-Reed.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Another call. Hit decline.
Fourth time today.
And I know—I know he's going to call again. Because Lucien D. Ivarelle, Prince of Pretend, doesn't know how to stop until he's said his rehearsed monologue with the perfect lighting and soft background piano.
Can you blame me?
I don't want to be angry. I swear I don't. If anything, I want to slap him so hard he forgets his fake accent—and then hold him like the world's collapsing. Which it sort of did. Just with less noise and more sedation.
Why am I acting like a teenager in the middle of their first breakup? We didn't even date. We didn't label anything. I think we just… mutually hallucinated something close to safety. And then someone kicked the door in and reminded me this is real life. Or some twisted, underground economy version of it.
I tried staying in my apartment at first. Really tried. I even bought groceries—like that would keep the ghosts out. But the silence? The silence didn't stay still. It moved. It breathed down my neck. Every time I turned on the lights, I half-expected someone to be there with a black hood and a clipboard.
The nightmares came fast. Same room. Same ropes. My wrists bruising all over again. And that voice asking questions I still don't understand.
So now I'm here—at my grandmother's. Her house smells like cinnamon and old newspaper, and it's the only place that doesn't feel rigged to explode.
She didn't ask too many questions. Just pulled me in and made me tea like she knew everything without needing to hear it.
I made sure no one was following me. No tinted cars. No shadows standing still. I even checked behind the curtains. Twice.
I guess Lucien gave them what they wanted. Maybe he always knew how to handle people like that. Maybe that's what makes him so good at all this. At being untouchable.
But I can't stop replaying it. He knew. He knew there were cracks in the dam and didn't say a damn word.
How could he not tell me? After everything. After… us.
I thought—God, I really thought we were past that. That we trusted each other now. That when he said, "you're safe with me," it meant more than just a soundbite he learned in PR class.
And the worst part? I still want to hear him say it again.
My grandmother isn't home.
She's attending her Thursday class—Russian, I think. Or maybe it's Italian this month. I stopped keeping track after the brief Mandarin phase that ended with her declaring that every tonal language was a "passive-aggressive labyrinth."
This is normal for her. She likes to stay busy. Says she's trying to keep her brain young and her knees moving. Meanwhile, I'm here playing house in her kitchen, barefoot, wearing an oversized sweater I think used to be my grandfather's, sleeves half-eaten from time and moths.
I've done the dishes three times today. Not because they needed it, but because the sound of running water is kinder than the silence. Kinder than Lucien's voice in my head, echoing things I don't want to remember.
I crank the volume on my phone. Mitski. Washing Machine Heart kicks in like a bruise I forgot I had.
Figures. Of course this is the song that comes on first. The one that feels like it was written by a therapist who eavesdropped on my last relationship—or whatever Lucien and I were pretending to be.
I scrub a mug like it personally offended me.
I don't cry. That's the one thing I won't give him. But my eyes sting the way they do when you've stared too long at something that's already broken.
And I think—maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe I should just pick up his next call. Let him explain whatever elaborate mess he danced into, wearing silk gloves and leaving bruises anyway.
But then I remember the ropes. The way my voice cracked asking what was going on. And his eyes—steady, gentle—lying.
The dish slips a little in my hand. I caught it. Not everything has to shatter to be ruined, right?
The sunlight filtered in through the yellow curtains. The ones with little sunflowers stitched along the edges. Everything here feels smaller, safer. Like it belongs in a postcard from a life that never really knew fear.
I looked at the counter. There's a tin of her favorite mint tea, the smell of old wood, a stack of crossword puzzles by the window. It's the kind of house that doesn't know what I've seen. And I'd like to keep it that way.
For now, I'm just the boy doing the dishes. Playing heartbreak songs too loud.
Trying not to listen to the parts of my heart that still say call him back.
"And I don't want your pity, I just want somebody near me. Guess I'm a coward, I just want to feel alright..."
The song shifted seamlessly into "Nobody"—just to twist the knife. I sang like I meant every damn word. Like the ghosts in my chest needed the lyrics more than air. The sponge squelched under my grip, and the dishes—I swear—were multiplying like bacteria. Mugs I didn't even remember using. Plates that seemed to crawl out of the cabinets just to taunt me.
I scrubbed harder. Louder.
