-Reed.
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Lucien didn't kiss me again since that day.
Not that I'm keeping count. Not that I have a tally in my notes app labeled "Lucien's attempts at intimacy" which currently remains at a very bold, very underwhelming: one.
His actions—and perhaps more insidiously, the aching vacuum of his inactions—annoy me in ways that should be illegal. Like how he walked into my life in a tailored sweater and ruined my peace. Then dipped, like an emotionally unavailable magician.
I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, toothbrush in hand, toothpaste foaming like I'd lost a rabid fight with a latte. My face looked tired. Or tragic. Probably both.
"What the fuck do you want, Reed?" I asked the guy in the mirror. He didn't answer. Coward.
I was this close to smashing my head into the mirror. Not even to break it. Just to see if anything rattled loose in there. Maybe a sense of pride? Dignity? A user manual?
Why am I so pathetic?
He hasn't been stopping by the office the past few days. No check-ins. No "let's pretend this isn't money laundering" PowerPoints. No elegant hands brushing too close to mine under the guise of reaching for a stapler.
And yes, I've been handling work alone. Taking calls. Reviewing proposals I barely understand. Smiling at clients who believe this is a legitimate operation. Selling a dream that started as a lie, but now might be the closest thing to purpose I've had in years.
To be fair, I'm not even mad about the work. I can fake confidence well enough. I've faked worse. What bothers me—the thing that makes my teeth itch and my chest feel like it's filled with uncooked rice—is that I kind of… miss him.
God. I deserve to be slapped for that.
Maybe multiple times. Preferably with a leather glove and a therapist standing by.
I shouldn't miss someone who kisses me once like he means it and then disappears like a bad investment. I shouldn't miss someone who's probably off laundering money with prettier people in prettier suits. I shouldn't miss someone who thinks I'm interesting when I'm spiraling, but can't handle me when I'm just… me.
Grow the fuck up, Reed.
I spat out the toothpaste like it was venom. The mirror version of me looked unimpressed.
"Still here?" I muttered. "Thought you'd run off too."
My doorbell rang.
Which is odd. I have no rent due—Doug's last threat was just a middle finger emoji—and I haven't ordered anything. No groceries, no regretful late-night gadgets, not even a pity croissant. And it's eight in the goddamn morning. The sky barely had its socks on.
I rinsed my mouth, wiped it with a towel that had seen better centuries, and padded barefoot to the door, trying not to exist too loudly.
When I opened it, the sun hit me.
Not the one in the sky. The one that hasn't kissed me since that night, yet still manages to turn my nervous system inside out with a single glance.
"Good morning, Reed," Lucien said, smiling like his teeth had never chewed a single worry in their life.
He wasn't glowing. There was no mist or divine spotlight, no melodramatic orchestral swell. Just him. Lucien.
And yet, the air still changed around him. Like it always does.
It's the kind of presence that makes everything else feel two shades duller. Not just because he's beautiful—which he is, painfully so—but because there's a gravity to him. A quiet certainty in the way he stands, in the way his eyes settle on me like I'm something worth pausing for. He's composed, yes, but there's always something else tucked behind it. A tension. A held breath. Like he's always bracing for something and never tells you what.
And maybe that's what pulls me in. Not the perfection—though that certainly doesn't hurt—but the cracks he tries to hide. The way his voice softens when he says my name. The way his silences aren't empty, but full of all the things he's afraid to let slip.
Lucien wasn't glowing. But somehow, standing there at my door, he still lit something up in me I wish I could ignore.
"Good morning, Lucien," I managed, voice flat as my bank account. "What a surprise!"
"Come on, get dressed."
"I—what?" I blinked. "It's too early for work. Like, war crimes level early."
"We're not working today," he said smoothly. "We're going to the sea."
And just like that, my brain quit. Logged off. Packed up its box of scattered coping mechanisms and quietly walked out.
I stared at him, mouth slightly parted, heart throwing itself at my ribs like it was auditioning for a dramatic monologue. The sea? What kind of sadistic fantasy is this? Does he know I've spent the last three days debating if he hates me or if he just died?
"Reed?" he asked again, gentler now. That tone he uses when he's trying not to say he's worried.
I didn't answer. I couldn't. I just stood there—mesmerized, gutted, and aching with the freshly revived urge to smash my face into his and then into a brick wall immediately after, for having that thought.
"I'll go get dressed," I said, my voice finally escaping in a whisper like it owed me rent.
And as I closed the door behind me, heart still doing backflips, one horrifying truth echoed in my mind: He came back.
And then I realized I left him outside.
Shit.
I yanked the door open again, heart doing that pathetic skip like maybe he'd still be there, leaning against the railing like he owned the concept of balance. But no—he was gone. Vanished. As if he was never real to begin with.
