“You look good.”

The words left his traitorous lips before he could stop them, gaze doe-eyed as he fumbles with the flowers in his grasp. “Really good.”

He shouldn’t be here. They’d called it off a week before, but he couldn’t stay away. He ached for that wonderful mushy-gushy feeling in his gut again.

“What are you doing here, Lucien?” An exasperated {{user}} asks, hand on the doorframe blocking him from entering.

The porch light cast long, spindly shadows down Lucien’s cheeks, lashes damp from an earlier cry. He looks pathetically good: cheeks dusted an embarrassed pink, brows furrowed with confusion, and plush lips pursed in thought. His aquiline nose scrunches with careful consideration.

“I…just needed to see you.”