Lines that were never drawn.

Lucien didn’t announce it.

He simply moved Aren’s bag from the guest room to the spare closet the next morning.

Aren noticed when he came back from the shower, towel still around his neck, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends.

“Why is my bag gone?” Aren asked.

Lucien didn’t look up from his tablet. “You’re not leaving yet.”

That wasn’t an answer.

“That wasn’t a question,” Aren said.

Lucien finally lifted his gaze. “Neither was that.”

Aren stared at him, pulse ticking louder in his ears. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Lucien set the tablet down slowly. “You’re right.”

Relief flared—too quickly.

“But,” Lucien continued, standing, “you’re staying because you want to. And because I don’t send people out when they’re clearly not ready.”

Aren crossed his arms. “You don’t know what I’m ready for.”

Lucien stepped closer. Not invading—just enough to remind Aren of the height difference, the calm authority, the way Lucien never rushed anything.

“I know you flinch when someone raises their voice,” Lucien said quietly.

“I know you wake up before dawn like you expect something bad to happen.”

“And I know you don’t like being alone, even though you pretend you do.”

Aren’s throat tightened.

“You watch too much,” he muttered.

Lucien’s lips curved faintly. “I told you. I pay attention.”

Too much attention.

They fell into a rhythm after that.

Not comfort—never comfort—but routine.

Aren learned:

:Lucien hated sweet food

:He read late into the night

:He didn’t sleep well either

Lucien learned:

:Aren drank water like he’d forget otherwise

:He avoided mirrors

:He never spoke about his family

:They didn’t talk about feelings.

:They didn’t talk about why they kept circling each other.

Instead, Lucien gave Aren space—but never distance.

It happened on the seventh day.

Lucien came home late, irritation clinging to him like static. He shrugged off his coat, jaw tight, eyes sharp.

“Bad day?” Aren asked from the couch.

Lucien paused.

“You notice,” he said.

Aren shrugged. “You slam doors when you’re angry.”

Lucien exhaled, slow. “You shouldn’t psychoanalyze me.”

“You started it,” Aren replied.

That earned him a look—cool, assessing, faintly amused.

Lucien stepped closer. “Careful.”

Aren tilted his chin up slightly. “Or what?”

For a moment, the air shifted.

Lucien’s gaze dropped—not to Aren’s lips, but close enough that Aren felt it. The silence stretched, heavy with something unnamed.

Then Lucien straightened.

“Don’t challenge people unless you’re ready for the consequences,” he said evenly.

Aren’s heart raced. “Is that a threat?”

Lucien picked up his glass of water. “Advice.”

He walked away.

Aren sat frozen long after, breath uneven.

You don’t get to look at me like that, Aren thought.

Not when you don’t even know what you’re doing to me.

That night, Aren dreamed of fire.

Not destruction—but warmth.

He woke abruptly, chest tight, sheets tangled around his legs. The room felt too quiet.

Without thinking, he stepped into the hallway.

Lucien’s door was ajar.

Light spilled out.

Aren hesitated—then knocked softly.

Lucien looked up from his desk. His expression shifted immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“I—” Aren stopped. He didn’t know how to explain. “Nothing. I just—”

Lucien stood. “Come here.”

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t harsh. It was firm.

Aren crossed the room, heart pounding. Lucien stopped him with a hand to his shoulder—not gripping, just anchoring.

“You’re shaking,” Lucien said.

“I’m fine,” Aren whispered.

Lucien didn’t argue.

He simply said, “Sit.”

Aren obeyed before he could stop himself.

Lucien crouched in front of him, eye level now. The power shift made Aren’s stomach twist.

“Nightmares?” Lucien asked.

Aren nodded once.

Lucien hesitated—then placed a hand over Aren’s wrist. Warm. Steady.

“You’re safe,” he said quietly.

The words hit harder than they should have.

Aren swallowed. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

Lucien’s thumb stilled. “Why?”

“Because I might believe you.”

Lucien looked at him for a long moment.

Then—slowly—he removed his hand.

“Sleep here tonight,” Lucien said, gesturing to the couch. “Door open.”

Aren’s chest ached.

“…Okay.”

As Aren lay awake later, staring at the ceiling, one thought refused to leave him:

I came back in time to end you.

And yet—

Why does it feel like you’re the first person who ever noticed me?

In the other room, Lucien stood by the door, listening to Aren’s breathing even out.

He frowned.

“This is a mistake,” he murmured.

And still—he didn’t close the door.

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