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When Tomorrow Remembered Us

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Things Lucien has noticed against his Will.

Lucien did not like distractions.

He liked control. Structure. Clean lines between what mattered and what didn’t.

Aren was becoming a problem.

Lucien realized this while watching him struggle with a vending machine.

“It’s broken,” Aren muttered, pressing the button again. Nothing happened.

Lucien leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “It’s not broken. You’re just impatient.”

Aren shot him a glare. “I waited.”

“For five seconds.”

Aren huffed softly and tried again, biting his lower lip in concentration.

Lucien looked away.

Don’t, he told himself.

The machine whirred, finally dropping the snack. Aren’s eyes lit up—brief, unguarded, almost childlike.

“There,” Aren said, pleased. Then he paused, glanced at Lucien, and awkwardly added, “Do you… want one?”

Lucien stared.

The future version of Aren—the one history never recorded—had been someone who lost everything. This Aren, standing here with slightly messy hair and a hopeful look, felt unbearably out of place in Lucien’s world.

“No,” Lucien said, too quickly. “But thank you.”

Aren smiled anyway.

Lucien hated how that smile lingered in his mind long after they walked away.

They were at the institute again. Lucien had insisted Aren come along—just to sit, he’d said. Just to stay nearby.

Aren perched on a chair in the corner, knees drawn up slightly, watching people pass with quiet curiosity. He looked like someone observing a world he didn’t belong to.

Lucien found himself glancing over more often than necessary.

A colleague leaned toward Lucien. “Who’s that?”

Lucien stiffened. “Who?”

“The kid,” the colleague said, nodding toward Aren. “He looks lost.”

Lucien’s jaw tightened.

“He’s not,” Lucien said flatly.

The colleague raised a brow. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”

Lucien didn’t respond.

Across the room, Aren met his eyes, startled—like he’d been caught staring.

Lucien held his gaze.

Aren looked away first.

Something warm and unsettling spread through Lucien’s chest.

This is dangerous, Lucien thought.

You don’t even know him.

Later, on the walk home, Aren lagged behind, distracted by the street performers lining the sidewalk. A small group played music—real instruments, imperfect and alive.

Aren slowed to watch, eyes soft.

Lucien stopped walking.

“You’re holding us up,” he said.

Aren blinked, then hurried forward. “Sorry.”

Lucien watched him for a second, then sighed. “Five minutes.”

Aren’s head snapped up. “Really?”

Lucien shrugged. “You look like you need it.”

Aren hesitated—then smiled, genuine and bright. “Thank you.”

Lucien turned away so Aren wouldn’t see his expression.

Why does that affect me?

That night, Aren sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through one of Lucien’s books. His brow furrowed as he read, lips moving silently.

Lucien watched from the doorway.

“You read like you’re afraid of missing something,” Lucien said.

Aren startled. “I am.”

Lucien stepped closer. “What?”

“Moments,” Aren replied quietly. “They don’t last.”

Lucien felt something tighten in his chest.

He crouched down beside Aren. Close. Too close.

“You don’t have to rush here,” Lucien said. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Aren looked up at him.

For a second, Lucien forgot how to breathe.

Aren’s eyes were open, honest, unguarded in a way that felt… dangerous. Like he trusted too easily. Like the world hadn’t taught him how cruel people could be.

Lucien lifted a hand—then stopped.

The space between them stretched, fragile and charged.

Aren swallowed. “Lucien?”

Lucien dropped his hand.

“Go to bed,” he said, voice steady despite the storm beneath it. “You’re tired.”

Aren nodded, standing slowly. As he passed, his sleeve brushed Lucien’s arm.

The contact was accidental.

Lucien froze anyway.

Later, alone in his room, Lucien pressed his fingers to his lips, frowning.

“This is inappropriate,” he murmured.

And yet—

He could still see Aren’s smile. Hear the way he said thank you like it meant something.