-Reed.
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I never thought he'd get jealous over something so trivial. A dance. A stranger. A laugh that didn't belong to him. But he did.
And the strangest part? I didn't hate it. Not even a little.
If anything, I found myself almost... comforted by it. Like maybe I wasn't the only one affected by this thing between us. Like maybe the obsession wasn't entirely one-sided.
But beneath that warmth—buried under it like splinters under skin—was something else. Something colder. I'd never seen Lucien angry before. Not at me.
He's always been composed. Controlled. His every movement dressed in elegance, his tone smooth even when he was lying through his teeth. He's the kind of person who could host a funeral and make it look like a press event.
But tonight? Tonight I saw the crack in the mask. The tightness in his jaw. The way his hand twitched just slightly when I moved.
It wasn't rage. But it was enough.
Enough to make me nervous. Enough to remind me that I didn't know every part of him—not really.
So I spoke, voice still carrying the aftertaste of adrenaline. "The next time you don't want me to do something, just tell me, Lucien."
He nodded slowly. Mouth drawn into a line, like he was bracing against words. "I'll try my best to do that in the future."
I looked at him, then laughed—soft, under my breath. "You're an idiot."
His eyes flicked toward me. "Don't push it, Reed."
"Fair enough."
A beat passed. The silence stretched but didn't snap.
Then he stood and dusted off his jacket like he was shedding whatever tension still clung to it. "Want to step into the air for a bit?" he asked, extending his hand.
I looked at it for a moment before taking it. His fingers closed tightly around mine—like reassurance, or apology, or maybe something else entirely only he knows.
He led me out of the car slowly. The night air hit instantly—cool, crisp, smelling faintly of rain that hadn't fallen yet. A distant hum of traffic filled the void, the kind of urban quiet that never quite felt silent.
"Do you smoke?" he asked after a moment, glancing sideways at me.
"Only when I'm stressed," I said honestly.
"I remember," he nodded, eyes scanning the pavement. "First day at the office. I saw you leaning against the front door, one hand in your pocket, the other holding that cigarette like you'd rather be anywhere else."
I let out a dry laugh. "Never again since then."
"You haven't been stressed since then?" he asked, something unreadable flickering behind his voice.
I looked at him, tilted my head. "Not in that way."
He nodded again, slower this time. Thoughtful.
"If you want to smoke, go ahead," I added. "I won't judge."
He didn't move.
Didn't reach into his pocket. Didn't fish for a cigarette.
Just stood beside me in the dark, the glow of a nearby streetlamp stretching his shadow toward mine on the pavement.
"I'm not stressed," he said quietly, almost to himself. "Just... recalibrating."
"Is that code for regretting getting mad at me?"
He smiled faintly. "Something like that."
And we stood there for a while, hands still loosely joined, breath turning to fog, two men pretending not to be completely undone by one dance and everything it stirred beneath the surface.
He stood still for another moment, eyes fixed on some distant nothing, then let out a sigh—quiet, resigned. The kind of breath you let go of when fighting the impulse doesn't make sense anymore.
Then he reached into his pocket with his free hand—still not letting go of mine—and pulled out a silver lighter and a single cigarette.
He didn't say anything as he lit it.
The flame flared briefly, soft orange illuminating the sharp edge of his cheekbone, the line of his mouth as he exhaled smoke into the cool air. It curled around us. His fingers never left mine.
It was almost absurd—the elegance with which he smoked, all poise and stillness, while his other hand stayed locked around mine like I was an anchor he didn't know how to admit he needed.
"You really couldn't resist, huh?" I asked, voice low, amused.
"I gave you a chance to judge me," he said between exhales, "you didn't take it. I decided to be weak."
I leaned back against the car, tugging gently on his hand so he'd follow. He did—shoulder brushing against mine, cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes flickering sideways to track my movements like he already knew I was up to something.
I reached for the cigarette.
Took it right from his mouth.
He didn't stop me.
Didn't ask why.
Just watched, half-curious, half-daring.
