Blackout Boyfriend. - Ch.13.

-Reed.

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I still smelled like him.

It clung to me in the most unfair, inconvenient way. Not overpowering—just a trace, a ghost of warmth pressed into the fibers of my hoodie. The kind of scent you don't notice at first, and then, the second you sit down, it wraps around your ribcage like a memory that hasn't decided if it wants to be tender or cruel.

Did I hate it? No. God, no.

Would I admit that out loud? Not even under duress. Not even if Lucien himself held a candle to my nostrils and asked sweetly.

The thing is—he confuses the living hell out of me. Always has. Always will.

He's so fucking hot it's almost offensive. The kind of hot that makes you forget your own name for a full three seconds when he so much as rolls up his sleeves. Like, I would absolutely not protest if he walked around shirtless all day like a very stressed, well-dressed Greek statue who moonlights as your emotionally unavailable tax fraud prince. Would I ogle? Possibly. Would I internally combust? Assuredly. Would I admit it? Not a chance in hell.

But even with all that, I never let myself feel anything real for him. Not in the way that mattered.

Because I was already knee-deep in questionable decisions, and let's face it—if this situation were a soup, I was the fool stirring it with a fork and pretending it was gourmet. I had rent due, a fake job, and a charming criminal casually leaning into my personal space. I didn't need feelings. Feelings were dangerous. Feelings were a trapdoor on a stage I never auditioned for.

This could never be a thing. Not really.

And the worst part—the part that felt like the splinter you can't see but keeps catching on everything—was that I knew, deep down, Lucien didn't feel the same. Whatever happened out there on the balcony, that strange desperate hug, that sudden collapse into me like I was the last place left to fall… it wasn't love.

It was comfort. That's all.

And maybe it was selfish of me to even want more than that. But still, it stung in a way I didn't know how to brace for.

Because if it didn't mean anything to him, then why did it mean everything to me?

Why did I care that much?

Why did it hurt in that quiet, annoying way that makes you want to punch a wall and then apologize to it?

I shouldn't care. But I do.

And that—more than anything else right now—makes me want to scream into my pillow, or eat an entire box of cereal standing in the kitchen with the lights off. Something dramatic. Something stupid. Something me.

Because I am falling for someone who will never let me close, and I can't tell if he's protecting me or just never wanted me there in the first place.

And I wish I didn't smell like him. Because if he's not mine, then why does he still linger?

I ended up lying on my bed in the dark, one arm thrown over my eyes like that would somehow block out the inside of my head too.

I hadn't moved for a while. Just breathing in the stupid scent that still clung to me like he'd tattooed himself onto my hoodie by accident. Or maybe on purpose. Knowing Lucien, even his emotional breakdowns were designed with some level of aesthetic cruelty.

The room was quiet—too quiet. Even my phone refused to light up with a notification, which only made it worse. No ping. No "thanks for not pushing me away" or "sorry for spontaneously melting into you like a French soap opera villain." Just silence.

My fingers reached for the phone anyway. Traitorous. Curious. Desperate.

I opened our chat.

It stared back at me, so clean, so devoid of anything real. A few short exchanges, mostly logistical. Addresses. Times. The occasional condescending "See you at 9" like he was a Bond girl with a schedule. Nothing personal. Nothing warm.

So I started typing.

You okay?

Too soft. I left it.

Thanks for turning me into your emotional support human tonight. Really felt special.

Still bitter. Still breathing.

Do you always hug people like that or do I just give off emotional punching bag energy?

God.

I hit send.

And then another:

Look, it's fine if it meant nothing. Just... maybe don't do that if it doesn't mean something. Some of us are barely holding it together out here.

Send.

Panic.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

My thumb flew faster than my thoughts. The chat now read:

"This message was deleted."

"This message was deleted."

"This message was deleted."

A graveyard of regret. An open wound in Helvetica. I stared at it, frozen. Pulse in my ears. Brain screaming. And I realized too late what I'd done.

Lucien would see it. Of course he would. He'd open his phone and see a row of vanished words and wonder. Worse—he'd know. Because Lucien noticed everything. He'd probably analyze the timing of my breakdown. He'd read the silence like a language. He'd try to pull it apart.

And I—I didn't even know what I wanted him to find.

What was I trying to say? That he'd broken something in me with that hug? That I wanted more? That I wasn't built to be disposable and this felt dangerously close?

I locked my phone, tossed it somewhere beneath my pillow, and dragged the blanket over my face like that would muffle the existential cringe crawling up my spine.

There. Fine. Let him see the ghosts of my vulnerability. Let him wonder. Let him feel something.

Or—let him ignore it. That'd be worse. That'd be exactly what I deserved.

I stared at the ceiling for maybe twenty minutes before deciding I couldn't keep doing this.

