“Why have I not been in here?” I ask myself softly. The words sound ridiculous the moment they leave my mouth, but I still mean it. He always comes to me. I’ve never had to go looking for him.
I have worked next door for weeks. Lucien hasn’t hesitated to step into my space, to offer help and conversation and quiet support when the weight of everything threatened to crush me.
I have never returned the courtesy. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own mess, my own fears and discoveries, that I haven’t even been curious about his world.
I lean slightly, trying to see past the reflection, past the gentle distortion of old glass, and there he is.
Lucien stands behind the counter, head inclined as his attention rests on something in his hands. The lines of his gray pinstripe suit fall perfectly into place, sharp without effort, like he’s stepped out of a magazine about timeless elegance. A pair of glasses rests low on his nose, catching the light just enough to make me pause and stare like I’ve never seen anything quite like him before.
I blink, leaning in closer, my face practically pressed to the glass like a kid at a candy store.
“…Are those glasses?” I mutter, unable to stop the faint smile tugging at my lips. Even in glasses the man is still absolutely delicious, somehow managing to look both scholarly and devastating at the same time. “Since when do the Fae need corrective lenses?”
He doesn’t notice me, too absorbed in whatever he’s studying so intently. His fingers turn the object carefully, and there’s something about the way he handles it, reverent, knowledgeable, that makes me want to know what has captured his attention so completely.
The lack of response leaves me standing there a second longer than I intend, suddenly aware that I am staring throughthe window like I have no sense whatsoever. I look like a total creeper and I’m not mad about it. If this is what it means to be a creeper, sign me up.
I straighten, clearing my throat, take another sip of coffee to ground myself, and glance briefly toward Thorne Curiosities. My little shop sits quiet and patient next door, its windows dark in the afternoon light.
The door is closed and honestly, I’m in no rush to get back to the mound of books and grimoires waiting for me on every available surface. Sir is inside, likely draped over something expensive and delicate, dozing in that perfectly content way that cats have mastered, fully capable of managing himself and judging anyone foolish enough to disturb his afternoon nap.
There is nothing pulling me back, no urgent task or deadline demanding my attention.
I look at the shop again, at him. At the quiet way he occupies that space as though time has arranged itself around him instead of the other way around, like he’s the fixed point and everything else moves in relation to his presence.
“You know what, why not?” I murmur, making the decision before I can talk myself out of it.
My hand reaches for the door and the bell chimes softly as I step inside, the sound clear and musical, lingering for a moment before fading into a stillness that feels almost sacred.
The door closes behind me with a soft click and I pause just past the threshold, letting my senses adjust to this new space.
Shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling, filled with objects that have been placed with care rather than convenience. Glass cases reflect the soft light filtering through the windows, throwing gentle rainbows across polished surfaces. Polished wood carries the faint scent of age and preservation, of time itself made tangible. There’s no heavy weight of magic in the airlike my shop carries, no thrum of power waiting to be awakened. Everything here is exactly what it is meant to be.
I take another step forward, my boots silent against the worn wooden floor.
“Careful.” Lucien’s voice carries across the space, smooth and measured.
I still instinctively, looking toward the nearest display. A stand of intricate glass orbs, Witches orbs, if my newly acquired knowledge is correct, catches the light in various shades of blue, sitting wobbly and precarious beside me like they’re just waiting for one careless movement to send them crashing.
“I would prefer your first visit to remain intact,” he adds, placing the object in his hands down.
I shift back half a step, giving the display a respectful amount of space. “Understood. No accidental destruction on my first official visit.”
He looks up, and the impact steals my breath like a physical thing. His eyes meet mine over the rim of those glasses, calm and knowing in a way that makes my heart beat faster than it should, like he sees more than I’m ready to show.
“I was wondering when you would come in.”
I place my hand on my hip and bring my coffee to my lips, studying him over the rim of my cup. There’s something about the way he says it, casual but weighted, that makes me think this moment has been anticipated. “You say that like I have been avoiding you.”
“You have,” he says without hesitation, but there’s no accusation in it, just gentle observation.
“I have been busy with Ezra, the grimoires, Sir and his grumblings.” I grimace, thinking of all the hours spent poring over ancient texts and trying to keep my Familiar from insulting every person who walks through my door. I mean, he knows I’mthe only one who can hear him. I can’t keep my face a blank mask all the time. “I’ve been next door.”
“I am aware.” He smiles and I settle at the reassurance it gives me.
I drift along the nearest shelf, letting my fingers hover just above the surface without touching anything. The items here feel significant in a quiet, undeniable way. Watches with faces that seem to hold entire lifetimes, pendants that catch light like captured stars, brooches that speak of stories long forgotten, journals whose leather covers are soft with age, spy glasses that have seen secrets, and all kinds of bits and bobs that speak to lives lived fully. Yep, I get the name now.
“What exactly is all this?” I ask, nodding toward the displays, my voice softer than I intended.