I held it between my fingers, brought it to my own mouth, and took a drag—slow, unhurried. The smoke burned a little, bitter and earthy, but familiar in a distant way. Like something I'd left behind a long time ago but never fully quit.
Then I turned to him and slipped it back into his mouth.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
Our eyes didn't break for a second.
He took it in without flinching, lips closing around it, eyes narrowing slightly in that way they do when he's trying very hard not to let something show.
"Sharing now, are we?" he asked, voice slightly rougher from the smoke. From something else too, maybe.
"You started it," I said.
"I started the smoking. Not the teasing."
"Oh," I smirked, "then I'm glad to clarify my role."
His smile flickered—crooked, reluctant, real.
"Play something. The shuffle game," he said. His voice was low.
I shifted slightly, one foot angling toward the car, but he didn't let go.
He tugged at my hand, firm but not forceful. And when I looked at him, he shook his head—like letting go wasn't on the table. Like if he released me, I'd evaporate.
"How am I supposed to—" I started, but didn't bother finishing.
No point. Not with the way he was looking at me. Not with the way his hand felt like a question I didn't want to answer with distance.
So I moved, only just far enough to reach into the car. My other hand was still in his. I awkwardly fumbled with my phone, connected it to the car's Bluetooth with one hand—half-leaning, half-contorted—and pressed shuffle.
A beat dropped through the speakers a moment later. The bass soft, confessional. The kind of song that sounded like a voicemail never sent.
"Hit the gas, I don't stop it
No, I'm not tryna change the topic
You know my mind's been in the clouds
Like damn, I know I get to smoke a lot
'Cause it's been a lot"
"Oh—" Lucien said, low and breathy, letting the smoke out of his lungs as the lyric hung there.
I turned to look at him.
He looked... tired. No, not tired. Unshielded. Like the weight of everything—the night, the jealousy, the silence—was finally catching up with him. The cigarette dangled between his fingers like he'd already forgotten it was there.
So I reached over.
Took it from his hand. Brought it to my lips, took one final drag, sharp and deliberate. The smoke hit my lungs with that same burn I always forget about until it's too late. Then I flicked it away into the street.
I didn't say anything.
I kissed him.
Slow at first. Not hesitant—anchored. Like I needed to touch something real. Like I didn't want to be anywhere but here, with this taste in my mouth and this tension still on his breath.
His mouth opened against mine easily, like we'd been waiting all night for the music to give us permission. His hand tightened around mine again—still refusing to let go, even now. Especially now.
I pressed in closer, free hand sliding up the curve of his jaw, fingertips resting behind his ear.
And the song kept playing.
"I need you to ride like that, don't you act like that?"
The inside of the car was warm—humid almost—with the residual heat of the day and the quickened pace of our breathing fogging up the windows like we were something secret being written into the glass. The moment the door closed behind me, it felt like the world outside had ceased to matter, like the street, the music, the party, the people, all of it had been left behind with the click of that door and the sound of my body settling into his lap.
Lucien leaned back into the seat with an exhale. His mouth was on mine again in a heartbeat—deliberate. Like each kiss was a thread being sewn into something neither of us had planned to wear, but now couldn't take off.
I shifted on top of him, the angle deepening the pressure between us, and he groaned into my mouth, low and unguarded, as his hands slid underneath the hem of my shirt, fingertips skimming, like he was learning me by braille. His palms were warm, reverent almost, moving up my back in a slow drag that left goosebumps in their wake, and when he pressed his mouth to the line of my jaw, then lower—to the curve where my neck met my shoulder—it wasn't just a kiss. It was claiming.
My jacket had already slipped off, lost somewhere between the center console and the moment I decided this was happening, and now his followed—shoulders shrugging out of it without ceremony, without elegance. Lucien wasn't composed. He wasn't calculating. He was just a man with his hands full of someone who knew exactly how to undo him.
The kiss broke for a moment as we both caught our breath, and he looked up at me—his eyes wide, his lips flushed and parted, his chest rising with the kind of restraint that barely held. There was a question there, somewhere in the way he touched me without moving further, in the way his hands gripped my hips like he was holding himself back.