I slammed the door harder than necessary. Which was, in hindsight, probably a bad idea. My door frame is held together by passive-aggressive optimism and three ancient screws.
I was angry. At myself. At him. At the ridiculous way he asked me what I wanted most in the world a few days ago—and now he's here, taking me to the sea, like it's some casual Tuesday brunch plan. Like skipping work and escaping reality is a normal, manageable thing. As if any of this is normal. As if I am.
"The sea," I had said, and apparently Lucien heard "please rearrange my emotional architecture at sunrise."
Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect.
I went to get dressed.
I pulled on a brown button-down—loose, slightly wrinkled in a way that made it look like I didn't try too hard, even though I definitely did. The fabric was soft, light, rolled sleeves brushing my forearms just enough to make me look like I had things to do. Underneath, a white tank top clung to me with quiet judgement, and I tucked everything into a pair of high-waisted ivory pants I barely wore because they made me feel like a museum exhibit titled Gay with Regrets.
I looked in the mirror.
Not bad. Not ready either.
But I guess that's the point, isn't it?
He was there after all.
Lucien's car sat like a sleek, well-fed animal at the edge of the street—parked with surgical precision, humming low like it had opinions. He didn't wave or honk or lean out the window to greet me. Of course not. That would imply he was surprised to see me. Lucien never seemed surprised. He just existed in this permanent state of mildly amused inevitability.
I pulled the passenger door open, slid inside, and found him—one hand resting loosely on the wheel, the other tapping faintly against his thigh in rhythm to nothing in particular. And there it was—he was chewing gum. Casually. Methodically. Like he wasn't aware it made him approximately twenty times more attractive. Or maybe he was. Maybe it was all part of his maddening, unconscious choreography.
Something about it—about him—felt too casual. Like he wasn't driving us away from a world he built on half-truths and unspoken rules. Like this was just a coffee run and not some personal pilgrimage I hadn't emotionally packed for.
And then he did it—the thing that short-circuited me completely.
With an effortless roll of his palm, he turned the steering wheel. Just one fluid motion. Smooth, practiced, almost lazy in its grace. It wasn't for show. That was the worst part. There was no performance, no vanity in it. He did it because that's just how he drove. And watching it did something to me that should probably be examined in therapy.
"Play music if you want," he said, eyes on the road, still chewing, still calm.
I glanced at him. "You trust me with that kind of responsibility?"
He smiled—just a small twitch of the lips, like I amused him more than I confused him. "Yes, Reed. It's just music. Anything will be fine."
"See, when you say that, it actually makes me nervous."
His laugh was quiet, but real. "Alright, then. Let me tell you this—press shuffle. Whatever comes up first is what we'll listen to. No skipping, no take-backs."
I picked up his phone, feeling like I was being handed a live wire.
The screen glowed in my hand. I pressed shuffle.
And then the opening notes of Paprika began to pour through the speakers. Light at first, then swelling—soft cymbals, warm synth, a voice that sounded like the start of something you couldn't quite name yet.
"Lucidity came slowly
I awoke from dreams of untying a great knot…"
Lucien didn't speak. He just kept driving, jaw moving gently as he chewed, his expression unreadable—but not cold. If anything, he looked… pleased. Content, maybe. Like the song wasn't unexpected but welcomed. Like it reminded him of something he'd never admit to.
He nodded along slightly, his thumb now tapping to the actual rhythm. He looked like someone who understood this music, not just heard it. Like someone who could sit at the center of chaos with a soundtrack playing and never lose his balance.
And I—idiot, over-thinker, half-broken Reed—sat beside him, trying not to fall apart at the way he looked when he was comfortable. When he let the world soften around the edges.
My fingers curled in my lap.
This wasn't a road trip. This wasn't a date. This was Lucien, with all his goddamn mystery and restraint, saying "come with me" in the only language he knew: quiet gestures. A song. A drive. A stretch of road that led to the sea.
And in that moment, I didn't know what terrified me more: the fact that he brought me along… or the fact that I was starting to feel like I wanted to stay.
"But alone it feels like dying
All alone I feel so much
I want my offering to woo, to calm, to clear, to solve
But the only offering that comes
It calls, it screams, there's nothing here."
The drive took thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes of gum-popping silence, atmospheric detours, and Lucien occasionally judging the playlist with the kind of dry commentary that could deflate a god. He didn't skip anything—true to his word—but he did raise an eyebrow at one synth-heavy track and mutter, "This sounds like something that plays in a vegan vampire's wet dream."
I didn't respond. I just laughed. Which was worse.
Then the sea appeared.
It crept into view like something timeless—wide, patient, unbothered. We pulled off near a gravel patch that passed for parking, and I got out first, the car door shutting with a quiet thunk behind me. And just like that, it hit me.
