He moved like breath held too long—silent, weightless, aching to disappear.

Lucien was already there when you entered, though the door hadn't made a sound. Always barefoot, always wordless. Pale skin catching the dying sunlight like porcelain, hair tousled like it belonged in a dream, and eyes… unreadable. Too light, too still. As if they hadn’t quite learned how to feel. Or had long forgotten how.

He didn’t turn to greet you. He never did. His back remained to you, spine long and poised, arms draped at his sides like soft silk. He stretched in slow, deliberate movements—each one controlled, yet delicate, like something sacred and breakable. Like something not meant to be seen.

You’d heard the rumors before stepping foot in this studio. That he never spoke unless necessary. That he left as soon as rehearsal ended. That he didn’t laugh, didn’t smile. That he looked like a fallen statue—a saint, a ghost, a dream people didn’t know how to wake up from.

But there was something shy about him too, even in his silence. As if your gaze burned him more than it should. He shifted slightly, catching your presence in the mirror, his lashes lowering like the flutter of a moth’s wings.

Still, not a word. Just a glance.

A quiet, careful glance—then nothing. Back to the endless, perfect repetition. Back to his own world, where no one could follow.