-Reed.
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Today marks the end of a full week of me being in this experimental, avant-garde, performance-art piece they call an office. I've been signing things I don't understand, reviewing budgets that make less sense than dream logic, and nodding along like I'm a functioning adult with any clue what a client trust transferal fee adjustment is. I'm not even sure I believe this company has clients. Or fees. Or logic.
But let's talk about the real horror—the diverse hydration practices in this place.
I swear to God, someone brewed tea in a salad bowl yesterday.
There's a corner by the kitchenette stacked with enough paper cups to survive a zombie apocalypse, and somehow they still run out by noon. I don't know if people are drinking them, eating them, or conducting sacrificial rituals, but the tea is endless, the water cooler is somehow always warm, and the phrase "organic infusion" is used like it means something.
What the hell did I get myself into?
I've cashed out a lump sum of money already—which, let's be clear, felt illegal to touch—but it covered the last two months of rent. Doug even stopped calling me names in his voicemails. Progress. Am I complaining?
Hell no.
But my curiosity? It's chewing at me like a dog that finally found a bone and now refuses to let go. I know there are things better left unknown—doors best left closed, metaphors better left unprodded—but come on. What is it with these people? The empty offices. The guy typing on an unplugged keyboard. The aggressively enthusiastic slideshow presentations that feel like they were created by an AI on shrooms.
I rolled onto my side again, groaning into my pillow like that would drown the questions. It didn't.
It's 6 PM now and the day still hasn't finished, which seems physically impossible since I'm already emotionally at 11 PM. I've spent the past two hours horizontal, overthinking, under-napping, and generally vibrating with anxiety.
So I got up.
Decided to go out for a walk. Try to decompress. Or at least move my limbs before they atrophy into a dramatic pose. It would be nice to drop by Grandma's place. I hadn't seen her all week, and I know she'd still be up. Probably watching her Turkish soap operas with the volume at a socially irresponsible level.
I got dressed in the most non-decision outfit I could find—plain white t-shirt, loose gray sports pants, hair somewhere between "intentional fluff" and "electrical accident." Grabbed the hoodie, picked up my keys, locked the door behind me, and stepped out.
The air smelled… good. Not just good—familiar. Like tranquility pressed into oxygen. It was cooler now, gentle, almost carrying that faint briny scent. I missed the sea, the smell of iodine. Missed the soft crash of waves against the rocks, that rhythmic pulse that made everything else feel small for a while.
I wish I had time to go.
I wish I had the headspace to go.
But instead, I walked the quiet streets toward Grandma's apartment, hands in my pockets, trying to breathe in something that felt real. Because lately, everything else—from castles to fake departments to dangerously polite blond men in sweaters—felt like a very well-funded fever dream.
And if I didn't find something real soon, I was genuinely worried I might start believing I am the crazy one.
"Where are you going, Reed?"
I froze. Completely.
No mistaking that voice.
My whole body stiffened like a scene from a horror movie where the protagonist hears the killer breathing just behind them. I turned around slowly—because of course I did, because I have no self-preservation skills—and there he was.
Dressed in all black, like a walking void with hair that belonged in a shampoo commercial. His blond curls, glossy and effortless, swayed gently as he stepped closer, the streetlamp making him glow in a way that was frankly rude.
"Are you stalking me now?" I managed, crossing my arms more out of defense than attitude.
He laughed—light, unbothered. "No. I was on my way home and thought I saw someone who looked just like you... turns out it was you."
"Wow," I said, giving the fakest laugh I could muster. "What are the odds? So now what? Do I owe you a location report?"
"Why are you still so hostile toward me?" he asked, tilting his head like he actually didn't get it.
And something inside me shifted. A stupid, soft thing that had no business waking up.
I don't know why I am the way I am with you, Lucien. I really don't. Maybe it's the way you walk around like you're always in control, like everything bends slightly to your gravity. Maybe it's how you ask questions with that calm voice and those slow blinks like you've already figured me out. You make me feel like I'm being watched and missed at the same time. It's infuriating.