The air.
It wasn't heavy here. It didn't sit on my chest like concrete and guilt. It moved—soft, wild, full of salt and motion. The kind of breeze that didn't ask for permission. My hair lifted with it, rustling gently like it finally had something to say. For the first time in what felt like weeks, I inhaled without flinching. I could smell the brine, the iodine, the memory of fish and sand and old sun.
The sea stretched out before me, quiet today. Not dead—just calm. Like it was resting. The surface shimmered with that low morning light, not yet claimed by the sun. The sky hadn't made up its mind about the day; it still wore that dusky lavender and honey hue, smeared with blush and a little melancholy. The water carried it—green in the shallows, sliding into cobalt, then navy where it deepened. Hints of silver flickered here and there, like the sea was keeping secrets in motion.
The sand was pale and soft underfoot. Cool, undisturbed. It clung just slightly to my soles, as if the earth wanted me to stay.
My shirt—loose, unbuttoned—fluttered with the breeze like it had joined the conversation. I didn't try to fix it. I just stood there, letting the air wrap around me like something earned.
And then, instinctively, I turned.
Lucien hadn't moved. He stood next to the car, one hand resting on the roof, the other in his pocket. He hadn't followed me yet. He was just watching. Not in that predator-prey way I'd imagined once upon a time—more like… someone who didn't want to interrupt a moment that wasn't his.
His gaze wasn't hungry. It was still.
And something about that—that quiet in his expression—hit me harder than any of the wind. Because he brought me here. Because he remembered. Because despite everything, he stood there as if this—me—was the whole point of the trip.
And suddenly I didn't know if I wanted to run toward the water… or back to him.
He started walking.
Lucien moved with that same deliberate grace he always had, but slower now. Not cautious—careful. The breeze toyed with his sleeves, the hem of his light jacket swaying around his thighs like even the air couldn't help but touch him. He kept his eyes on me the entire time, never breaking focus, and it made something in my chest twist—tight and warm and stupidly vulnerable.
He stopped in front of me.
Close.
Close enough that I could see how the wind had pushed a few strands of his hair out of place, close enough that the faint scent of mint and clean cotton settled into the space between us. His gum was gone now—chewed and probably discarded somewhere responsibly because of course he's that type of infuriating adult.
"Before we go deeper inside," he said softly, voice smooth but threaded with something less practiced.
And then he reached forward—fingers brushing the edge of my open shirt, curling just enough to pull me forward. It wasn't forceful. It was… intentional. Like he'd been thinking about this. Like he couldn't let the day begin without it.
He kissed me.
No hesitation, no asking—just heat and salt and Lucien's mouth on mine in a way that stripped the noise from my brain. It wasn't frantic or rushed. It was deep, slow, present. Like he was tasting something he hadn't allowed himself to want before. His hand was still on my shirt, but the grip softened as his lips pressed fuller, warmer, his body just barely touching mine, enough to anchor me, not overwhelm me.
I melted into it.
I wasn't even aware of how tightly my hands fisted into the sides of his jacket until I felt the fabric crease under my fingers. The wind wrapped around us like it was trying to carry the moment away and I wanted to scream not yet.
Because it felt like more than a kiss. It felt like a promise. One he wasn't ready to say out loud, but couldn't keep to himself anymore.
When he pulled back, it was slow. Like he didn't want to, but knew he had to. His eyes lingered on mine, and something unreadable flickered there—hope or fear or both, wearing a very convincing mask of calm.
I forgot how to breathe.
He didn't say anything else.
And I—well. I had no idea how I was supposed to survive the rest of this day now.
The kiss ended, and for a beat, neither of us moved.
And of course, I panicked.
"Well," I said, too loud and not nearly steady enough, "that was very HR-unfriendly of you, boss."
Lucien blinked once. Then he sighed through his nose like he was deciding whether or not I was worth legally silencing.
And then—smack.
A light slap to the back of my head.
"Hey!" I yelped, stumbling half a step forward, clutching the side of my skull as if I'd been mortally wounded.
"You deserved that," he said plainly, already turning away and heading toward the shore like that kiss never happened. Like we were just coworkers on a highly illegal corporate retreat.
He didn't look back. Just raised a hand lazily, beckoning. "Come on. Let's walk before you say something even worse."
I stood there for half a second longer, hand still hovering over my scalp, stunned and vaguely aroused by the casual violence.
Then I laughed. I couldn't help it.
Because of course he hit me for ruining the moment. And of course I ruined the moment. That's who we are. That's who I am. Softness lands, I flinch. He offers a glimpse of sincerity, I throw sarcasm at it like a security blanket.
I jogged a few steps to catch up, sand cool beneath my feet, shirt still flaring in the wind like it had unfinished business with the air.
And maybe I did too.