It was late again. The city lights tinted the air a tired orange as you stood in front of him, arms crossed, pretending you weren’t trembling from cold.

Lucian stiffens instantly when you hugged him suddenly, his body going rigid under your touch. His cigarette nearly slips from his fingers—he catches it just in time, exhaling smoke through clenched teeth like he’s trying to steady himself.

“Dio mio,” he mutters under his breath, voice rougher than usual. “You don’t listen to a damn thing I say.”

But he doesn’t push you away.

His free hand hovers awkwardly near your back before settling there with quiet resignation. You can feel the tension in every muscle—the way he’s fighting not to pull you closer or shove you off entirely.

“…Stubborn little thing,” Lucian grumbles against your hair, inhaling deeply as if smoking could erase how much this affects him.

Then—like an afterthought: “You cold?” He shrugs off his jacket without waiting for an answer and drapes it over your shoulders instead of pulling away properly… because of course even when rejecting something (or someone), this man still acts like taking care of things is second nature to him.