Chapter 4 Celeste
Celeste
The smell of coffee and sizzling bacon fills the air, cozy and familiar against the quiet hum of the generator. Morning light filters through the narrow blinds in soft and gold light, catching on the haze of pancake steam and the faint shimmer of leftover glitter.
My rig isn’t exactly spacious; it’s a glorified tin can with ambitions of being a real house. But somehow, every Monday morning after a show, we all end up crammed inside it anyway. Still groggy and grumbling, half-covered in body paint and bruised from whatever chaos we unleashed on stage.
I flip a pancake, watching the edges bubble as I mentally replay the sets from the weekend. The crowd was electric. Linkin nearly fell off the catwalk the first night. Korbyn broke a drumstick mid-solo and somehow treated it like an encore.
But what a way to start the first stop of our world tour.
Shiloh flops into the built-in dinette like she’s survived a war, clutching her giant thermos of cold brew like it contains the meaning of life. “Why do we do this to ourselves?”
“Because the music speaks to us,” I remind her, chuckling as I see her dramatically lay her face on the table.
“Yeah,” she mumbles into the wood grain. “Right now it says ‘take a damn nap.’”
Across from her, Korbyn wears her usual post-show armor: an oversized hoodie, messy topknot, and those battered Batman slippers she swears make everything better.
She sips on a protein shake and scrolls through last night’s recording on her tablet.
Her eyes are sharp despite the exhaustion, always analyzing, always ready to tweak and improve.
Linkin saunters in shirtless, hair still damp from a shower that definitely used all my hot water.
Why he couldn’t shower in his toy hauler, the world will never know.
Actually—that’s a lie. He does it because he likes to steal all my hair products. I bought some for him when we started rehearsals almost 6 months ago, and that fucker snuck into my apartment and put it in my shower. He later told me that it’s just ‘not the same’.
“Good morning, Sunshine,” I mutter, plating the pancake and sliding it over to him.
“Morning, Lover,” he says around a mouthful of pancake before the plate even hits the table.
My phone buzzes on the counter, and the contact name flashing on the screen makes my chest tighten.
Orion.
I snag it and hit speaker. “Hey, you’re on with the world’s most overworked breakfast chef. Speak fast or starve.”
“Funny,” my older brother says dryly. “Hey, so… you think you could swing me a couple of tickets for one of the shows next weekend?”
I raise a brow. “Aww, hi, Oreo. It’s so nice to talk to you, too. So, you’re not calling me because you miss me, or wanting to congratulate your sister on kicking off the start of her world tour, but because you’ve got a hot date with your Firefly?”
Korbyn and Shiloh both perk up at the mention of my brother’s long-term girlfriend. Linkin outright grins, licking syrup from his fingers.
“I’m sorry, let me try again. Congratulations, Silly. I am so proud of you,” Orion groans through the phone, using my least favorite childhood nickname. “She isn’t moving up for another couple of months. I’m just trying to do something nice for a friend.”
I smirk. “Mm-hm.”
“Celeste, please.”
“Fine, fine,” I say, amused. “You’ve got two spots at will call, and I’ll book you a room at a nearby hotel. All you need to do is book travel.”
Orion thanks me, and we disconnect the call.
Linkin whistles low. “Never thought I’d see the day. Little Orion, settling down.”
I chuck a kitchen towel at his head. “Just because you’re literally one-fourth of an inch taller than he is doesn’t mean you need to call my six-foot-four older brother ‘little’. I will say I‘m thankful he can’t spend more time around us so you can’t corrupt him more, you walking hormone.”
Shiloh raises her cold brew. “To corruption and caffeine.”
Linkin clinks his fork against her thermos. “Cheers to that.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. This chaotic, mismatched little family is the only thing that’s ever made me feel whole. Even when the ghosts in my chest won’t shut up, even when the past claws at the edges, this is my home.
The door to my rig swings open, and the air shifts immediately.
Rowan is tall enough that he has to duck slightly through the doorway, the movement effortless but commanding.
His leather jacket creaks as he straightens, tattoos peeking from the open collar of his black shirt.
