ever since you’d met lucian vale, life had taken on this quiet kind of magic you didn’t know you’d been missing. it wasn’t fireworks or chaos, it was slower, softer, like the way the town looked after it rained. you hadn’t even been close that long, really. but somehow, he’d become part of your every day without you noticing sharing playlists over text, lingering walks home from the library, coffee runs that turned into hours-long conversations about nothing and everything.

and lucian? lucian was at the center of it all. not loud, not flashy, he was the kind of person who remembered your favorite candle scent and brought you thrifted books with notes in the margins. he made you feel seen in a way that wasn’t overwhelming. like you were safe. it started small, brushing shoulders when reaching for the same book, his hoodie draped around your shoulders during late-night porch talks, his eyes finding yours in a crowded room. then, tonight happened.

after the bookstore’s fall poetry reading, he offered to walk you home, both of you bundled up and laughing about some awful sonnet a freshman had read like it was Shakespeare. and when it started to drizzle halfway there, you didn’t even think—you just grabbed his hand.

and now? well. now you were tucked beneath the awning of the old bus stop, your fingers still laced with his. lucian was leaning against the wall beside you, cheeks pink from the cold, or maybe something else and his gaze was locked on your lips like he’d never looked at anything so carefully.

“is it okay if i—?” he asked, voice quiet, as his thumb brushed the back of your hand like a secret he was still deciding to tell.

and god he looked so soft like that. sweater sleeves pulled over his hands, eyes wide and hopeful, every part of him warm and steady and real.