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The first thing Lucien noticed when he woke was warmth.
The second—emptiness.
The small apartment was dim, quiet, and still. His eyes adjusted slowly, taking in the unfamiliar space. Concrete walls. A single window, cracked open just enough to let the night breeze curl in. He was wrapped in a thin gray blanket, no longer soaked, though his damp hair clung to his neck.
Lucien sat up slowly, every muscle aching. His clothes were still torn, sticking to his skin. His feet throbbed. He moved to stand—then froze.
The man from last night was gone.
No footsteps. No one. No presence.
Just silence.
Lucien lowered himself back onto the couch, his massive frame sinking deep into the cushions. He pressed a hand to his temple. He didn't know where he was, or why the stranger had brought him here. He didn't even remember climbing up to the rooftop last night. Only the rain. The cold. The edge.
And then... him.
The pretty-faced man with sharp eyes and colder words.
Lucien rubbed at his chest absently. He didn't know what had made him whisper Don't leave me. He hadn't begged anyone for anything in years. Yet something in that stranger's quiet, detached presence had tugged at a part of Lucien he thought had died.
The part that still wanted to be saved.
His stomach growled. He ignored it.
He limped across the apartment slowly, testing each step. A bathroom. A cracked mirror. A shelf with one towel and half a bottle of antiseptic. No medicine. No toothbrush. The kitchen was worse—empty cabinets, a broken kettle, a fridge humming with nothing inside.
Who the hell lived like this?
Lucien sank to the floor beside the window and pulled his knees up to his chest. For hours, he said nothing. Ate nothing. Just sat there, watching the city as day turned into dusk, then dusk into shadow. He didn't even realize he'd dozed off until the sound of a key in the lock snapped his eyes open.
The door creaked.
Boots stepped in.
Lucien tensed.
The stranger entered with a plastic bag in each hand, droplets of rain still trailing from his hair. His black shirt clung to his slim frame, and his expression—calm and unreadable—barely shifted when he saw Lucien still there.
"Still alive," he murmured, voice rough with fatigue. "Good."
Lucien remained where he was, silent.
The man dropped the bags on the counter. One had water bottles, the other—a pack of cheap clothes and sealed takeout containers.
He tossed a plain black shirt and sweats toward Lucien. "You're not my size, but they'll do."
Lucien caught them in one large hand. Held them. Then looked up, eyes sharp.
"Why?"
It was the first time he spoke all day.
Arin didn't flinch at the question. He unscrewed a water bottle and took a long sip before answering.
"Why what?"
"Why'd you bring me here?" Lucien's voice was deep, low, even. "I could've been dangerous. A criminal. A killer."
Arin's lips curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "You think I care about that?"
Lucien frowned. "You don't even know my name."
"True."
"Then why?" Lucien stood slowly, towering over him. "Why take in a stranger bleeding on your rooftop?"
Arin met his gaze, completely unshaken by Lucien's sheer presence or bulk. He leaned against the counter with a tired shrug.
"You looked like me," he said quietly.
Lucien blinked. "…What?"
Arin looked past him now, eyes distant, voice barely above a whisper.
"You looked like me… the night I wanted to die."
The room went still.
Lucien stood frozen, fists clenched at his sides. Something inside him cracked—too quiet to break the surface, but deep enough to be felt.
Why did someone looking like a expensive shit wants to die ?
The silence returned.
But this time, it didn't feel so empty.
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