Every inch of him says professional menace from the silver rings glinting on his fingers, to his jaw set like he’s already preparing to wrangle our special brand of chaos.
“Good morning, degenerates,” he says dryly.
“Morning, Daddy,” Linkin replies without missing a beat.
Rowan exhales through his nose, which is his version of a sigh, and gives me a look that says this is your circus, these are your monkeys.
“You love us.” I grin as I flip another pancake, but he pretends not to hear.
He steps closer. The rig feels smaller with him here—not because he’s enormous, though he is, but because his presence fills the space the way a steady drumbeat fills a song: grounded, certain, the kind of person who makes you believe whatever’s fraying will hold.
I can feel the shift in the air, the room rearranging itself around him.
Rowan thumbs through his notes. “The technical notes are clean. The first stop of the tour was solid. The energy from the stadium was insane. Only hiccups were so small the audience wouldn’t have noticed unless they were psychic or in production.”
Translation: it was perfect.
Before I can savor the small victory, Rowan closes out the meeting with the same quiet efficiency he brings to everything.
“I’m done for now,” he says, flipping the clipboard shut. “Enjoy your day off before I remember more things to make you do.”
“Love you too, boss man,” Shiloh singsongs, flashing a sleepy smile as she braids a strand of her red hair.
Rolling his eyes, Rowan deadpans, “Don’t call me that.”
Linkin snorts. “Daddy is fine, but boss man is off the table?”
Rowan’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Boss man is something Shiloh is going to take and run with. At least when it comes to you, I know if I ignore it, you’ll eventually shut the fuck up.”
Korbyn cackles, choking on her protein shake. “You walked right into that one.”
“Proudly,” Linkin says, leaning back like a smug cat. “Some of us like living dangerously.”
“Yeah, well,” Rowan says, reaching past him to snag a piece of bacon from the communal plate, “you also like being punched in the face, so that’s not saying much.”
“That was one time,” Linkin says defensively.
“Three,” Shiloh corrects flatly, not even looking up from braiding a tiny silver thread into her hair. “And technically, the last one was from a stage tech.”
“Semantics,” Linkin mutters.
I shake my head at their antics. “You’re all hopeless.”
“Hopelessly sexy,” Linkin corrects, earning a chorus of groans.
Rowan leans his hip against the counter beside me, the corner of his mouth curving. “You enable him, you know.”
“I keep him fed,” I counter. “That’s not enabling, that’s survival.”
He hums, low and amused, it feels like we’ve been doing this rhythm of teasing and chaos that somehow always finds its balance. He might not play in the band, but Rowan’s as much a part of Umbra as the rest of us. He’s the gravity that keeps us from spinning off into the void.
“Okay, so—” I say, pointing a spatula at Korbyn like it’s a weapon. “We’re not gonna skate past the fact that someone’s birthday is tomorrow.”
Korbyn smirks, clearly ready. “Damn right. I am so excited James is flying in tonight.”
Linkin perks up instantly, grin sharp and full of mischief. “Oooooh, birthday smoochies.”
“Grow up,” she says, flipping him off without missing a beat.
“What are your big birthday plans?” I ask, needing to know what they are, so I can have her present ready.
Korbyn leans back, feigning casual, but her eyes are bright. “I don’t know exactly what they are. But—okay, I wasn’t snooping—”
“Liar,” Shiloh mutters.
“—I was just checking our joint account,” Korbyn continues, undeterred, “to see if I got double-charged for something, and I noticed James bought something from my favorite jeweler.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “He did what now? I thought he told you adult birthday presents are a scam.”
“Exactly!” Her answering smile is dreamy. “He never buys me jewelry without me literally begging him.”
“You think it’s the necklace you’ve had your eye on for the last few months?” Shiloh asks.
“I’ll give you a necklace, Sweet Cheeks,” Linkin adds as he playfully raises his hand like he’s going to give her a hand necklace.
“Linkin Lane Parke!” I bark, trying and failing, not to laugh. “Bad boy—no! I told you to stop with that nickname.”
“But that ass though…” He says with a wink as he trails off.
Korbyn snorts, rolling her eyes but smiling at his teasing. “It honestly could be anything,” she says, pretending nonchalance. “I’ll just pretend to be surprised.”
