There's a moment right before a storm hits.
When the sky still looks quiet.
When the trees haven't started shaking.
When the world is too still.
That's what it felt like—sitting beside him again.
Too quiet.
Too still.
Too much.
Lucien Gray hadn't said a word to me all morning. Not when I passed him in the hallway. Not when I slid into the seat beside him in first period like it belonged to me. Not when my elbow brushed his.
He just… existed.
Like a sculpture.
Like a shadow.
His silence wasn't new.
But this one felt different.
This one felt like thunder coiled beneath skin.
He didn't open his book today.
Didn't look out the window.
He just sat.
Hands on the desk.
Jaw set.
Staring straight ahead like he could feel me breathing beside him and was trying hard not to react.
So I gave him something to react to.
I pulled my chair closer. Just an inch. Maybe two.
Then I leaned in and whispered, "You're wearing the same cologne as yesterday."
No answer.
I tilted my head, pretending to study the way his hand flexed once—just once—on the edge of his desk.
"You do that on purpose?" I murmured. "Try to smell like regret?"
He turned his head. Slowly.
Eyes sharp. Cold. Deep.
"You think you're clever," he said.
I grinned. "I know I'm clever."
Lucien didn't smile. Not even a twitch. But his gaze dropped to my lips for a fraction of a second.
Victory.
Small.
But enough to make my pulse skip.
He looked away again and said nothing.
And I knew I was getting closer.
The thing about boys like Lucien?
They don't break all at once.
They splinter slowly.
They crack in silence.
I just had to keep pressing.
After class, he didn't move.
Everyone else filed out.
Backpacks slammed shut.
Laughter rose and echoed down the halls.
But he sat still.
Like he was waiting.
I didn't rush either.
I packed slowly, stretching each second like taffy, waiting to see if he'd speak again. But he didn't.
So I stood.
Turned.
And let my hand trail across his desk.
"I still want you," I said softly.
Lucien didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
But he spoke.
"You want something you don't understand."
That stopped me.
Just a second.
Then I leaned closer. Close enough for him to hear my next breath. "So explain it to me."
He turned his head. His face was inches from mine. His eyes weren't cold anymore.
They were quiet.
But not empty.
They were full. Of warning. Of weight. Of something that made my chest feel too tight.
"Once I start," he said, voice barely above a whisper, "I won't stop."
My heart stuttered.
He wasn't talking about words.
I swallowed.
"Good," I said.
Then I walked out before I could say something stupid. Like please.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I tossed.
Turned.
Stared at my ceiling for hours and saw his face in the cracks. His eyes behind my eyelids. His silence echoing in my mind.
Lucien Gray had officially infected me.
And I didn't want the cure.
The next day, I wore black. Like him.
Only my black was bolder—tight skirt, thigh-high boots, a silver chain on my neck that caught the light every time I moved.
I wanted him to look.
No—needed him to.
And he did.
I felt it the second I stepped into class.
His eyes dragged up my legs, slow and burning, before snapping back to his book like it offended him that he noticed.
It didn't offend me.
It lit me on fire.
"You like the chain?" I whispered as I sat beside him. "I wore it for you."
Lucien didn't answer.
But I saw the way his jaw tensed.
And later—when the teacher asked him a question—his voice cracked just slightly on the first word.
Progress.
At lunch, he didn't disappear this time.
He was in the library, as usual, in that forgotten back corner where no one went unless they were hiding or broken.
I found him with his book open, one leg propped on the chair beside him. His tie was loose again. His sleeves were rolled up.
And he didn't tell me to leave.
I sat in the chair across from him and leaned my elbows on the table.
"You're still pretending you don't want me," I said softly.
His eyes flicked up, unreadable.
Then he turned the page.
"I'm not pretending."
I smiled. "Then why haven't you told me to stop?"
He hesitated.
Not long.
But long enough to matter.
Then: "Because I know you won't."
My smile widened. "Exactly."
I leaned forward. "So maybe it's time you stopped resisting."
Lucien finally closed the book.
Looked me dead in the eyes.
And said: "What do you want from me?"
Everything.
But I said, "A moment."
He stared at me. Quiet. Studying.
Then slowly—so slowly I barely noticed—he moved his hand across the table.
And for the first time… he touched me.
Not dramatic.
Not romantic.
Just the soft brush of his fingers over my wrist. Cold and light and brief.
But it stopped my breath.
I looked at our hands.
Then at him.
"You just touched me," I whispered.
He didn't smile.
Didn't deny it.
"I wanted to see something," he said.
"What?"
"If you'd flinch."
"Did I?"
"No."
I held his gaze.
"Would you have cared if I did?"
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Yes."
That single word landed heavy between us.
I felt it everywhere.
His fingers were still on my skin—barely. Like a whisper. Like he wanted to stop but didn't know how.
"I don't get touched often," he murmured. "Not like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you mean it."
"I always mean it," I said.
He didn't look away.
"You'll regret this," he said.
I leaned forward until our faces were a breath apart.
"Not likely."
And for a second—just one second—I thought he'd kiss me.
I saw it in his eyes.
But instead, he pulled his hand back and stood.
"You should go," he said.
I stood too.
And walked around the table until I was in front of him.
Then I did something reckless.
I reached out.
Took his wrist.
Held it.
His skin was warm now.
And his eyes—God, his eyes—they looked like something caged.
"I told you before," I said. "You're already mine."
Lucien stared at me, unmoving.
Then slowly, he leaned in.
But not to kiss me.
To breathe me in.
Like he was memorizing me with his senses instead of his lips.
"You scare me," he said softly.
That surprised me.
"You don't look scared."
"I don't show fear."
I stepped closer. "Why do I scare you?"
"Because you see me," he whispered. "And I don't know what I'll do when you finally understand what that means."
His voice cracked on the last word.
And then he was gone again.
Out the door.
Gone before I could ask what the hell he meant.
That night, I stared at the spot where his fingers touched mine.
It felt like something had been lit under my skin. Like I'd been branded.
Lucien Gray was dangerous.
Not in the way boys with fists are.
But in the way silence can suffocate.
In the way he made me want his attention so badly I'd give up sleep just to remember the way his breath felt against my cheek.
He was unraveling me.
And I liked it.
God help me—I liked it.
The next day, he was absent.
I noticed.
Of course I did.
His seat was empty.
And it made the room colder.
Made me itch with the absence of him.
I told myself I didn't care.
But by lunch, I was pacing the hall outside the library.
By the end of the day, I was almost mad at him for taking the attention away.
The next morning, he was back.
And he looked…
Wrecked.
Hair messy.
Shirt wrinkled.
A cut on his knuckle.
But he was here.
And when he sat beside me, I didn't speak.
Not right away.
Instead, I waited.
Watched.
And finally whispered, "Rough night?"
Lucien didn't look at me.
But his fingers twitched once on the table.
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"I'm not asking for your concern."
"You don't have to," I said. "It's already mine."
Silence.
Then, so softly I almost missed it:
"Stop caring."
I turned to him.
Eyes sharp. Words sharper.
"No."
Lucien finally turned his head.
And for the first time since I met him—really met him—I saw something like emotion in his eyes.
Not anger.
Not hate.
Fear.
"You'll regret it," he whispered.
"You've already said that," I murmured.
He swallowed.
"You have no idea who I am."
"Then tell me."
His lips parted like he might.
Like he would.
But the bell rang.
And he stood.
Fast.
Too fast.
He left without looking back.
Again.
But he'd touched me.
He'd spoken things he didn't mean to say.
He was unraveling.
And I?
I was ready to pull the rest of the thread.