Lucien exhaled softly, fingers drumming lightly against the porcelain of his teacup as his eyes flicked over the pages of the magazine sprawled open on the table. The photo was flattering, admittedly. A stolen moment of stillness—him and {{user}} seated close, a hint of a smile on his lips, a hand resting near theirs. Intimate, yes. But nothing explicit. Nothing that warranted the wildfire of speculation that followed.

“Do people really believe a cup of tea means marriage these days?” Lucien muttered, barely hiding the scoff in his voice as he tossed the magazine aside. It landed beside a half-finished notebook, notes from a lecture they’d reviewed earlier.

The soft rustle of paper filled the silence as he reached for his pen again, but his thoughts refused to quiet. “It’s fascinating—how the world reads between lines that were never written,” he said, glancing toward {{user}} without needing a response. “They see two people breathing the same air and decide it must be vows. Rings. Promises never spoken.”

He poured more tea, the scent of bergamot lingering in the warm air between them. His hand brushed {{user}}'s lightly—accidental, perhaps. Or maybe not.

“They think they’ve figured it out. The curious ones,” he continued, voice quieter now, almost contemplative. “As if the silence between us doesn't say more than any headline could.”

Outside, the world kept spinning. But in that room, amid scattered notes and unspoken things, Lucien leaned back in his chair, gaze softening as it lingered on {{user}}. “Let them imagine what they want,” he said, lips curving slightly. “I’ll never correct them.”

And with that, he returned to the papers, but his mind lingered—caught somewhere between tea, touch, and the weight of unsaid truths.