The knock came as I was elbow-deep in soap and surrender. I glanced at the clock on the wall: nearly 6:00. Figures. Grandma was probably standing outside, too stubborn to dig her keys out of the black hole she calls a purse.
I peeled off the gloves, wiped my hands against the ragged towel with sunflowers embroidered on the hem.
"I've been big and small and big and small and big and small again— and still nobody wants me…"
I sang on autopilot, walking toward the door, my voice half-deflated. "Too lazy again?" I called out as I turned the knob and pulled the door open.
And then— "Here you are."
I froze. Like I'd been unplugged.
That voice.
My whole body stalled. My heart skipped, then tripped. I turned around slowly—like maybe, if I moved carefully enough, the moment wouldn't shatter me.
Lucien stood there.
Tall. Tired-looking. Sweater rumpled. Hair falling softer than I remembered. The kind of wrecked that looked better than most people's good days.
All the walls I'd spent the week reinforcing collapsed in a heartbeat. Every bitter sentence I rehearsed vanished like steam. My shoulders dropped. My chest tightened.
And just like that— Once More to See You started playing.
Because of course it did.
My eyes burned, hard. I told myself don't cry now. But me and myself? We don't speak the same language.
The tears fell—quiet and traitorous. I sniffled, loud and ugly.
"I looked everywhere for you," Lucien said, soft like he meant it.
"I don't wanna see you right now," I lied through my teeth. He was the only thing I wanted to see.
"I know," he said, stepping in just a little closer. "You have every right to be angry at me. But I couldn't just sit there. Not when you stopped answering. Not after what happened."
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, more embarrassed than angry now. "Why did you have to hide all that from me?" My voice cracked. "You could've just told me. I wouldn't have said anything. God— I don't even have anyone to tell anything to."
"I'm sorry," he breathed. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hide it. I just... I didn't think it would go that far. I thought I was handling it."
I laughed through the tightness in my throat. Bitter. "Yeah, well, spoiler alert, Lucien. You weren't."
He nodded, shame sinking into the corners of his eyes. But then he smiled—small, tired. Human. "You're right. I wasn't. I'm not even sure who I'm trying to be anymore."
"Fuck." I exhaled. "You saved me, and now I don't even know who I'm talking to. Who are you, really?"
He shrugged. "A man trying to get by. One bad decision at a time."
I stared at him. At the frayed edges in his perfect sweater. The subtle tremble in his hands. The emotion just barely held together behind those pretty eyes.
And then I muttered, "…I have to admit. It was kinda hot. You showing up all dramatic to save me like that. I always thought that only happened in romance novels or telenovelas."
He chuckled. "Was I convincing?"
"You looked like hell," I said. "But you wore it well."
"Can I hug you?" he asked.
I nodded.
And the moment his arms wrapped around me, everything collapsed again. My chest heaved. The tears poured heavier than before, like my body had just been waiting for permission. Like every second I'd spent pretending I was fine cracked open at once.
I didn't even know what I was crying for. Was it because I missed him so much it hurt in places I didn't know I had? Or was it because I'm just—getting weaker?
Like all the sharp parts of me were softening, dissolving under his touch.
His arms stayed firm around me. Possessive. Desperate. Steady, present. And that alone broke me more than any kiss ever could.
"I didn't think you'd be a fan of Mitski," he said softly against my shoulder.
His voice was close. Close enough to thread through the ache in my ribs.
"Oh well," I sniffled. "You mean the queen Mitski? I love her so much. I want to see her live."
"Really?"
"Yes. But don't do anything," I pulled back slightly to look at him, eyes puffy and fingers still clinging to the edge of his sweater. "Please. Don't grant me any more wishes."
He laughed, low and warm, the sound vibrating against my chest. "No grand gestures, then. Got it."
Then his hand came up, fingers threading gently into my hair, settling at the back of my head.
And he began to move it—slow strokes. Comforting. Possessive in the most fragile way. Like he wasn't just holding me. He was trying to memorize me.
My throat tightened. My body sank a little deeper into his, into his warmth. Into the kind of safety that feels like it has a ticking clock under it.
How can a person make you feel so safe and still remind you exactly how easily they could destroy you?
Security and threat, dressed in the same sweater, sharing the same breath.
That's what he was. That's what this was. Like standing on the edge of something beautiful, and knowing full well you might fall.