And I hate that part of me still wishes I could like you. That I could be real with you. That I could say, "Hey, I'm tired and broken and constantly anxious," and you'd nod and maybe say something that didn't sound like a line from a leather-bound novel. But you—you make it so hard. There's always this… glass wall between us. I don't know who built it, but I'm the only one who keeps crashing into it.
I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. "I'm going to see my grandma."
"Can I come with you?"
I blinked. "Uh—the audacity! What's with you today?"
He smirked slightly, like he was enjoying this more than he should. "What audacity? I asked a question. Yes or no?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Why? Why? Because why would you, Lucien? I don't even know you! I mean, what am I supposed to tell her—'Hey Grandma, this is my boss. He followed me here in the shadows and now he wants to meet you over tea and biscuits'?"
"Tell her I'm your friend."
I scoffed. "But you're not my friend!"
That landed harder than I intended. His expression faltered—not quite hurt, but something quieter. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he nodded once, slowly. Like I'd just said something that didn't compute.
Did he actually believe we were friends?
Surely not.
Right?
I sighed again. My hands dropped to my sides in surrender. "Listen… will you be on your absolute best behavior? My grandma is precious. She's kind. She talks too much, and she loves with everything she has, and I can't have you walk in there and freak her out with your weirdness and your... your Lucien-ness."
He smiled faintly. "I promise I'll be on my best behavior. I'm a prince, remember?"
"Oh, for fuck's sake," I muttered, already regretting this entire interaction. But I didn't argue anymore.
I just turned and started walking, fast enough to discourage further talking but not so fast that he couldn't catch up.
Which, of course, he did.
I could hear his footsteps behind me, perfectly spaced, perfectly quiet.
Like a nightmare with manners.
By the time we reached the building, I was already in full mental rehearsal mode, preparing explanations for everything—why I brought a stranger, why he looked like he belonged in a renaissance painting, why he talked like a thesaurus and smelled like luxury fabric softener.
Lucien, on the other hand, looked disturbingly serene. Hands in his coat pockets. Eyes quietly scanning the chipped sidewalk, the peeling paint of the doorframe, the warm glow of kitchen lights in neighboring windows. He didn't say a word, which was somehow worse than if he'd been talking.
We took the elevator—one of those clunky, slow types that hums dramatically and smells like rust and lemon cleaner. He didn't complain. Just stood next to me, posture perfect, expression unreadable.
When the doors opened on the third floor, I stepped out first, my heart doing this weird thing it always did when I visited her—part guilt, part nostalgia, part warmth that made me feel five years old again.
I knocked lightly.
And then the door opened.
There she was. My grandma.
Wrapped in a soft robe patterned with tiny pink roses, glasses perched halfway down her nose, gray hair pinned in her usual elegant mess. Her eyes lit up the second she saw me.
"Oh, my darling boy," she said, reaching out and patting my face like she always did, like she needed to check if I was real.
"Hey, Gran," I said, leaning in and kissing her cheek. "Sorry for dropping by unannounced."
"You know my door is always open for you."
Then her gaze flicked behind me. "And who's this handsome guest?"
I opened my mouth, stumbled, panicked.
Lucien, because he is the absolute worst and best, stepped forward with a smile so gentle it was basically illegal.
"Lucien," he said, extending his hand politely. "A friend of Reed's. I hope you don't mind me tagging along."
She laughed—laughed—like she had just been gifted a new character in her favorite soap opera.
"Of course not! Any friend of my grandson's is welcome here. Come in, come in, both of you! I've just made some tea."
Lucien followed her inside like he'd done this before, like he belonged in soft-lit living rooms filled with crocheted doilies and vintage coasters. I trailed behind, watching in muted horror as he complimented the framed family photos and asked thoughtful questions about her teacup collection.
And she? She was smitten.
