Lucien set the coffee tray down like he belonged there, an anchor dropped precisely into the churning waters of Micah's studio. Not tentatively, not like a guest gauging permission, but with the quiet, inherent right of something already woven into the fabric of the space. The cups made a soft, unremarkable sound against the worktable—cardboard, ceramic, the mundane architecture of an ordinary morning.
Micah watched it happen from a distance of about three feet and an entire nervous system, every synapse firing a frantic, discordant symphony.
"Sorry about the mess," Micah heard himself say, the apology slipping out on reflex, a familiar burr under his tongue, an old habit shaped by other people's discomfort, their judgments.
Lucien's gaze swept the room—not searching, not curious, but a brief, assessing flick, like a predator cataloging prey. It skimmed the stacked canvases, their secrets pressed tight against each other, the skeletal easels, the open bathroom door still breathing steam into the studio air, thick and humid as a fresh wound. His eyes didn't linger; they merely registered, absorbing the chaos without comment.
"No need," Lucien said, his voice a low thrum against the silence. "Studios are supposed to look like this."
Micah tightened the towel at his waist, the damp fabric clinging to his skin. He felt unfinished, flayed. Exposed. As though Lucien had arrived too early, before Micah had managed to reassemble himself, skin and bone, into something presentable, something real.
"Coffee's going to get cold," Lucien added gently, the words a soft prod, a silken cord tugging him forward.
Micah crossed the room, every step a deliberate act of will, and took one of the cups, careful not to let their fingers brush, as if contact might fuse them, skin to skin. The heat bit into his palms—sharp, a grounding burn, and he welcomed the exquisite pain.
"Thanks," he muttered, the word a rough pebble in his throat.
They stood there for a moment, both holding coffee, neither drinking, the air thick with unspoken things. The silence wasn't awkward so much as unresolved, a held breath waiting for permission to release, a taut string vibrating with potential.
Micah finally took a sip, the liquid scalding his tongue. It was exactly how he liked it.
Cream-heavy. Barely bitter. A sweetness that cloyed at the back of his throat.
His body reacted before his mind caught up—his shoulders stiffening, a breath hitching, a tiny, involuntary spasm beneath his ribs.
Lucien noticed. His eyes, dark and fathomless, tracked the subtle shift.
"Too sweet?" he asked, the question a soft blade.
"No," Micah said quickly, too quickly. Then, slower, the words dragging, "No. It's fine."
He told himself it was coincidence, a trick of the light, a phantom limb of memory. Coffee was coffee. Plenty of people drank it this way. He refused to give the unease weight, to let it sink its tendrils into his flesh.
Lucien set the bag down, the crinkle of paper loud in the quiet, and unfolded it, revealing bagels wrapped in thin, translucent sheets. Plain. Everything. Cinnamon raisin. Cream cheese. Micah stared, a cold knot tightening in his gut.
"I didn't know what you liked," Lucien said easily, his voice a smooth, unblemished surface. "So I played it safe."
Safe.
Micah swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "Right."
The word landed thin, brittle, like a shard of glass.
"I should—" Micah gestured vaguely to himself, to the towel, to the general, disheveled state of his existence. "I need to get dressed."
Lucien inclined his head, a slight, almost imperceptible movement. "Of course."
Micah retreated toward the bathroom, every step oddly unsteady, as though the floor beneath him had begun to tilt. He closed the door behind him, the latch a sharp click, and leaned his weight against the cold wood, heart hammering against his ribs, lungs burning like he'd just surfaced from deep, suffocating water.
For a moment, he didn't move, caught in the sudden, suffocating quiet.
He stared at his reflection in the fogged mirror, a ghost peering back.
Red-rimmed eyes, bloodshot and raw. Skin flushed, a faint, angry bloom along his collarbone where he'd scrubbed too hard, as if trying to scour away a stain that went bone-deep. He raised his hands slowly, turning them over, half-expecting to see paint again, thick and viscous.
Red.
Black.
Proof.
They were clean, pale and unmarred.
Still, he rubbed them together, a restless, almost frantic motion.
That same sensation stirred beneath his skin, familiar and alien—not pain, not touch, but memory without source, a phantom ache. Like acid diluted to a whisper, a corrosive phantom.
Micah pressed his fingertips into the sink until the porcelain bit back, cold and unyielding.
"This is real," he whispered, to no one, to the spectral reflection. "You're awake."
He reached out, touched the mirror. Cold glass. Condensation slick under his fingers, blurring his own image. He pinched his forearm, hard enough to draw a hissed breath, the sharp reality of it a welcome jolt.
Real.
Still, doubt lingered, coiled and quiet, a venomous serpent beneath his skin.
He dressed quickly—soft shirt, worn jeans—familiar clothes that knew the shape of him, that molded themselves to his skin like a second hide. When he emerged, Lucien hadn't moved much. He leaned against the worktable now, coffee in hand, posture relaxed, patient.
Waiting.
They ate in an uneasy quiet, the silence punctuated by the soft sounds of chewing, the clink of ceramic. Lucien didn't stare, which was worse than if he had. He looked away when Micah shifted, gave him space that felt intentional, curated, like a cage carefully designed to give the illusion of freedom.
"You paint early," Lucien said conversationally, his voice smooth as polished stone.
Micah's pulse spiked, a frantic drumbeat. "Sometimes."
"You didn't sleep much."
Not a question. A statement of fact, delivered with the chilling certainty of an intimate.
Micah's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping. "How would you know that?"
Lucien met his gaze calmly, his eyes holding an ancient, knowing depth. "You look tired."
A beat passed, stretched thin as a membrane.
Micah laughed once, a sharp, brittle sound, like glass shattering. "Yeah. That's been going around."
Lucien smiled faintly, a slow, unsettling curve of his lips, like they were sharing a private joke Micah didn't remember agreeing to, a secret pact he had no recollection of making.
As they finished eating, Micah became aware—again—of the faint sting in his hands, a persistent, phantom burn. He flexed his fingers, the small bones shifting beneath his skin.
Lucien noticed. His dark eyes fixed on Micah's hands.
"You okay?" he asked, the concern in his voice a silken trap.
"Fine," Micah said too quickly, the lie a bitter taste.
Lucien studied him—not hungrily, not predatory, but with something closer to recognition, a chilling familiarity. Like seeing a familiar shape in the dark, a silhouette he knew intimately, even if he couldn't name it.
"Well," Lucien said finally, straightening, the movement fluid, effortless. "I should get going. I didn't mean to impose."
Micah exhaled before he could stop himself, a ragged gasp of relief.
Lucien paused, his gaze lingering.
"Unless," he added gently, his voice dropping to a low murmur, "you want the company."
The choice hovered between them, delicate and dangerous, a poisoned fruit.
"I don't even know you," Micah said quietly, his voice barely a whisper.
Lucien nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. "That's true. We've barely met."
Then, softer, a thread of something sharp and unsettling woven through his tone: "But you don't feel like that's all, do you?"
The sting in Micah's hands flared—sharp, undeniable, a sudden, searing heat.
He didn't answer. He couldn't.
Lucien smiled, just a little, a secret promise playing on his lips, and stepped toward the door. "I'll see you around," he said, the words a promise disguised as politeness, a thread of dark silk binding them together.
The door opened. Closed.
Micah stood alone in the studio, heart racing.
On the worktable, beside the empty coffee cup, was a faint red smear.
Paint.
Fresh.
Micah stared at his hands.
They were clean.