The air in my room felt too heavy, like it knew something I didn't. The silence had stopped being peaceful and started sounding like Lucien's voice whispering nothing means anything unless you want it to. Which he never said, but my brain was in full creative mode tonight, apparently.

I needed a drink. A strong one. A loud one. A cold one served by a bartender who didn't look like a villain in a French novel.

So I got up.

Didn't shower. Didn't change. Just threw on a slightly less tragic hoodie, ran a hand through my hair and muttered, "Enough of this rom-com with trauma." Then I left.

The bar I picked wasn't even one of the cooler ones. Just a dim, slightly sticky place with neon signs and a jukebox that looked like it survived multiple divorces. Perfect.

I slid onto a barstool and gave the bartender a look that said don't flirt, don't judge, just pour.

He nodded like he'd seen this brand of existential crisis before.

"Whiskey, neat," I said. "Actually, make it two."

He didn't ask questions.

The first one went down fast. The second was slower—more out of obligation than enjoyment. I didn't even like whiskey that much. But it burned in a way that reminded me I was still in control of at least one thing: how quickly I could self-destruct.

Around me, the bar hummed. Not busy. Just... occupied. Couples at tables. A guy in a corner booth texting someone he'd never admit to missing. A girl laughing too loudly into her drink. Nobody looked at me. That's what I came for.

I pulled out my phone. Opened the chat.

Lucien hadn't said anything.

Of course not.

Three deleted messages and not even a "you okay?" or a smug gif. Just cold, clean nothing.

I tossed the phone face down and knocked back the rest of my drink.

Screw it.

Let him wonder. Let him not care. Let him be as indifferent as he's trying so hard to look.

Because tonight, I wasn't going to be the guy waiting for a message.

Tonight, I was just going to be a guy with a half-empty glass, a playlist of bad decisions, and one rule:

No more Lucien.

(For tonight.)

"Another?" the bartender asked, already reaching for the bottle like we both knew the answer.

I nodded, perhaps too enthusiastically. "Yes, please. And thank you for not judging me yet. I know I look like someone who just lost a custody battle with himself."

He chuckled—just a breath, like he didn't want to get involved but couldn't help it.

The glass landed in front of me, amber and cruel.

I took a sip. This one burned less. Either I was getting used to it, or my taste buds had clocked out of the shift.

"You ever have someone hug you like it meant something," I started, swirling the glass in a slow, tragic circle, "only to realize twenty minutes later that it probably didn't mean shit and you just imagined the whole thing?"

The bartender raised an eyebrow.

I waved my hand. "Sorry. That wasn't a question. That was... that was an opening monologue."

He leaned his elbows on the bar, towel in one hand. "Bad night?"

I laughed. "Bad year. But tonight's winning in the 'What the actual fuck?' category."

Another sip. The whiskey had started to taste like truth. Dangerous.

"So there's this guy," I continued, pointing vaguely in the air like that explained everything. "And he's... he's like—God, okay. You ever seen someone so attractive it makes you angry?"

The bartender gave a noncommittal shrug. Neutral, professional. Smart.

"He's that. Tall. Blond. Smells like expensive choices and disappointment. Talks like he's narrating a cologne commercial. You get me?"

Silence.

I kept going.

"He's mysterious. And annoying. And perfect. And emotionally constipated. And also possibly a money-laundering prince, but let's not unpack that right now."

The bartender raised both eyebrows this time. I pointed at him with my glass. "See? That's the correct reaction. That's the face everyone should make."

I leaned forward, lowering my voice like I was about to tell him a state secret. "He hugged me. Just... folded into me. Head on my shoulder, arms around me, like I was safe or something. And for a minute, I thought—maybe. Just maybe."

A pause. The words caught on the rim of my teeth, but I pushed them out anyway.

"I thought he cared."

I stared into my glass, suddenly quieter.

"But then nothing. No message. No call. Just ghost town. And I—I sent something. A few somethings. I deleted them. But he saw. I know he saw. And now I'm just here, talking to a stranger, drinking liquid disappointment, and wondering if I hallucinated the whole damn thing."

I laughed again. It sounded like it belonged in a movie where the credits were rolling and everyone left the theater a little worse.

The bartender finally spoke. "Sounds complicated."

I nodded slowly. "Yeah. He's a human puzzle box wrapped in cashmere and pain. And I'm the dumbass who keeps trying to solve him with crayons."

He poured me water without asking. I didn't protest.

"Thanks," I muttered.

He nodded. "You want advice?"

I blinked at him, surprised.

He leaned in just enough. "Text him again. Or don't. But don't sit here stewing in it like it's going to solve itself. You're not a crockpot, man. You're just sad."

I grinned, tipsy and mildly offended. "Wow. You've done this before."

He shrugged. "You're not the first sad gay to process a crisis on this stool."

Fair enough.

I took the water, the advice, and a deep breath.

And at that moment, I wasn't sure if I wanted to text Lucien again, or never speak to him for the rest of my life.

