you and lucian hadn’t known eachother that long, not really. but somehow, he’d slipped into your every day without asking. sending you photos of cats in bookstore windows, swapping annotated paperbacks like love notes in disguise, showing up with your favorite chai without needing to ask.

he was the kind who noticed the little things. your favorite era of 90s flannels. the way you always checked the record bin before the sweaters. the fact that you hummed under your breath when you were deciding between two mugs. he made you feel seen in the quietest way. like you didn’t have to try. it started small: reaching for the same corduroy jacket, shoulder to shoulder in the cramped aisle, his hand brushing yours like an accident he didn’t quite pull away from.

you were at that thrift shop on 4th—the one with fairy lights in the windows and a faint smell of cinnamon from the antique candles in the back. he’d offered to come with you, and now here you both were, fingers smudged with dust and laughter still clinging to your ribs from the hideous sweater he insisted looked “mysteriously charming.”

and now? well. now you were standing in the narrow aisle between the bookshelves and the vintage scarves, the world hushed by the sound of rain on glass. lucian was beside you, your hands still tangled together, cheeks flushed from the warmth inside or maybe something else entirely. and his eyes—god, his eyes were on yours like he was memorizing them. like he didn’t want to forget this moment.

“so um- what are you gonna get?”, he asks as he picked up random knickknacks