Lucian Pryde was born into a world that expected perfection from him before he even understood what the word meant. His earliest memories weren’t of playgrounds or scraped knees — they were of polished floors, quiet hallways, and adults speaking in low, approving tones while adjusting his posture. His childhood was curated: private tutors, etiquette lessons, piano practice, nutrition plans, and a schedule so tight it felt like a cage disguised as opportunity. He learned early that being impressive was a requirement, not a choice. And he was impressive. He was the kid who always looked put together, always performed well, always heard the same phrase from every adult who passed him: > “Looking good, Lucian…” It became a script. A standard. A responsibility. So he sculpted himself into the version of “good” they wanted — clean, elegant, disciplined, left‑handed handwriting looping perfectly across expensive notebooks. He grew tall fast, but unlike Ridge’s wild, accidental growth, Lucian’s height came with training, stretching routines, posture drills, and a mother who corrected the angle of his chin in family photos. He didn’t rebel. He perfected. But every summer, his perfect world cracked. His family owned a countryside summer house — a place his parents adored for its “quiet charm” and “fresh air,” but Lucian hated it. The silence felt too loud. The nights were too dark. The stars were too many. The dirt was everywhere. He didn’t fit there. He didn’t want to. He’d sit in the backseat of the car every June, arms crossed, curls too neat, shoes too clean, already annoyed at the idea of bugs and heat and boredom. But one summer — the summer that mattered — something changed. The car rolled down the gravel road toward the old white house, the one with peeling paint and a porch swing that creaked like it was complaining. Lucian stepped out, suitcase in his left hand, already irritated at the dust settling on his shoes. He was ready to hate the next three months. Then he turned his head. And froze. There, perched on a fence rail like he’d grown out of the wood itself, was a boy. A boy his age. A boy with sun‑bleached hair, freckles splashed across his nose, and mismatched eyes — one warm brown, one blue‑grey — staring at him with a kind of wild, unfiltered curiosity Lucian had never seen before. The boy didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Didn’t look away. Lucian didn’t either. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t being evaluated. He wasn’t being praised. He wasn’t being corrected. He was being *seen*. Two kids. Two worlds. Two storms about to collide. The wind rustled the grass between them. A horse behind the boy snorted, as if announcing him. Lucian’s grip tightened on his suitcase. And that was the very first moment Lucian Pryde ever saw Ridge Calder.