“Oh, please,” Shiloh says, voice dry. “Knowing you, you have already stalked the jeweler’s Instagram for new arrivals.”
Korbyn presses a hand to her chest, mock-offended. “I would never—”
“Liar,” Rowan and I say at the same time.
That earns another round of laughter. Rowan’s still smiling when it quiets, and I catch the look he gives her. It’s soft and protective. He’ll always be her big brother and band manager, equal parts guardian and teammate. It’s the same look he gives all of us when he thinks we’re not watching.
I glance around the small space of my rig, trying to see it from an outsiders prospective. The bookshelves, the mismatched mugs, the laughter, and the way everyone fits together like we were always meant to be together.
This is it.
The quiet heartbeat of everything we’ve built.
It’s in these moments, tucked between chaos and cameras, that I remember why Rowan built this band the way he did. So fans could just focus on the music.
We don’t need spotlights to make it real. The magic’s in mornings like this with our bare feet on cold vinyl floors, laughter that comes easy, and love that doesn’t ask for proof.
Just as Shiloh starts guessing whether the mystery gift is a bracelet or some bespoke moonstone ring, Korbyn’s phone buzzes against the tabletop.
She glances at the screen and grins. “Speak of the devil.”
We all quiet a little as she answers. “Hey, babe.”
Her voice softens, turns airy and private in that way it only does when she talks to her husband. I’ve heard her yell until her throat went raw, laugh until she cried, but that tone? It’s pure tenderness and just for him.
The rest of us pretend not to listen. Rowan sips his coffee and maintains eye contact with his drink like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever encountered. Shiloh picks at her braid. And Linkin starts silently mouthing exaggerated kissing noises until I launch another dish towel at his head.
He barely dodges it.
I turn back to the kitchen to clean up from our breakfast, but my eyes flick back to Korbyn, and I see her smile falter.
“Wait, what happened?” I hear her quietly ask. “You said you were cleared.”
A pause.
“Oh. No, no, I get it. It’s okay. Really.” Her voice is steady, but her knuckles turn white around the phone.
When she finally hangs up, the silence in the rig stretches thin.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice soft.
Korbyn exhales slowly, running a hand through her hair. “He’s not gonna make it tonight. Got called into a last-minute crisis with one of his bands and can’t get out of it.”
“Ugh, management life,” Shiloh mutters sympathetically.
“But,” Korbyn continues, sitting a little straighter, “he’s going to meet us in Nashville. He said he’s gonna make it up to me.”
Linkin smirks, waggling his eyebrows. “Oh, he’s gonna make it up to you, huh?”
Korbyn tosses a crumpled napkin at his face, but her laugh is genuine. “Shut up.”
“You shut up,” he says in mock-indignation. “I’m just saying—I feel like James is a man of his word. If he says he’s gonna make it up to you, you’re about to be spoiled. And if he doesn’t spoil you in the way you deserve to be spoiled, then I’ll take care of you.”
Beneath the teasing, there’s something softer—an affection that sneaks through even Linkin’s endless jokes. His smile shifts into a quiet and genuine one; it’s his look that says I mean it.
And through the disappointment still flickering behind Korbyn’s eyes, she regains a little of her post-show glow.
They’ve been together since they were kids, with the love that grew up right alongside them. They survived braces, bad haircuts, and long-distance while he was in college. Hell, they survived her joining a shadowy, semi-anonymous world-touring band with a cult-level fanbase.
She doesn’t talk about their relationship often, but when she does, it’s with this quiet certainty that you can’t fake. She always tells us that James is her home, even when he’s not physically here.
“He’ll make it,” she says after a beat, more to herself than anyone else. “He promised me.”
“Damn right he will,” Linkin says, raising his coffee mug. “To the man who puts the ‘husband’ in ‘husband goals.’”
We all raise ours in agreement. Korbyn smiles tightly as she clinks her mug to ours, but there’s that glint of longing in her eyes.
Love looks different for each of us.
For her, it looks like faith, quiet and unshakable. It always seems to keep her anchored, even when the storm’s already building on the horizon.