---
Days passed like the slow drifting of dust in sunlight.
Lucien never asked to stay, and Arin never told him to leave. The silence between them no longer felt heavy—it felt habitual. Natural. Like background music neither of them knew the lyrics to.
Lucien had stopped flinching.
He moved around the apartment now. Cooked without asking. Cleaned up the messes Arin never noticed. The kitchen, though bare, always smelled like something warm these days. Garlic, ginger, pepper. Spices that reminded Lucien of old homes he no longer belonged to.
He was still quiet. Still huge and cold-looking, still intimidating when he stood too close—but when he cooked, he hummed under his breath, low and gravelly. When he set Arin's plate down, he did it gently, as if not to disturb a ghost.
Arin noticed every detail—but said nothing.
He ate without complaint.
---
One night, Lucien made lentil soup. The broth simmered for hours, filling the small apartment with the scent of cumin and coriander. When Arin walked in, his face unreadable, Lucien simply handed him a bowl and sat across from him on the floor, the only table between them a repurposed storage crate.
Arin tasted it. Didn't react.
Lucien waited.
After three bites, Arin murmured, "Too much salt."
Lucien looked up slowly. "Then make your own next time."
A pause.
Then—Arin smiled. Not the sharp, sarcastic smirk he usually wore.
A real one. Brief. But real.
Lucien turned his face slightly away, ears pink.
It was the first real conversation they had.
---
By the fifth night, Arin had stopped sleeping elsewhere.
He still vanished into himself sometimes—still sat with his legs crossed on the bed, scrolling endlessly on his phone, brows furrowed like the world was trying to crawl through the screen.
Lucien never asked what he was looking at.
But every night, at exactly 2:13 a.m., the phone rang.
Same number. Same ringtone.
Arin never answered.
He would stare at the screen, then slowly silence it. Every time. Without exception.
Lucien pretended not to notice. But he did.
One night, he almost asked.
Almost.
But when he looked up and saw Arin staring at the ceiling like it was pressing the air from his lungs, he said nothing.
Some questions were better left in the dark.
---
They fell into routine.
Lucien took over the cooking. Arin cleaned, only when Lucien glared at him. They started watching TV late at night, both pretending not to enjoy it. They never spoke about their pasts. Never exchanged full names.
But Lucien started leaving his sketchpad open on the windowsill.
And Arin started leaving out cups for two.
Small things. Quiet things.
Home-like things.
---
One afternoon, Arin wasn't in the apartment.
Lucien had just returned from buying eggs and stale bread from a nearby store. He set the groceries down and noticed the bathroom door was cracked open, steam curling from within. Arin's coat was still hanging near the door, his phone charging beside the bed.
He wouldn't be gone long.
Lucien had never touched Arin's things.
But he wasn't sure what made his fingers move.
Maybe it was instinct. Or curiosity. Or something deeper. Something like worry.
Arin's top drawer was slightly ajar.
Lucien reached out. Pulled it open slowly.
Inside: pens, scattered paper, an old lighter, and a folded envelope with crumpled edges. Unsealed. The paper inside was stained faintly at the corner, like something wet had soaked it once—tears, maybe.
Lucien unfolded it without thinking.
His heart froze.
> "To whoever finds this—
I'm sorry.
I didn't plan to make it this far. I never wanted to see twenty. I don't belong in this life. Not as his son. Not as anyone. I'm tired. I'm so tired.
Don't look for me. There's nothing left to find."
Lucien stared at the letter, jaw clenched.
The handwriting was neat. Sharp. Controlled.
Like someone trying not to fall apart.
Like someone trying to die politely.
His hands curled into fists around the page.
He didn't hear Arin come back until it was too late.
"What are you doing?"
Lucien turned, the letter still in his hand.
Arin stood in the doorway, towel around his neck, hair damp, a cold flatness already sweeping into his eyes.
He saw the paper.
His lips parted. Then closed.
No emotion.
Just... retreat.
Lucien opened his mouth to say something.
But Arin beat him to it.
"I told you not to touch my things."
His voice wasn't angry.
It was worse.
It was empty.
Lucien stepped forward slowly. "This is why you don't answer your phone?"
Arin didn't reply.
Lucien's expression shifted. Softer. Quieter.
"You don't have to pretend with me."
Arin laughed. A sharp, brittle sound.
"Don't flatter yourself," he muttered, turning away. "You don't know anything."
Lucien looked down at the paper in his hand.
"No," he said quietly. "But I know what it feels like to write something like this."
That made Arin freeze.
A beat passed.
Then another.
Slowly, Arin turned his head, eyes unreadable.
The tension in the room thickened—not with rage, but with something far more fragile.
Recognition.
They didn't say another word.
Lucien folded the letter gently. Put it back in the drawer.
Then walked past Arin, shoulders brushing lightly.
That night, neither of them slept.
---