Lucas POV
The morning light was harsh, slicing through the lblinds like a judgment. Lucas lay in bed, the sheets tangled around him, the weight of last night pressing down.
His phone buzzed relentlessly on the nightstand—messages, missed calls, emails marked urgent. He ignored them all.
The whiskey had dulled the edges but hadn't erased the ache. Daniel's smile haunted him, the warmth that Lucas had once taken for granted now a cruel reminder of what he'd lost. He felt like a ghost drifting through his own life.
He finally dragged himself out of bed, the muscles stiff and sore. The penthouse was too quiet, too empty. He moved mechanically, showered, dressed in the same sharp suit he always wore, and forced himself to the office.
But the office was no refuge. The sterile conference rooms, the endless contracts, the polite smiles—it all felt meaningless.
His mind kept drifting back to Elena's studio, to the sting of the needle, the way her eyes held him accountable.
He hated how much he needed that.
Elena POV
Elena's studio smelled of ink and leather, the walls covered with her art—chaotic, bold, unapologetic. She was finishing a piece on a client's arm when her phone buzzed.
A message from Lucas: "I can't stop thinking about last night."
Elena knew when he was spiraling. She saw it in the way he moved, the edge in his voice. She pushed him, challenged him, refused to let him hide.
After a few moments she decided to call him.
"Why do you do this to yourself?" she demanded, hands on her hips.
He laughed, bitter. "Because it's easier than feeling."
She shook her head. "That's bullshit. You feel everything—you just pretend you don't."
He wanted to hurt her, to push her away before she could leave him. And yet for some reason he couldn't.
Silence surrounded them.
She smiled to herself, a small, private victory. He was unraveling, and she was the thread pulling him loose.
But she didn't want to be his savior. She wanted him to face himself, raw and unfiltered.
The bell over the door jingled, and Lucas walked in, looking tired but determined. The sharp suit was a mask she knew he wore like armor, but she saw the cracks beneath.
"Morning," she said, voice casual but steady.
He nodded, eyes flickering with something unspoken.
They settled into the ritual—the buzzing needle, the sting, the silence filled with unspoken truths.
Lucas POV
The tattoo was a labyrinth, twisting and turning across his forearm—a symbol of confusion, of being lost.
As Elena worked, he told her about the nights he spent chasing oblivion in bars, about the strangers who left him feeling emptier than before.
"I don't know how to stop," he admitted, voice low.
She didn't answer immediately.
"You don't have to stop," she said finally. "Not yet. But you have to want to."
He looked at her, searching for judgment, but found only fierce honesty.
"I'm scared," he said.
"Good," she replied. "Fear means you're still alive."
Elena POV
She watched him struggle, the way he fought himself. He was like a storm—dangerous, unpredictable, but full of energy that could either destroy or create.
She wanted to push him, to make him face the parts he hid even from himself.
"Why do you punish yourself?" she asked during a break, wiping ink from her hands.
Lucas shrugged, avoiding her gaze.
"Because I deserve it," he said finally.
She shook her head. "No one deserves pain. But sometimes we think we do."
He looked at her then, really looked, and she saw the man behind the mask—a man desperate for something he couldn't name.
Lucas POV
The days that followed were a blur of late nights and early mornings. He found himself skipping meetings, showing up late, his sharp tongue sharper than ever. He pushed people away before they could get too close, afraid they'd see the mess underneath.
Elena was the exception. She was the one constant in the chaos, the one person who didn't flinch when he broke down.
One night, after a particularly brutal session, he stormed out of the studio, the sting of the needle nothing compared to the ache inside.
He walked the streets, the city alive with neon and noise. He stopped at a bar, ordered a whiskey, and stared into the glass.
A voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Lucas?"
He turned to see a woman with fiery hair and ink-stained fingers—Elena.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, surprised.
"Watching you," she said simply.
He laughed bitterly. "That sounds creepy."
"Maybe," she admitted. "But someone has to."
Elena POV
She didn't want to be the person who saved him. She wanted him to save himself.
But she also couldn't stand to watch him fall apart.
She reached out, touched his arm lightly.
"Talk to me," she said.
He hesitated, then let the walls crumble.
"I'm so fucking tired of myself," he whispered.
She pulled him into a hug, fierce and protective.
"Then stop fighting alone."
Lucas POV.
In that moment, something shifted. Not a miracle, not a fix, but a crack in the armor.
He let himself lean into the warmth, the honesty.
For once, he didn't run.
To be continued..