---
Lucien stood under the stream of warm water, the steam curling around his broad frame like fog wrapping an abandoned ruin. The cracked bathroom tiles were stained and chipped, but the heat from the water felt almost… kind.
He stared down at his own body.
Scars traced his skin in pale, raised lines—across his chest, ribs, forearms. Ghosts of the past carved into flesh. Some were surgical, neat. Others brutal, jagged, like someone had taken their time with pain.
Lucien didn't flinch. He never did anymore.
But for a long moment, he just stood there, letting the water hit his face, mouth parted, hands pressed against the wall. As if washing off more than just dirt.
As if drowning something.
---
When he stepped out, wrapped in a towel, he found a clean black shirt and loose gray sweatpants laid neatly on the sink. A faint citrus scent clung to them—Arin's, maybe. He changed quickly.
By the time he emerged, the apartment smelled faintly of spice and oil. A simple meal of rice and stir-fried vegetables had been left on the small, rickety table. One set of utensils. One chair.
Arin sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, scrolling with narrowed eyes.
Lucien sat down in silence. He began eating with slow, polite movements—each bite careful, controlled. He didn't look up. Not at first.
But soon he couldn't help it.
Arin was a strange contrast.
He was smaller—slim and lean, barely taking up space on the bed. Dressed in a plain T-shirt and pajama pants, hair still slightly damp from his own quick shower, and his face…
Lucien watched him from under his lashes.
So damn pretty.
Big eyes, soft lashes, full mouth that curled naturally into a frown. He looked like someone who belonged in a university café, sipping coffee and sketching in a notebook.
Not someone who found bleeding men on rooftops and didn't even blink.
And yet… here he was. Serious. Detached. Sitting with perfect posture, his phone screen casting a cold blue light on his face.
Lucien's ears turned warm. He quickly looked away.
Why was he blushing?
He hadn't blushed in years.
---
The meal ended in silence. Neither of them said a word. But the quiet didn't feel heavy. It felt... safe.
Lucien rinsed his plate, unsure why he felt the need to.
When he came back into the main room—if it could even be called that—he paused.
The lights were off. Only the streetlamp outside glowed through the window.
And Arin was still there.
Still on the bed.
Still not leaving.
Lucien blinked.
Last night, he had been alone here. He had assumed Arin lived elsewhere—just dropped in to help a stranger and then vanished again like a dream.
But it was already past midnight.
Arin sighed and finally tossed his phone onto the bedside table with a quiet thunk.
Then—without hesitation—he collapsed face-first onto the bed.
Lucien stood by the door awkwardly, arms by his sides, shoulders too broad for the narrow space. He looked out of place. Like a lost soldier in a child's room.
Arin cracked one eye open.
"What?" he mumbled into the pillow.
Lucien said nothing. His expression was unreadable, but his body was stiff—unsure whether to leave, sit, or sleep standing like a bodyguard.
Arin rolled over onto his back with a groan.
"You're seriously just gonna stand there all night?"
Lucien blinked. "…I didn't think you were staying."
"Well, I am." Arin threw an arm over his eyes. "Deal with it."
Lucien shifted his weight. "Where do I sleep?"
Arin dropped his arm, glared at him from beneath messy bangs. "It's a single-room apartment, giant. There's one bed."
Lucien was quiet for a beat. "…I'll sleep on the floor."
"You're not sleeping on the floor. You're injured. You'll bleed on my rug. Just lie down already."
Lucien didn't move.
Arin's patience thinned. He sat up sharply.
"Seriously, what's your deal? You're, like, twice my size. I should be the one scared here."
Lucien looked away, the faintest shade of red touching his cheeks.
Arin muttered under his breath, "I swear, for a guy built like a damn tank, you sulk like a kitten."
He scooted to one side of the bed and yanked the blanket halfway back.
"Come on. It's not like you're a woman. I'm not gonna try anything. You don't even talk."
Lucien hesitated for one second longer.
Then he moved.
Slowly.
He sat down on the edge of the bed like it might shatter beneath his weight. It didn't. He laid back, spine stiff, eyes on the ceiling. Arin turned his back to him without a word and flicked off the lamp.
Darkness fell.
A long silence stretched between them. The kind that echoed with too many things unsaid.
Lucien listened to Arin's breathing. It was steady. Calmer than he expected. For a man who lived alone, who didn't seem to care about anyone—he didn't feel cold anymore.
Warmth radiated between them beneath the thin blanket.
Lucien closed his eyes.
And for the first time in a long, long while, he let himself drift.
---
He didn't know when the dream started.
He only knew it was dark again.
Burning again.
Hands grabbing him.
That voice. That smell. That locked door—
Lucien jerked suddenly in his sleep, breath caught in his throat.
"Don't—!"
He rolled toward the edge of the bed, curling into himself, face tense, breath ragged.
Arin stirred beside him, groggy. "...What…?"
Lucien's voice cracked in a sleep-soaked whisper.
"Don't let him find me."
Arin went still.
And the shadows between them thickened.
---