Starlit veins

chapter one

The city always slept in fragments. By day, its streets were loud with the clamor of vendors and the rhythmic shuffle of hurried footsteps. By night, silence never fully claimed it; the hum of neon lights and the occasional cry from the alleyways stitched themselves into a restless symphony. For Aiden Mercer, the city’s pulse had become background noise, the kind one only noticed when it stuttered.

He lived in a small loft above a bookshop that always smelled of old paper and dust, a scent he had grown to love. His mornings were ritualistic, measured in the clink of the kettle and the creak of the worn wooden steps leading down to the shop. To outsiders, his life might have seemed neat, disciplined, even enviable. But Aiden carried a quiet heaviness, a longing he could not name.

It was late autumn when the air turned sharp and leaves scattered like flames across the riverwalk. That evening, after closing the shop, Aiden wandered toward the water, where the city’s reflection trembled in the current. He often came there when thoughts pressed too heavily on him, though he rarely admitted it to anyone.

He had just leaned against the railing when he noticed someone standing a little further down the path. Tall, with the sort of presence that pulled at the air around him, the stranger was watching the water as if it were speaking directly to him. His coat, long and dark, caught the faint light of the streetlamps.

Aiden might have looked away, as he usually did when strangers felt too close. But the man turned his head then, and the world seemed to tilt. His eyes, sharp and silver-gray, caught Aiden’s with such startling clarity that he forgot to breathe for a moment. It wasn’t just that the man was beautiful in a way that seemed carved from something ancient. It was the way his gaze lingered, like he already knew Aiden, like he had been waiting.

“Cold night,” the man said, his voice low and smooth, carrying easily across the quiet stretch of path.

Aiden nodded, his throat dry. “It is.”

The man studied him for a moment longer before offering the faintest of smiles, one corner of his mouth curving as though he knew some secret. He extended a gloved hand, though he didn’t come closer. “Lucien.”

Aiden hesitated only a second before replying. “Aiden.”

Their names seemed to hang in the air between them, heavier than casual introductions should have been. Lucien’s hand lingered midair, but Aiden didn’t take it. Something in his gut warned him, though it wasn’t fear. It was a tension that thrummed just under his skin, like standing too close to a storm.

Instead of pressing, Lucien lowered his hand and turned back to the water. “You come here often,” he said, not asking, but stating it as fact.

Aiden blinked. “How would you know that?”

Another curve of that half-smile. “I notice things.”

That should have unsettled him. It did, in a way, yet Aiden felt rooted to the spot, compelled by the stranger’s presence. Lucien didn’t speak again, and silence stretched, filled only by the whisper of the current below and the distant murmur of the city.

Finally, Lucien glanced at him again. “Careful what you look for in reflections,” he said softly, “sometimes they show you more than you want to see.”

And with that cryptic remark, he walked away, his figure dissolving into the fog that drifted low along the river. Aiden watched until Lucien was gone, only then realizing how tightly he was gripping the railing. His palms were damp, his chest tight, though he couldn’t explain why.

Back at his loft, sleep eluded him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw those silver-gray eyes watching him, patient and knowing. He told himself it was nothing. Just a chance encounter, a stranger with a flair for dramatics. Yet something deeper whispered otherwise.

The next day, Aiden moved through his routine with little success. He misplaced invoices, burned his tea, and snapped at a customer who wanted a discount. By the time evening fell, he felt frayed. And though he scolded himself for it, he found his feet carrying him back toward the river.

It was foolish, he knew, to expect Lucien would be there again. But when he reached the familiar bend in the path, there he was—leaning against the railing as though he had never left. This time, Lucien looked up before Aiden could even approach, his smile deeper now, as though they were old acquaintances.

“You came back,” Lucien said simply.

“I walk here often,” Aiden replied, but the excuse sounded weak even to his own ears.

Lucien tilted his head. “So do I.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The night was colder than before, breath fogging in the air. Aiden wrapped his coat tighter, wishing he had thought to bring gloves. Lucien noticed, because of course he did, and without a word slipped off his own gloves, offering them.

Aiden shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Lucien said gently, closing the small distance between them. He took Aiden’s hand with surprising ease, slipping the glove onto his fingers himself. His touch was cool, deliberate, and Aiden’s pulse jumped at the intimacy of it.

“Why are you doing this?” Aiden asked, his voice low.

Lucien’s eyes searched his, sharp and unyielding. “Because I want to.”

The honesty of it stole Aiden’s breath. He had no witty retort, no polite escape. And maybe he didn’t want one. The city around them seemed to fade, the only reality the gloved warmth encasing his hand and the man who stood much too close.

When Lucien finally released him, Aiden felt the absence like a wound. He stepped back, trying to steady himself, but Lucien’s expression softened, almost apologetic.

“Not yet,” Lucien murmured, though Aiden didn’t know what he meant. And then, as suddenly as the night before, Lucien disappeared into the shadows, leaving Aiden trembling with more questions than he could bear.

That night, lying awake again, Aiden finally admitted to himself what he had been avoiding. This was not a simple encounter. Lucien was no ordinary man. And whatever was unfolding between them was only just beginning.

Still, in the quiet ache of the hours before dawn, he could not shake the warning Lucien had left him with: reflections show you more than you want to see.

What would he see, if he dared to look closer?