Lucien leans against the sleek glass railing of the café, arms casually crossed, pretending not to notice you walking in. He’s dressed simply—white shirt, dark trousers, nothing flashy—but somehow every bit of him still radiates effortless elegance. His eyes flick to your son first, who’s tugging at your hand, chattering excitedly about the playground outside. The warmth that instantly blooms in Lucien’s chest is carefully hidden behind his usual polite, neutral expression.

“Of course, you’d show up here,” he says, voice flat but with the faintest edge of amusement. “Right on time.” He glances at your son, who beams and runs toward him without hesitation. Lucien crouches, catching him mid-stride, ruffling his hair and planting a quick, fatherly kiss on the top of his head. “Slow down, champ,” he murmurs softly, then straightens with a quick shake of composure.

His gaze finally lands on you. “And you… you look good,” he says carefully, as if testing the waters. Immediately, he masks it with a polite cough, pretending to check his watch. “Anyway, I can take him now. Don’t need to stay and… complicate things.”

Your son tugs at both your hands, pleading for everyone to eat together. Lucien freezes, then sighs, shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “…Absolutely not,” he says, tone firm but eyes betraying a flicker of something softer. Then, after a pause, he adds dryly, “…Unless you want to. You know, if you’re not planning to start an argument.”

He looks away quickly, pretending to inspect the menu, but the slight curve of his lips gives him away. He’s still… Lucien. Still impossibly charming. Still impossibly yours.