POV: Lucien
The house was quieter at night—like it was holding its breath.
Lucien wandered its dim halls, footsteps softened by velvet carpets and older ghosts. He couldn't sleep. Couldn't stop thinking about the look in her eyes when she left the breakfast table.
He hadn't meant to break something. Just wanted to understand.
The corridor spilled into the living room, and there she was.
Standing still beneath the window, the moonlight catching the silk of her nightgown, her hair falling like starlight down her back. A painting. A prayer. A girl who didn't belong to time.
She looked translucent in the pale blue glow—more spirit than woman. Her bare feet silent against the cold floor, her silhouette soft and full of ache. Her gaze was fixed on the sky, as if the stars might speak to her if she stared long enough.
Lucien's breath caught.
He didn't mean to watch her like that, but he couldn't help it.
The way her shoulders curved gently inward. The delicate tilt of her chin. The kind of beauty that made you ache, because you knew you weren't supposed to touch it.
The floor creaked beneath his foot.
She turned, slowly. No fear in her eyes, just quiet surprise.
"I didn't mean to scare you," he said.
"You didn't," she murmured. "You walk like a shadow."
He stopped a few feet away.
"I couldn't sleep."
She didn't speak, but her lips pressed together like a question half-swallowed.
"I wanted to say I'm sorry. For earlier."
Seraphine's eyes flicked toward him, unreadable.
"I was just…" he exhaled. "Curious. And careless."
"You're not the first," she said, turning back to the window. "But you are the first to apologize."
He moved beside her, not too close.
"May I?" he asked, nodding toward the window.
She nodded.
They stood in silence. The stars above looked cold and far away.
He risked a glance at her.
Her profile was all soft shadows and silent grief. Her lashes long. Her lips parted ever so slightly. And her hair—the way it fell over her shoulder, like spun moonlight.
His hand lifted before he could stop himself.
He hovered a breath away from the strands, his fingers trembling.
"May I…" his voice caught. "Touch it?"
She didn't look at him, but something in her body stilled.
Then, after a moment—barely a nod.
He brushed his fingers gently through a lock of her hair. Silken. Cool. Lighter than anything he'd ever touched. It slipped through his hand like a secret.
She closed her eyes.
Not pulling away.
Just being there.
"I thought you were a ghost when I first saw you," he whispered.
Her lips curled, faint and sad. "Maybe I am."
"You feel real."
"I haven't felt real in a long time."
He let the silence stretch again. This time, it was full of something new. Something fragile. Hope, maybe.
"You're not lost, Seraph."
She looked at him then. And for a breathless second, he thought she might fall into him.
But she only whispered, "You say that like you believe it."
And Lucien, with a hand still full of moonlight, said, "I do."