We sat around her small dining table—the one with the uneven leg that wobbled every time someone breathed too hard. She'd laid out an unnecessary spread of tea, sugar cubes, butter biscuits, and that one tin that always had sewing supplies except today, somehow, actual cookies.
Lucien sat across from her, legs crossed like he was lounging in an editorial photoshoot, cradling the teacup with both hands like it was some sacred ritual. Grandma sat opposite me, already buzzing with grandmotherly delight.
"So," she began, with the spark of someone who had just decided she was going to enjoy this visit to the fullest, "Lucien, is that French?"
Lucien smiled. "It is. Though I'm afraid I'm not. I was born in the UK."
"Oh, but the name suits you. You have a very refined face. Long eyelashes too—Reed had those as a baby, but his turned on him by puberty. Now he just squints a lot when he's thinking."
"Gran," I said, half-laughing, half-pleading. "We talked about boundaries."
"We did," she said, waving her hand. "But that doesn't mean I agreed."
Lucien let out a small laugh, soft and genuine. "I can see where Reed gets his charm."
"He didn't get it from me," she replied. "Mine's authentic."
I snorted into my tea.
Lucien covered his mouth politely, trying not to laugh out loud. "And what do you do with all that authenticity, if I may ask?"
"Oh, I mostly annoy Reed," she said cheerfully. "And the neighbors. And the poor delivery boy who has to bring me groceries because my knees don't like stairs anymore."
"She also runs a secret mafia of knitting ladies," I muttered. "They have meetings in the common room and judge people's outfits."
"Only if they deserve it," she quipped. "You should've seen what that woman from 2C wore last Friday. A leopard print blouse with neon green sweatpants. She looked like a misplaced GPS marker."
Lucien laughed harder this time, the sound full and oddly boyish.
"And what do you do, Lucien?" she asked, tilting her head with curiosity sharp enough to slice through politeness. "You're very… put together. Expensive sweater. Good shoes. Either you're very successful or very good at faking it."
"Bit of both," he answered smoothly. "I work in finance. Consulting, mostly."
"Consulting," she repeated, dragging the word out like she didn't buy it. "That's a good way to say nothing at all, isn't it?"
Lucien didn't even flinch. "It is. That's why it works so well."
"Oh, I like you," she said, pouring him more tea. "You're slippery. Are you seeing anyone?"
"Gran!"
"What? I'm not matchmaking, I'm just asking. You never know who's available until you ask."
Lucien shook his head, amused. "No one serious at the moment."
She nodded, satisfied. "You keep your heart to yourself until someone earns it. That's what I told Reed after he came home crying over that drama student."
"Gran."
"Oh please," she said, brushing me off like I was part of the furniture. "He was sweet, but so full of himself, and he wore those shoes that made him look like he was rehearsing for Oliver Twist."
I buried my face in my hands.
Lucien leaned forward a little, voice lowered like we were sharing a secret. "You know, I've had a few drama students in my past too. Never again."
She grinned. "Now there's someone who learns."
Lucien smiled back at her—softly, no trace of the usual cold elegance he carried. And in that moment, I realized he had absolutely charmed her.
Worse, he was actually enjoying himself.
Even worse than that—so was I.
I sipped my tea slowly, eyeing him across the table as he laughed at something she said about television pacing these days.
He was relaxed. Not stiff, not performative. His voice was low and pleasant, not drenched in that quiet menace he used in boardrooms and fake consulting offices. He talked about old literature and European trains and how he once bought a pair of socks from a vendor in Prague who claimed they'd make him fall in love.
He didn't overshare. He didn't lie—at least not blatantly.
He was charming. Too charming.
My grandma leaned over to me at one point and whispered, "Don't lose this one. He's got good posture."
I choked on my tea.
Lucien glanced at me, one brow raised.
"You okay?" he asked, all faux innocence.
I nodded, coughing. "Fine. Swallowed the wrong—ugh—yes, fine."
