Lucian shrugs out of his leather jacket, draping it over the back of a chair, and then he walks toward me with that steady, quiet purpose that always makes my breath catch.
He doesn’t speak. He just reaches for the zipper of my hoodie, peeling it from my shoulders with slow, deliberate care. His fingers trail down my arms so softly, almost in a reverentway. The contact sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with cold.
“You need to warm up,” he murmurs, voice low in a tone that makes me want to do anything he asks of me.
I follow him when he turns, drawn by instinct more than thought. He leads me through a side door, and I blink at the sight of the bathroom. There’s an oversized tub, marble tile from the floor to the ceiling, steam curling into the air as he turns the water on.
He comes back to me, hands steady as he works at the waistband of my pants. I don’t stop him. I’ll never say this out loud, but I don’t want to stop him. The room feels safe.Hefeels safe.
Before I fully register it, I’m standing in my underwear, skin prickling from the shift in temperature and the intensity of his attention.
Lucian leans in and presses a devastatingly tender kiss to my forehead. Then he starts to turn away, giving me space, giving me choice.
But I reach for him.
“Don’t go.”
He freezes.
“Please,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “Just…stay. I need you to hold me.”
That’s when I see the shift. A flicker of hesitation in his eyes, subtle but unmistakable. He glances toward the steaming tub, then back at me, something guarded settling behind his expression.
“Turn around,” he says quietly.
“Why?” I ask, searching his face.
“I just—” His jaw tics, a tiny, involuntary betrayal of something he’s trying very hard to keep contained. “Please, Celeste. Just turn around.”
There’s a plea in it, quiet and raw, and it’s enough to make me obey without question.
I turn slowly, giving him my back, giving him the dignity of not watching the parts of this that still hurt him. Behind me, fabric rustles.
I listen to the faint scrape of metal against tile, followed by a low grunt as he shifts his balance, steadying himself with the kind of care that tells me he still doesn’t know how to let me see this piece of himself.
It takes everything in me not to look. Not because I’m afraid of what I’ll see, but because I know he needs this moment. He needs to be able to control how much of himself he lets the world witness. Even when the world is just me.
After a few moments of rustling, I hear the sound of water shifting, letting me know he’s lowered himself into the tub.
“Okay,” he says, voice even lower than before, roughened at the edges. “You can turn around, but please turn the light off.”
This time, I’m the one who hesitates as I realize the weight of what he’s asking. He’s not asking for darkness, but for mercy.
I reach for the switch and ease us into a soft, ambient blue glow from the hallway. It’s dim enough to blur the sharp lines of reality, and bright enough to keep the night from swallowing us whole.
I walk toward the tub as he lifts an arm, offering it to guide me in. The gesture is careful, like he’s afraid I might break if he moves too quickly.
I climb in with my back to him, mindful of the water, and of him. The heat wraps around me instantly, soothing, but it’s nothing compared to the moment his arms slide around my waist and pull me back against his chest.
His chin settles lightly atop my head, and the world narrows to the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
Silence stretches between us, full of everything we’re not saying. Full of everything we’re holding for each other.
Then—
He starts humming.
A low, gentle sound. Familiar in a way that hits me right in the center of my chest. A lullaby. The same one he hummed the day I cried into his shirt after a phone call with my mother’s attorney that left me shaking. The same one he probably thought I’d forgotten.
