips against his. His breath caught—just slightly—and I felt it as his hands gripped the pillow tighter in his lap before one slowly lifted, sliding up the curve of my waist and anchoring lightly at my side.
My tongue traced his lower lip, gentle, teasing.
He opened to me.
And that—God, that was the undoing.
His mouth was warm and responsive, the kiss growing with slow heat, like it had been waiting for both of us all this time, just beneath the surface. I tasted him—something soft and bitter and familiar, like tea and tension and withheld desire. He kissed like someone who thought too much, then gave in all at once.
Our tongues slid against each other, slow and deliberate, exploring without rush. There was a hunger, yes—but also a reverence. Like we were both afraid to admit how much we wanted this, how long we'd been circling the possibility.
His hand tightened at my side, pulling me just slightly closer. I moved without hesitation, pressing my chest to his, deepening the kiss again. His mouth moved with mine, not controlling, but meeting me—equal parts gentle and greedy.
I pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead resting against his, our mouths still ghosting each other. My hand slipped from his eyes to his cheek, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw.
Lucien's hand moved—slowly, deliberately—fingertips grazing just beneath the hem of my shirt. It was subtle at first, his touch barely there, like he was testing the waters, reading me even as his body leaned in with growing heat.
Then he curled his fingers under the fabric, tugging lightly.
That was when I snapped.
"No," I said—loud. Sharper than I meant. My voice cracked through the quiet like a slap across the night.
Lucien froze.
Immediately—instinctively—he raised both hands in the air, palms open in a peace-offering gesture. His brows lifted, lips parting slightly, eyes wide with confusion more than guilt. Not defensive. Not annoyed. Just… surprised. Perplexed.
He didn't move. Didn't retreat. Just sat there, hands suspended, giving me space like I might shatter if he breathed too loud.
"I—" I started, my heart hammering in my throat. "I'm sorry. I just… I only wanted to kiss. That's all."
My voice was smaller now. Raw. Uneven at the edges.
He tilted his head slightly, as if trying to read a new language written across my face. Then, to my complete surprise, his expression softened—not with pity, but with something like… understanding.
"Can we kiss some more, then?" he asked, tone quieter now, more tentative—but still laced with the kind of Lucienesque gall that made my jaw drop.
Literally.
My mouth opened, ready to say something, anything, but before I could string a single word together—
He moved.
Smoothly, effortlessly—like a tide returning to shore—he reached down and slid the pillow off his lap, setting it aside with quiet intention. Then he leaned forward, one knee crossing over the bed, the other shifting until he was straddling me. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and I sank slightly into the pillows, the heat of his body settling over mine in the slowest, most calculated way possible.
He didn't hesitate.
Didn't pause to ask permission again—not for this. Not for just this.
His hands braced the bed on either side of my head. His face hovered above mine, eyes locked on my lips like they were pulling at something inside him.
Then he kissed me.
Not like before.
This wasn't cautious or exploratory. It was certain. His mouth claimed mine with slow intensity, like he was making up for the interruption, like he wanted me to feel how much he was holding back. Our lips collided, parted, met again with a deeper pressure. And when his tongue slipped against mine, the kiss opened like a breath that had waited too long to be exhaled.
He tasted like warmth and patience and something sharper underneath, something barely restrained. My hands slid instinctively up his chest, fingers curling in the thin cotton of the borrowed pajamas, clinging to the sensation of him above me—heavy but gentle, all tension coiled in elegance.
His hips pressed lightly against mine, not grinding, just present. The full weight of him was careful, deliberate. He kissed me like we had all night but didn't want to waste a second of it.
When he pulled back just slightly, his breath fanned against my mouth. We just needed to feel it.
So I pulled him in again, hand at the back of his neck this time, anchoring him to me.
And he kissed me deeper.
Slower.
Like maybe this wasn't a mistake. Like maybe this was exactly what we'd both been running from—and finally, finally stopped.