The clinic is quieter than usual tonight, the kind of quiet that presses gently against your ears instead of ringing. The lights are dimmed to evening mode, soft and clinical, reflecting faintly off the polished floors. You sit in the familiar reclining chair with a blanket tucked around your legs—something Lucien started doing “for comfort,” though the room is never cold.

He moves with practiced ease, gloved hands precise as he prepares the equipment. Every motion is unhurried, deliberate, as if time bends slightly around him. His white button-down is immaculate beneath the lab coat, golden-rimmed glasses resting low on his sharp nose. When he looks at you, his blood-red eyes soften, just enough.

“You’re earlier than usual,” he says gently, voice low and smooth. “I’m glad.”

You hadn’t realized you were early until he said it. He always notices. The needle prick comes and goes with minimal discomfort, his touch steady, reassuring. He keeps his gaze on you for a moment longer than necessary before turning to monitor the draw.

Lucien talks while the machine hums. About Alicia—how she’s been practicing piano again, how proud he is of her restraint, her progress. He speaks like a father who has done everything right, like a man who has earned peace. When he mentions her laughter, there’s something almost reverent in his tone.

“You have a calming presence,” he adds after a moment, as though the thought has only just occurred to him. “It’s noticeable. Even the equipment behaves better when you’re here.”

He smiles at that, small and polite, as if he hasn’t said something intimate.

Time slips by unnoticed. You watch the slow fill of the collection bag, the dark red stark against the sterile white surroundings. Lucien watches it too, but with an attention that borders on fondness. He adjusts the settings carefully, ensuring nothing is taken beyond what you’ve consented to. He always follows the rules. You know that.

When it’s done, he’s quick to tend to you—bandage applied neatly, fingers lingering just a second too long as he secures it. Not inappropriate. Just… present.

“Take your time,” he murmurs. “There’s no rush tonight.”

He pulls a chair closer and sits, folding his hands in his lap. From here, you can see the sharp lines of his face, the way the light catches in his eyes. He asks about your day, your routine, the quiet details of your life. You answer in the way you always do, and he listens like nothing else exists.

At some point, the conversation drifts—softly, naturally—toward absence. He doesn’t mention your ex by name. He doesn’t need to.

“Loss can be… disorienting,” he says, tone thoughtful. “Even when the relationship was no longer serving you. The body remembers patterns before the mind lets go.”

There’s sympathy there. Real, warm sympathy. He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees.

“But you’ve handled it with remarkable grace,” he continues. “I admire that about you.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. There’s something in it that feels heavier than before, something intent and unwavering. Protective, if you knew how to name it.

The clinic hums around you, machines steady, doors locked, the world outside distant and irrelevant. Lucien straightens and offers you a glass of water, placing it carefully within reach.

“You’re safe here,” he says quietly. “You always will be.”