I could feel the unspoken thing in him, the hesitation that didn't come from doubt, but from reverence. Like he needed me to be the one to tip the scale.
So I leaned down, closer, forehead brushing his, and without looking away, I let my hand slide up his chest, slow and deliberate, until my fingers curled lightly around the collar of his shirt. My thumb traced the hollow at his throat, feeling his pulse under the skin—quick, steady, tethered to me now.
His eyes didn't leave mine.
"You were saying?" I whispered, breath hot against his cheek, lips so close we were already brushing the line between question and kiss.
And that was it.
He moved with sudden intention, hands sliding up my back, pulling me down into him as his mouth met mine again—this time with no room left for hesitation. My shirt rode up under his palms, the fabric catching at my ribs, and his fingers spread out across my spine like he was trying to memorize every vertebrae.
The car creaked softly under the shift in weight, under the rhythm we were starting to build. His hips rolled up beneath me, meeting the pressure of mine, and I gasped against his mouth, the sound swallowed between us like everything else we hadn't said tonight.
There was no urgency, no frantic undoing of buttons, no clumsy scramble. Just tension. The kind that simmered, that pressed skin to skin in a way that said I need this, but I'm not rushing it. His mouth moved to my throat again, and this time, he bit—just enough to make me shiver, just enough to make me push down into him with more weight than I intended.
"Lucien…" I murmured, not really sure if I was warning him or asking for more.
He stilled beneath me, just for a moment, and then his hands moved to cup my face—gentle, grounding. His thumbs brushed my cheekbones, and when our eyes met again, there was something almost fragile about the way he looked at me. As if this wasn't just lust or want, but need. As if this was about more than tonight.
And maybe it was.
Maybe it always had been.
Lucien's hands had stilled at my waist, though his thumbs kept moving, back and forth, soft and absentminded, like he wasn't ready to let go, even now. I shifted slightly, just enough to tuck my head into the crook of his neck and let it settle there, cheek resting against his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt cool and smooth beneath my skin. One of his hands moved instinctively, wrapping around my back again, holding me with a gentleness that made my chest tighten.
To anyone looking in, I probably looked asleep—body draped over his, completely still, breath slow and even.
But I was wide awake.
Not just awake—aware. Of the rhythm of his breathing. Of the steady beat of his heart beneath his ribs. Of the way his hand shifted every few seconds like he couldn't quite believe I was still here. My eyes were closed, but not for rest. Just because it felt better that way. Like the darkness behind my lids was softer than the world had ever been.
And I didn't want to leave it.
Not yet.
The music was still playing on shuffle—soft, low, folded into the atmosphere like a second heartbeat—and then a voice filtered through the speakers. Soft. Melancholic. Intimate in the way only strangers could manage.
"You've seen my best, you know I try
As I take most of time to clarify what I say..."
I felt his breath hitch beneath me.
I didn't move. Just nestled closer, one of my hands slipping beneath his shirt to rest over bare skin. Not to escalate. Just to feel. To remind myself he was really here.
"'Cause I know it hurts you so
Please don't wait for me, just go when you're ready..."
The lyrics floated through the car like a confession neither of us wanted to say out loud. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Lucien exhaled slowly, like he was carrying too much, like the song had pried something open he hadn't meant to share.
I nuzzled into the side of his neck, kissed his collarbone softly—not for reaction, just because I wanted to. Because I could. His hand slipped up to my back, holding me there, fingertips pressing just enough to anchor.
"I'm not going anywhere," I murmured, barely audible, as if the words might break if I pushed them out too fast.
He didn't answer. Not with words.
But the way he pulled me tighter against him—the way his mouth pressed once, quietly, against the side of my head—said everything I needed.
So we stayed like that, tangled in the dim glow of the dashboard, the windows fogged, the air heavy with breath and warmth and the soft ache of something new beginning.
No demands. No declarations.
Just two people choosing to pause—in the quiet, in the closeness, in the space between skin and song.