Both felt like heartbreak. Both felt like home.

Now how the fuck did I end up in Lucien's car?

No, seriously. One minute I was dramatically oversharing to a man who pours drinks for a living, the next—it was blur city. And now I was here.

Seatbelt on. Head pounding. Soul evaporated.

I blinked against the streetlights flickering past the window like they were trying to slap me awake. My mouth tasted like bad decisions and overpriced whiskey. My brain was doing the slow reboot of a device that clearly wasn't manufactured for this level of chaos.

I turned my head—and there he was.

Lucien.

Hand on the wheel, eyes straight ahead, posture maddeningly perfect. His arm stretched forward like it was sculpted specifically to ruin me. The sleeve of his sweater was pushed just enough to reveal his wrist, forearm, the clean architecture of veins and tendon—like God got bored one day and said, Let's make someone Reed can't ignore, even while hungover.

And the hand—don't get me started on the hand. Long fingers. Relaxed grip. Casual domination.

I had a weakness for arms. And hands. And fingers. And right now, this man was displaying the full buffet with no mercy, like he wanted to be studied in an anatomy exhibit titled Get Wrecked Emotionally.

I shook the thought out of my head like it was on fire. What the hell am I doing? What am I thinking? Have I learned nothing?

Panic flared. I fumbled for my phone, screen blinding in the dark.

And then I saw it.

One message. Sent. From me, allegedly.

"your boyfriend is blacked out in Claws Bar"

I stared.

I blinked again.

"Fucking bitch," I muttered under my breath. Bartender. That absolute menace. I remembered it now—blurry, like a drunken watercolor—but I'd definitely handed him my phone and said something like, text something clever, because apparently I'd decided to outsource my shame.

Lucien didn't react. Still driving. Still eerily composed like this was just another Tuesday night.

"I'm thirsty," I croaked.

He didn't respond verbally. Just leaned over—way too close, mind you—reaching past me to the glove compartment. His chest brushed my shoulder. I caught the scent of him again. Sandalwood, intellect, and subtle threat.

He opened the compartment, pulled out a sealed bottle of water, and handed it to me without a word.

I took it, unscrewed the cap, and chugged like my dignity depended on it. Which, in fairness, it did.

I took another swig from the water bottle, trying to wash away the last seven layers of humiliation stuck to the roof of my mouth.

"Why aren't you saying anything?" I asked, already half-regretting giving him the space to speak.

Lucien didn't look over right away. He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel—stretching, flexing, showing off that stupid arm of his like he was being sponsored by veins and self-control—and then finally, casually, said:

"I was waiting to see how long it would take you to admit you're dying inside."

I squinted. "Excuse me?"

He finally glanced at me, just for a moment. "You're twitchy. Defensive. Classic hangover guilt. It's charming, in a tragic way."

I narrowed my eyes. "I'm not guilty. I'm... processing."

"Oh? Processing what exactly?" he asked, far too calmly.

"That someone texted you 'your boyfriend is blacked out in Claws Bar,' for starters."

Lucien smirked. "Admittedly, that was a moment."

I rubbed my face. "I can't believe I gave my phone to that bartender. I thought he was trustworthy."

"He did refer to you as my boyfriend," Lucien added. "Bold of him. Or perhaps insightful."

I groaned. "Please don't."

He let the silence stretch for a few seconds before saying, "You didn't tell him anything interesting. But you did mutter a few things before you passed out."

My heart stopped. "What did I say?"

Lucien didn't answer right away. Just gave a slight, maddening shrug—the kind that came with diplomatic immunity and expensive cologne.

"Don't worry," he said. "I won't hold your little compliments against you."

My stomach twisted. "What compliments?"

"Nothing incriminating," he said breezily. "Just... poetic reflections on what you apparently think of me."

I stared at him. "You're lying."

"Am I?" he replied, smile barely there. "Or are you just too afraid to ask what I heard?"

I turned back toward the window, flustered, ears hot, brain racing through a thousand possibilities. I didn't say anything about his arms. I'm sure of that.

...Right?

"Fucking bitch," I muttered again, this time to myself. I wasn't even sure if I meant the bartender or Lucien.

Probably both.

Lucien chuckled, pleased with himself. And I was officially never drinking again.

Unless Lucien was coming. In which case—double it.

Lucien's voice softened, just barely. "You okay now?"

I didn't answer right away.

Because the truth was—I wasn't sure. I felt held together with cheap thread. With sarcasm and dehydration and the faint impression of his chest against my shoulder from earlier.

But I nodded anyway. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

He said it like it was nothing. Like I hadn't texted him a silent cry for help and curled up in his car like a sad raccoon.

But his tone, teasing as it was… felt warmer than it should've been.

And it made me wonder—maybe the worst part of all this wasn't that I wanted more from him.

Maybe the worst part was that, somewhere deep down, I was starting to think he wanted more, too.