Later, after the tears had dried on my sleeves and the world felt just a little less hostile, we migrated to my old bedroom.
Lucien sat on the edge of my bed like it was sacred ground. He didn't touch anything, just looked around with reverence, like the faded posters and dusty shelves were ancient relics. The walls were still painted that soft, moody blue I picked back in high school—one of the few decisions teenage-me didn't completely botch. Not quite navy, not quite slate. The kind of blue that felt like dusk after rain. Calm, but with something lingering underneath.
It made the room feel smaller in a good way.
And then his eyes landed on the glass cabinet in the corner.
"Oh," I said, already bracing for judgment. "Yeah. That's the One Piece shrine."
He turned toward me with an amused lift of his eyebrow. "Shrine?"
"Well, yeah. I mean, I called it that when I was fourteen, but it stuck."
He stood and walked to it, peering through the smudged glass like he'd just found a hidden museum exhibit. "Are these all official?"
"Every single one," I said, arms crossed proudly. "All my pocket money, every birthday, every bribe from my grandmother to study harder—it all went straight to the Church of Luffy."
Lucien laughed, eyes wide in genuine delight. Not mocking. Not humoring. Delighted.
"You have a limited edition Chopper," he said, squinting closer. "And—wait, is that Zoro in the Wano outfit?"
My heart skipped. "You know One Piece?"
"I didn't say that," he smiled. Retreating back to the bed, "But I know when someone's in love with something."
I flopped onto the bed beside him with a dramatic sigh. "You have no idea. I used to pretend I was part of the crew. I even gave myself a Devil Fruit power. It was very embarrassing and extremely serious."
"I'm listening," he said, turning toward me.
So I rambled. About the arcs, the characters, the heartbreaks. I told him how I once cried so hard during Marineford that my grandmother thought someone had died. I showed him my favorite figure—Zoro, of course, because loyalty like that deserves shrine space.
Lucien just watched me the whole time, like I was something worth remembering. Like I was speaking poetry, not fandom ramble.
And then, without even thinking about it, I swung my leg over his lap and straddled him, arms looping around his neck. My forehead pressed to his. His hands rested on my waist, but it wasn't just that. It was the way his thumbs moved—slow, soft, like they were remembering me. Like they were coaxing something quiet out of me I didn't know I'd buried.
I was still straddling his lap, my knees bracketing his hips, and even though we weren't moving, everything inside me felt like it was. My skin, my breath, the way my heart kept stuttering against my ribs. It was all happening in rhythm with the music playing low in the background.
Two Slow Dancers.
God, the drama of it. The perfect, unbearable tenderness of it.
I let my fingers trail up into his hair, brushing it back so I could really look at him. The tired crease between his brows. The heat in his eyes, low and golden, like a match that hadn't decided whether it wanted to burn yet.
"What's with that look?" I murmured.
He didn't answer right away.
Just smiled—warm and crooked—and slid his hands up my back, palms wide and reverent like he was learning me again.
"I'm just enjoying the way you talk about what you love," he said. "You have no idea how beautiful that is."
That? That did me in.
I leaned in, slow. Just letting our foreheads touch again, noses brush, like gravity was easing us into it. And then I kissed him.
Soft at first—just the press of lips, cautious, like a secret.
But he pulled me closer. Tightened his grip on my waist, deepened the kiss like he was trying to tell me something through it. Like he'd missed this so much it hurt.
And I kissed him back. Like I meant it. Like it wasn't just about comfort anymore—it was want.
His tongue brushed mine, lazy and unhurried. I melted into him, hands still around his neck, fingers curling instinctively. The taste of him was familiar and strange at once.
We stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, the song playing on: To think that we could stay the same. But we're just two slow dancers, last ones out…
My body moved gently against his, not enough to escalate, just enough to feel. To remind myself I was alive. That he was real.
I pulled back just an inch, eyes half-lidded, lips tingling. His hands didn't move. They stayed right where they were—grounding me. Claiming me.
"I needed that," I breathed.
"So did I," he said, his voice a little lower now, like the kiss had taken something from him, too.
We didn't say anything else.
We just stayed there, forehead to forehead, in a room painted blue and lit by dusk, like the universe decided we could have this one moment.
Just until the song ends.