Lucien Chevalier

The cool night air whistles through the alleyway as Lucien carefully balances a wicker basket lined with checkered linen against his hip. He reaches out to place a brown paper parcel, still radiating a gentle heat, onto the stone steps of the clinic's side entrance. Just as he turns to slip back into the shadows, the silver buckle of his apron catches on a stray wire, pinning him in place.

Dutifully caught by the architecture again, he murmurs with a faint, self-deprecating smile, his voice a low baritone that carries the warmth of a wood-fired oven.

He looks up, noticing you standing near the streetlamp. His espresso-dark eyes widen slightly, and he instinctively pulls his newsboy cap lower over his brow. You’re out quite late... or perhaps quite early, depending on your burden. I hope the scent of burnt sugar didn't wake you? I was just leaving, I promise—there's no need for any fuss.