---
Lucien had never considered himself a jealous person.
He didn't throw tantrums over who someone talked to. He didn't dig through phones or stalk past relationships. But something about Arin—something so painfully unreadable, so soft and sharp all at once—brought out a side of him he didn't recognize.
Possession.
Want.
That subtle ache in his chest every time Arin's eyes looked like they were remembering someone else.
Every time he went quiet after a phone call.
Every time his hand curled around his wrist in sleep, and he whispered names that weren't Lucien.
Lucien wanted him.
Not just his body. Not even just his affection.
He wanted all of him.
His past.
His pain.
His name—every hidden corner of it.
So when Arin left that afternoon, mumbling something about picking up a prescription from across town, Lucien watched the door close… then stood in the middle of the apartment, heart pounding.
He knew it was wrong.
But he couldn't stop.
He needed to understand. He needed to know who Arin belonged to before him. And more importantly, who still had a piece of him now.
---
He started with the shelves.
The kitchen cabinets were stuffed with expired spices and mismatched mugs. No surprises there.
The bedroom closet was clean, almost too clean. Like someone who constantly rearranged to avoid confronting what he was hiding.
Lucien crouched low. Checked the space under the bed.
A dusty cardboard box.
Lucien froze.
Then pulled it out.
Inside: papers. Journals. A stack of envelopes with names scratched out violently in pen. And at the very bottom—wrapped in an old hoodie—
A photo album.
Lucien's chest tightened as he sat on the floor, legs crossed. His hands shook slightly as he peeled it open.
The first page was gentle.
Arin, younger—maybe eighteen, maybe nineteen—grinning like a thief, cigarette tucked behind one ear.
His face was still soft. The world hadn't carved him hollow yet.
In the next photo, he was holding hands with a girl.
Lucien frowned.
She was pretty. Hair tucked behind one ear, nose scrunched from laughter.
The caption scribbled beneath it: Don't be late again, you brat.
Page after page followed: them laughing on rooftops, lying on a blanket by a lake, him feeding her noodles with chopsticks.
Lucien's stomach turned.
Was this the woman from his dreams?
The one whose death haunted him?
She was everywhere in the album. Glowing. Radiant. And most gutting of all—pregnant.
One photo showed Arin with his palm pressed gently to her belly, his eyes soft with awe.
Lucien couldn't look away.
This wasn't some casual lover.
This was a future.
This was love.
Real love.
Something Lucien hadn't even dared to hope for until now.
---
He turned the last page slowly.
And stopped breathing.
The final photo was blurry, but unmistakable.
The same woman.
In a white dress.
Stained red.
Blood soaked through the silk in thick, angry patterns. Her smile frozen. Her eyes wide.
The background behind her—a hallway, maybe. A broken window.
And scrawled in ink on the bottom corner of the photo:
"I was too late."
Lucien dropped the album.
His heart thundered like a warning bell.
He stared at the photo on the floor, hands curling into fists.
This wasn't just a loss.
It was trauma.
It was violence.
And it was something Arin had buried.
Until now.
---
The sound of keys at the door jolted him.
Lucien panicked, grabbed the album, shoved it back into the box, slid it beneath the bed, and stood just as Arin walked in—carrying a small paper bag and a single bottle of lemon soda.
His eyes landed on Lucien. Paused.
Then narrowed.
"What were you doing?"
Lucien's throat was dry. "Cleaning."
Arin said nothing. Just walked to the kitchen and dropped the bag onto the counter.
Lucien followed.
His thoughts were spiraling.
Why had Arin never told him?
He wasn't angry.
He was starving to understand.
Lucien leaned on the counter beside him. "Can I ask you something?"
Arin didn't look up. "You always do."
Lucien hesitated. "Who are you really?"
That made Arin pause.
He turned, slow and calm, like a snake ready to strike.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean… what do you do for work? Who are your parents? Why do you get calls at 2:13 every night and never answer them? Why did your father look at you like you were nothing but a tool?"
Arin said nothing.
Lucien leaned closer. "Why are you here? Hiding in a shitty apartment with a man you don't even know?"
The silence stretched.
Lucien whispered, "Why won't you tell me anything, Arin?"
Arin looked away. His voice came soft.
"I come from people who sell guns, lives, and silence. I was raised to be next in line. I refused."
Lucien's pulse skipped.
"I'm not a good man," Arin murmured. "I've ruined things. I've watched people die. People I loved. People who begged me to save them."
Lucien's voice cracked. "Like her?"
Arin froze.
For the first time, his mask shattered.
"Don't," he said.
Lucien stepped forward. "I found the album."
"You had no right—"
"I don't care!" Lucien snapped. "I love you, and I don't care what your past looks like. I just want to understand where your heart is."
Arin's chest rose and fell like a crashing tide.
"You saw her?" he whispered.
Lucien nodded. "And the blood."
Arin closed his eyes.
"She was pregnant," he said quietly. "With my child."
Lucien swallowed. "What happened?"
"I was supposed to protect her."
"And you couldn't?"
"I didn't."
The confession was sharp. Brutal.
"She died in front of me," Arin whispered. "Because I hesitated. Because I loved her too much to run. And not enough to do what needed to be done."
Lucien moved closer. "I'm not her."
"I know."
"I'm still here."
Arin looked at him—really looked.
And for the first time, Lucien saw fear in his eyes.
Not of the world.
But of feeling again.
Lucien reached out and touched his hand.
"I'm not asking you to forget," he said. "I'm asking you to try."
Arin didn't move.
Didn't speak.
And Lucien knew—he'd pushed as far as Arin would let him.
For now.
But the photo burned behind his eyes.
And he knew this wasn't over.
---