Morning, After All

POV: Seraphine

She stood in front of the tall mirror, adjusting the ribbon at her collar for the fifth time.

The dress was one of her favorites—soft cream with delicate lace at the cuffs, the kind of thing she hadn't worn in decades. Her hair, for once, was not in disarray but brushed smooth and pinned to one side. She almost looked like a girl ready to host a garden brunch.

If the garden hadn't died long ago.

But she looked… lovely.

Maybe not for him.But maybe a little for him.

She walked softly down the hallway, holding a bundle of folded clothes she'd found tucked in one of the trunks. They were old, but clean. Some of them might even fit.

She stopped outside his door, hesitated, then knocked gently.

The door creaked open after a moment. Lucien appeared in the doorway, shirt half-buttoned, hair a mess from sleep.

Her breath caught. Just a little.

He rubbed his eyes, blinked at her, then glanced down at the clothes in her hands.

"You bring all your guests presents?"

She arched a brow, smiling faintly. "Only the handsome ones."

Lucien's lips twitched. "Lucky me."

She extended the bundle. "They're not new. But they should fit. Better than that... wrinkled creature you're wearing now."

He took the clothes, brushing her fingers for a moment—warmth sparking across her skin like a whisper.

"You look..." He paused, eyes flicking down her figure before meeting her gaze again. "...different."

"Disappointed?" she teased.

He smirked. "Terrified."

That made her laugh, soft and light.

"There's breakfast," she said, stepping back. "If the house didn't scare your appetite away."

"Depends what's on the menu."

"Bread. Fruit. And very old jam."

He raised a brow. "Sounds deadly."

"Only the jam."

She turned, letting the hem of her dress sway as she walked back down the hallway, her heart beating too fast for no reason at all.

POV: Lucien

He watched her disappear around the corner.

Everything about her was deliberate. From the tilt of her head to the sway in her walk, like she still lived on a stage only she could see. But there was something softer underneath it now. A little hope, maybe.

He glanced at the clothes in his hands. A white button-down, a dark vest, slacks that might actually fit. He changed quickly, ran a hand through his hair, and followed the smell of warmth down the hall.

The kitchen was lit with soft morning light, filtered through stained glass windows that made the room glow in pastel hues.

She was already seated at the table, pouring tea.

"I wasn't sure you'd come," she said without looking up.

"I wasn't sure I was awake," he muttered, settling across from her.

She slid a plate toward him. "No poison, I swear."

He eyed the jam. "Debatable."

They shared a smile. Quiet. Easy.

He bit into the bread. Not terrible. She watched him like she was memorizing the way he held the cup, the way he chewed, the way he existed. Like she couldn't believe he was real.

And he was trying not to do the same.

"Why do you stay here?" he asked suddenly.

Seraphine blinked. Then looked down at her tea.

"Why do you think?"

Lucien watched her carefully.

"I don't know yet," he said. "But I will."

She looked up. Something flickered in her eyes.

"Do you always chase after ghosts, Mr. Vale?"

He smiled slowly.

"Only the ones that look like you."

Lucien leaned back in his chair, his eyes still on her.

She was laughing at something he said—something stupid, probably—but there was a softness to it. Something real. Like the sound had to fight its way past years of silence to reach the air.

He watched her fingers trace the rim of her teacup.

It was easy to forget why he was here.

Almost.

His voice cut through the quiet.

"How long have you lived here?"

Seraphine paused. Her smile faded, just a breath.

"A while."

"That's not an answer."

Her shoulders stiffened.

Lucien didn't stop. "The house—it's not just some old place, is it?"

She looked down. "No."

"And the doors don't work like normal ones."

"No."

"And the flowers. The field. The glass. The way this place feels like it's watching—" He leaned forward. "Seraphine. What is this place?"

She went still.

The warmth drained from her face like someone had pulled a string in her spine. Her hand slipped from the cup. She stood quietly.

"You shouldn't ask things you're not ready to hear."

"Maybe I am ready," he said.

"You're not," she said firmly, eyes locking with his.

He opened his mouth to respond, but she pushed her chair back. The legs scraped sharply across the floor.

"Enjoy the breakfast," she said, her voice flat. "You'll find the pantry stocked."

"Seraphine—"

But she was already gone, her dress vanishing down the hallway like a closing curtain.

The silence that followed felt heavier than before.

Lucien stared at the empty seat across from him.

He hadn't meant to ruin it.

But he had meant every word.