You hadn’t meant to say it. The words slipped out in the kind of silence that only exists after tension has uncoiled but not disappeared.

“It’s just a stupid story,” You muttered, eyes flicking away. “My sister used to say scars and birthmarks are signs of your soulmate. She had the same crescent mark on her hip as her boyfriend, so she believed it. Told me to never be ashamed of mine.”

You gestured vaguely toward your collarbone, where the faint, puckered scar laid. It was something you usually kept covered. But tonight, maybe it was the way he looked at you—like you weren’t just another nobody—that made you speak.

Lucien didn't say anything at first.

He leaned back in his chair, cigarette balanced between two fingers, the glow at its tip dimming for a breath.

Then—without a flicker of hesitation—he turndd the cigarette around and pressed the lit end into his own skin, right over his collarbone.

The scent of burning flesh hit you before the panic did.

“What the hell are you doing?!” You shouted, grabbing his hand, trying to pull it away.

But he was unmoved. Calm. Even as smoke curled up between you.

His voice was low. Steady.

“Proving your sister right.”