#vei1s.

Where do you want me to start? Not only is Kaie such a brilliant writer, Theyre literally one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met.

They’re thoughtful, kind, and Gen is one of the most loved, well thought out characters that I’ve ever written with. Kaie’s put so much care and commitment into Gen that you just know anything you’re going to get is going to absolutely be a beautiful piece of work.

I’m also insanely bias, so take that as you will. I tend to call them pretty girl.

Luc didn’t move when she leaned in.

Didn’t breathe, either—not right away. Just held her stare like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment. Like if he so much as blinked, he’d miss the reason he stayed.

There was a flicker in her eyes—something ancient and aching, something wild and wordless—and it caught against the sharp edges of his restraint. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was charged. Electric. Holy.

Her breath hitched, and he felt it. Felt everything. The way her breath ghosted over his skin. The way her nearness rewrote the rules of gravity. The way the universe narrowed until it was just this.

Luc’s jaw tensed like he was swallowing a confession. Or a curse.

His voice, when it finally came, was rough—low and threaded with something too soft for someone like him. “Say the word,” he murmured. “And I’ll stop pretending I don’t want this.”

Still, he didn’t close the distance.

Didn’t kiss her.

Not yet.

Luc rolls the ball in his palm like he’s weighing it, though they both know he doesn’t need the practice. The line between them feels thinner here — the smell of popcorn and hot asphalt, the hum of cheap lights, the laughter from strangers who don’t understand that for people like them, games are rarely just games.

Gen sits on the dunk tank’s narrow bench, all poise and defiance against the ridiculous backdrop. They look unfairly good there, framed in faded carnival paint and the slow ripple of water below.

“You know,” Luc says, voice warm with amusement but quiet enough to feel private, “it’s cruel to make me the one holding the ball.” He tilts his head, studying them, his smile not quite hiding the softness underneath. “I’ve never liked sending you under. Not when I’ve spent so much of my time trying to keep you above water.”

The crowd calls for him to throw. He ignores them, taking a slow step forward, letting the moment stretch until it’s just the two of them. “Promise you’ll come back up?” It’s teasing on the surface — but the weight behind it is unmistakable, a flicker of all the other times they’ve vanished, the unspoken ache of not knowing if they’d return.

When he finally throws, it’s precise, inevitable. The target clangs, the seat drops, and Gen disappears in a splash that steals his breath for a fraction of a second.

By the time they surface, Luc is already at the tank’s edge, leaning on the rail, grin tugging at his mouth. “Apologies,” he murmurs, though the gleam in his eyes says he isn’t sorry at all. “You look beautiful soaked through, but… I’ll warm you up after.” He assures them of that as he leans in, lips grazing their forehead softly. "And, I'll buy you that funnel cake you've been on me about."

She doesn’t see him. Not yet. And he knows he should walk away. Knows this is the moment to turn, to keep his distance, to let her live this life without the shadow of what she doesn’t remember. But it’s been months—months of silence where the air still tasted like her last breath, and the echo of her scream rotted somewhere behind his ribs. He needs to know if she’s okay. Even if she never knows who he is. Even if she never remembers the way she once reached for salvation and found only shadow. So he steps closer. Crosses the street. Stops just a pace too far to touch her. And when she finally turns, meeting his gaze through the low shimmer of heat and glass and afternoon light— It nearly breaks him. Because she smiles. Small. Curious. The kind of smile you give a stranger who hasn’t earned a name yet. She says something. Soft, like a greeting. Just that. Lucian’s throat tightens, something raw curling behind his sternum like grief wearing gratitude’s clothes. He smiles back. "Hi."

The cloth is soft. Gentler than he deserves. Gentler than most things in Hollow Hill ever are.

Luc doesn’t flinch when she touches him—he never does—but his eyes go somewhere still, somewhere deep. Like maybe he’s remembering who the blood belongs to. Like maybe it matters.

It doesn’t. Not really.

“You know that’s not yours to clean up, sugar,” he drawls low, voice thick as the bayou air, rough as a nail in wood. But he doesn’t stop her. The porch light sways above them, casting shadows that dance like ghosts with nowhere left to go. The cicadas hush as if listening. Even the land leans in when Gen touches him.

He watches her from under lashes too long for a man raised in grief. There's a smirk threatening his lips, but it’s lazy. Crooked. Wounded. Southern charm slick with sin.

“Didn’t peg you for the caretaker type,” he murmurs, as her fingers trail his jaw with something dangerously close to tenderness. “What’s next, Gen? Gonna kiss the bruises too, see if they fade like magic?”

His hands stay at his sides—mud-streaked, vein-laced, twitching with some old ache he’ll never name. But the edge of his voice, the hush in his tone—that’s inviting. Or maybe it’s a warning dressed up pretty.

He tilts his head into her touch just enough to betray himself.

“You keep doing that,” Luc says softly, “and I’m gonna start thinkin’ you don’t mind the decay around here.” The blood’s almost gone now. But something else lingers between them—salt, rust, and something sweeter. Something unholy in its softness.

Luc doesn’t move at first.

Just stands there, fingers curled loosely at his side, pulse ticking in his throat like a clock running out of time. There’s silence between them—the kind that breathes, heavy and thick with all the things they haven’t said, all the ways they still reach for one another without knowing how to hold on.

And then her lips brush the back of his hand.

Soft. Deliberate. Like a benediction or a memory or both.

His breath leaves him in a quiet, disbelieving exhale. For a moment, he forgets how to pretend he’s not shattered in places no one else sees.

Luc’s hand tightens gently around hers, not to stop her, not to hold her back. Just to anchor himself. His eyes meet hers, that storm-laced gaze softened, undone at the edges.

"You shouldn’t do that," he says, voice low, rough like the small gesture had taken the wind from him. "Not unless you mean it."

But he doesn’t let go.

And he doesn’t step away.