Lucien noticed the car on the third night.
Same model. Same position across the street. Engine off. Interior dark.
He did not acknowledge it outwardly.
Acknowledgment gave permission.
He altered his route instead, entering the flower shop from the side street, timing his arrival between light changes. He disliked bringing shadow into her space—but reality did not wait for comfort.
The bell chimed.
She looked up, startled this time.
"You're early," she said.
"So are they," he replied.
Her hands stilled.
Lucien crossed the shop with deliberate calm, reaching the window first. He adjusted the blind just enough to see the reflection of a man pretending to check his phone.
"Surveillance," he said quietly. "Not law enforcement."
She absorbed that without flinching.
"For me?" she asked.
"For proximity," he answered. "You're too close to me."
She stepped beside him, close enough that he could feel her warmth through his sleeve.
"They've been here before," she said. "Asking questions."
Lucien's jaw tightened.
That was a failure. His.
"I should have said something," he admitted.
The words tasted unfamiliar.
She glanced at him then—not triumphant, not wounded. Just present.
"Yes," she said. "You should have."
Silence stretched. Heavy. Honest.
Her
Fear arrived late.
Not as panic—but as clarity.
She had known something was coming. You didn't stand next to storms without learning to read the sky.
Still, seeing the truth reflected in glass changed the shape of it.
"They're watching," she said quietly.
"Yes."
"And you brought it here."
Lucien didn't deny it.
She surprised herself by reaching for his sleeve—not to pull him closer, but to anchor herself.
"Okay," she said.
Lucien turned, eyes sharp. "Okay?"
She nodded. "Tell me what's real. Not to scare me. To respect me."
That stopped him.
Lucien exhaled slowly. "There are people who believe they can weaken me by eroding what I don't protect loudly."
"And you protect loudly?" she asked.
"No," he said. "I protect permanently."
Her fingers tightened briefly.
"I don't want to be a liability," she said.
"You aren't," he replied instantly.
The certainty startled them both.
Outside, the car door opened.
Lucien reacted without thought.
He stepped in front of her.
The movement was instinctive. Intimate in its own way.
Her hand pressed flat against his back.
"Lucien," she said softly. "I'm not glass."
He didn't turn. "I know."
But he didn't move either.
The door closed again. The car remained.
A message delivered.
Lucien
This was the line.
Not violence. Not threats.
Presence.
He understood it intimately.
He reached behind him, fingers brushing her wrist—not pulling it away, but acknowledging it.
"They want me to choose," he said. "Distance or damage."
"And what do you want?" she asked.
Lucien hesitated.
That hesitation was the danger.
"I want," he said carefully, "to keep you untouched."
She stepped closer, her voice steady at his shoulder. "Then stop treating me like something that breaks."
He turned then, truly looking at her.
This close, there was no room for performance. No shadow large enough to hide in.
"I can't promise safety," he said.
"I didn't ask for that," she replied. "I asked for honesty."
Outside, the car finally pulled away.
Inside, something irreversible settled between them.
Not romance.
Not yet.
Something more dangerous.
Recognition.
Lucien lowered his forehead briefly against hers—not a kiss, not an embrace. Just contact. Grounding.
Unexpected. Unplanned.
Necessary.
When he stepped back, both of them were breathing differently.
"This changes things," he said.
She nodded. "It already has."
And somewhere beyond the glass, eyes watched, waiting to see what he would do next.