And for a brief moment, I hated him a little less.
Maybe it was the way he kept his word and didn't turn the room into a psychological crime scene. Maybe it was the way he asked her questions instead of steering everything back to himself. Or maybe it was the way she smiled more in thirty minutes with him around than she had in the past week.
I still didn't trust him.
But in that moment, watching him nod along to my grandma's story about how she once faked a limp to get out of a parking ticket, I let myself believe—for just a second—that maybe he wasn't entirely made of lies. Just mostly.
When the clock hit ten, I stood up like it was a fire drill.
"We should go," I said, far too quickly, already grabbing my hoodie from the coat rack like it might teleport me out of this situation.
Lucien stood with me, politely brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve, still somehow looking like he'd just walked out of a Vogue editorial even after three cups of tea and a verbal ambush of childhood stories and unsolicited dating advice.
Of course, Grandma was very determined not to let us leave. She followed us to the door, arms crossed, slippers shuffling in that stubborn way that meant this battle isn't over until someone's guilted into surrender.
"Sleep over!" she insisted, clutching my arm like we were back in 2009 and I hadn't aged a day. "Reed, your old room's still made up. I put clean sheets last week. You can even have your awful poster collection back if it makes you feel at home."
"Gran," I said, already breaking a sweat, "please. I survive in public places with him barely. I can't be in the same room with him."
Lucien, to his credit, remained completely composed—except for the smirk tugging at his mouth that said he was very entertained by my existential meltdown.
Grandma's eyes narrowed at me. "Don't be dramatic."
"Have we met?"
She huffed, gave Lucien one last pat on the arm, and said, "You're always welcome here, dear. And if he's rude to you, you let me know. I'll sort him out."
"I will," Lucien said with that infuriating soft charm. "Thank you for the tea and the stories."
We escaped before she could bake something out of spite.
The walk back was quiet for a while. The streets were mostly empty, bathed in orange light and the occasional whisper of wind. Our shoes tapped against the pavement in a rhythm that almost felt companionable, which was strange, because I still wasn't entirely sure if he was my boss, my scam handler, or some overly suave fever dream I hadn't woken up from.
I shoved my hands in my pockets and stared ahead. "Why were you like that in there?"
Lucien glanced sideways. "Like what?"
"Human."
He let out a quiet breath that might've been a laugh. "Because she's lovely. Your grandmother. And when someone's that kind to you, it's hard not to soften a little."
And suddenly the street felt quieter than it should've been.
"I guess I miss that feeling sometimes," he added, gaze trained on the sidewalk, like he wasn't sure if it was safe to look at me.
I chewed the inside of my cheek. "What feeling?"
"The feeling of being looked after," he said after a long moment. "Of being… someone's. Like, no matter how bad the day gets, there's someone waiting to ask if you've eaten. Someone who makes you feel like you exist in their world as more than a transaction."
I slowed down without meaning to.
"That because your royal family's mad at you?" I asked, keeping my voice light.
Lucien laughed. Loud. Startled. Honest.
"Yes," he said, still laughing. "Exactly. That's it."
I side-eyed him. "I don't believe a single word of the royal thing, by the way."
"You don't?"
"Not even a syllable," I replied. "But I do hope you don't harm me at the end of all this."
Lucien stopped walking.
I turned to look at him, and he was standing there in the middle of the sidewalk, the glow from the streetlamp catching the curve of his face, softening all his sharp edges.
"I promise," he said, voice low, certain. "I won't ever let you get harmed. Not at the end of it. Not at all."
Something tightened in my chest.
"Oh, Jesus," I scoffed, kicking at a loose pebble on the pavement. "Don't say it like that. So sincere. I might fall for you."
He smiled slowly. "Would that be such a bad thing?"
I shook my head, laughing under my breath. "EYou're unbearable."
He laughed, starting to walk again. And I followed. Like I always did. Like I always would, probably.
God help me.