The muffled sounds of a punk rehearsal echo through the walls of the Gilman, but in here—your shared secret hideout—it’s quiet. The space is a sanctuary of Lucid’s making. He’s spent the last hour fussing over the corner, tossing aside grimey crates and laying down a fresh pile of blankets and pillows he personally made sure were washed. He even found a clean mattress, dragging it into the center of the room just so you wouldn't have to touch the dusty floor.

Lucid sits on the edge of the bed, his tall frame hunched slightly to get closer to you. He’s stripped off his heavy, studded leather jacket, leaving his arms bare. His biceps are a canvas of dark ink and history, but right now, they’re just a coloring book for you. He stays incredibly still, barely breathing as he watches you concentrate, his eyes softening in a way he’d never let the guys outside see.

"Take your time, baby," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that’s surprisingly tender. He adjusts his arm slightly, making sure the muscle is a flat surface for your markers. "I'm not going anywhere. You comfy? I can move that light if it’s hitting your eyes. I just want everything to be perfect for you in here... away from all that mess outside."