Lucian’s here, or at least he will be soon. A glance at my phone shows me it’s barely after midnight.
I have to face him in less than six hours.
The thought lands fully formed without warning, and my chest tightens with the realization that today is going to require more of me than I feel ready to give.
I get dressed on autopilot in a cozy pair of leggings and a matching hoodie, before pausing in front of my sock drawer.Matching socks are a hard no. Wearing coordinated outfits is one thing, but socks are different. Matching socks are cursed.
Everyoneknows that.
The last time I wore a matching pair, I found out my mother had been arrested and wouldn’t be released. I received a clipped phone call from her court-appointed attorney explaining that the judge had seen her smirk as the charges were read and decided mercy wasn’t warranted.
I remember staring down at my feet afterward, identical lavender stripes lined up perfectly, and thinking that it made an unsettling kind of sense.
So today it’s one pink sock with lemons and one blue sock with stars.
My personal protection charms.
I shove my hair up, as I push the tightness in my chest down where it belongs, and step out of my rig before my brain can slow me down and start cataloging every reason this is a bad idea. The morning air cuts through my hoodie, sharp and brisk, but I barely notice. My body already knows where it’s going.
Link’s door is unlocked, like always. The lights inside are dimmed to a warm amber that softens the edges of the room. The air smells like vanilla and cedar, from the same candle he always burns and claims he buys “accidentally” every time. The scent is familiar and settles me almost immediately.
I step inside quietly, even though I know it’s unnecessary. Linkin sleeps hard; he won’t wake up unless someone actively shakes him.
But I’m not here for him. Against the slide-out wall, tucked into the corner, is the setup that feels like a haven when I get overwhelmed.
Blankets are layered carefully, more intentional than they look at first glance. Faux fur, soft cotton, and things that were definitely borrowed from hotels and quietly replaced later. Acrocheted throw from his Grammy is folded over the arm of the beanbag chair he insists he bought as a joke. Oversized pillows gathered close, forming a low, contained space that feels separate from the rest of the rig.
I cross the rig and settle into the alcove, easing myself down and letting the weight from the blankets close in around me, grounding me. My shoulders drop, and my breathing slows without me having to think about it.
For the first time since I saw Lucian in the crowd, I feel something close to okay.
I blink so heavily that the shadows have moved across the room when I open my eyes. I try to look at Linkin’s bedside table to see what time it is, only for the clock to be blocked at this angle from Link’s big ass foot, which is pointed like he’s auditioning for Swan Lake in his dreams. He hasn’t moved, so I’m assuming he’s still fully asleep.
I bury myself deeper into the blankets, tugging the faux-fur throw up to my chin until it covers my mouth and most of my thoughts with it. The fabric is warm and heavy enough to keep me anchored. For a few precious seconds, I let myself believe that if I stay still long enough, nothing else will be required of me.
I don’t need words.
Not from him, not from anyone.
Lucian showing back up doesn’t mean anything; people come and go. I existed before him, and I learned how to exist after him. I didn’t fall apart when he left; I rebuilt and survived the unanswered questions. I am not some soft thing that cracks open the moment he reappears in my orbit.
I repeat that to myself until it sounds more like a fact and less like fiction. I think I drift back to sleep, because the next thing I register is fabric shifting in the bed next to me. Linkin lets out alow, half-conscious groan. Then I hear the gentle thud of an arm dropping back on the mattress.
I smile despite myself.
The way Linkin wakes up is never abrupt. It’s a slow return, like he’s slowly negotiating his way back to consciousness one limb at a time. He rolls over and sees me in his hideaway before blinking a few times, trying to decide if I’m real or not.
“’Leste?” He croaks, voice rough and thick with sleep.
I consider pretending I don’t exist. I pull the blanket higher, curling inward as if I’m compact enough I might slip out of perception entirely. The calm I fought so hard to settle into starts to thin at the edges. Talking means acknowledgement, and acknowledgement means letting last night take up space again.
Linkin has an annoying talent for reading the room without pushing into it.
His sheets rustle, and there is a gentle thump of something hitting the floor. He pads across the carpet before settling his weight onto the edge of the beanbag beside me, close enough to feel his warmth but not crowding.
“Are you okay?” He asks quietly. His words aren’t pushy, they’re just… open, almost like a hand held out gently in the dark.
Swallowing, I stare at the woven pattern of the blanket bunched under my chin. “No.”
