Chapter 12 Celeste
Celeste
Iwake up with dread curling like smoke low in my stomach, heavy and immovable.
I lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, before I push the blankets aside and sit up slowly.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, hoping the pressure might do something useful like clear my head or even dull the memory of last night.
It doesn’t.
Of course it doesn’t.
Lucian’s here, or at least he will be soon. A glance at my phone shows me it’s barely after midnight.
I have to face him in less than six hours.
The thought lands fully formed without warning, and my chest tightens with the realization that today is going to require more of me than I feel ready to give.
I get dressed on autopilot in a cozy pair of leggings and a matching hoodie, before pausing in front of my sock drawer. Matching socks are a hard no. Wearing coordinated outfits is one thing, but socks are different. Matching socks are cursed.
Everyone knows that.
The last time I wore a matching pair, I found out my mother had been arrested and wouldn’t be released. I received a clipped phone call from her court-appointed attorney explaining that the judge had seen her smirk as the charges were read and decided mercy wasn’t warranted.
I remember staring down at my feet afterward, identical lavender stripes lined up perfectly, and thinking that it made an unsettling kind of sense.
So today it’s one pink sock with lemons and one blue sock with stars.
My personal protection charms.
I shove my hair up, as I push the tightness in my chest down where it belongs, and step out of my rig before my brain can slow me down and start cataloging every reason this is a bad idea.
The morning air cuts through my hoodie, sharp and brisk, but I barely notice. My body already knows where it’s going.
Link’s door is unlocked, like always. The lights inside are dimmed to a warm amber that softens the edges of the room. The air smells like vanilla and cedar, from the same candle he always burns and claims he buys “accidentally” every time. The scent is familiar and settles me almost immediately.
I step inside quietly, even though I know it’s unnecessary. Linkin sleeps hard; he won’t wake up unless someone actively shakes him.
But I’m not here for him. Against the slide-out wall, tucked into the corner, is the setup that feels like a haven when I get overwhelmed.
Blankets are layered carefully, more intentional than they look at first glance.
Faux fur, soft cotton, and things that were definitely borrowed from hotels and quietly replaced later.
A crocheted throw from his Grammy is folded over the arm of the beanbag chair he insists he bought as a joke.
Oversized pillows gathered close, forming a low, contained space that feels separate from the rest of the rig.
I cross the rig and settle into the alcove, easing myself down and letting the weight from the blankets close in around me, grounding me. My shoulders drop, and my breathing slows without me having to think about it.
For the first time since I saw Lucian in the crowd, I feel something close to okay.
I blink so heavily that the shadows have moved across the room when I open my eyes.
I try to look at Linkin’s bedside table to see what time it is, only for the clock to be blocked at this angle from Link’s big ass foot, which is pointed like he’s auditioning for Swan Lake in his dreams. He hasn’t moved, so I’m assuming he’s still fully asleep.
I bury myself deeper into the blankets, tugging the faux-fur throw up to my chin until it covers my mouth and most of my thoughts with it.
The fabric is warm and heavy enough to keep me anchored.
For a few precious seconds, I let myself believe that if I stay still long enough, nothing else will be required of me.
I don’t need words.
Not from him, not from anyone.
Lucian showing back up doesn’t mean anything; people come and go. I existed before him, and I learned how to exist after him. I didn’t fall apart when he left; I rebuilt and survived the unanswered questions. I am not some soft thing that cracks open the moment he reappears in my orbit.
I repeat that to myself until it sounds more like a fact and less like fiction.
I think I drift back to sleep, because the next thing I register is fabric shifting in the bed next to me.
Linkin lets out a low, half-conscious groan.
Then I hear the gentle thud of an arm dropping back on the mattress.
I smile despite myself.
The way Linkin wakes up is never abrupt. It’s a slow return, like he’s slowly negotiating his way back to consciousness one limb at a time. He rolls over and sees me in his hideaway before blinking a few times, trying to decide if I’m real or not.
“’Leste?” He croaks, voice rough and thick with sleep.
I consider pretending I don’t exist. I pull the blanket higher, curling inward as if I’m compact enough I might slip out of perception entirely.
The calm I fought so hard to settle into starts to thin at the edges.
Talking means acknowledgement, and acknowledgement means letting last night take up space again.
Linkin has an annoying talent for reading the room without pushing into it.
His sheets rustle, and there is a gentle thump of something hitting the floor. He pads across the carpet before settling his weight onto the edge of the beanbag beside me, close enough to feel his warmth but not crowding.
“Are you okay?” He asks quietly. His words aren’t pushy, they’re just… open, almost like a hand held out gently in the dark.
Swallowing, I stare at the woven pattern of the blanket bunched under my chin. “No.”
Link nods as he kisses his teeth. “Want to tell me why?”
I shake my head under the blanket.
“Okay. Then we’ll just sit.”
We sit in silence while the morning inches closer.
Light starts to slip through the narrow gap in the blackout curtain, turning the air gold one stripe at a time.
The ache behind my sternum starts to buzz again, quieter than before but persistent, like something reminding me it hasn’t gone anywhere.
Linkin doesn’t rush me; he never does. That’s what makes him one of the safest men in my life, not because he knows how to fix things, but because he never tries to.
He lets the mess exist as it is, and doesn’t smooth the edges or talk me toward comfort.
He just stays, steady and unflinching; he trusts me to find my own footing again.
“I don’t need details,” he says eventually. “But I know something happened last night, we heard it.”
My throat tightens, then eases just as quickly. Something inside me shifts subtly, like a mechanism clicking back into place.
It’s that familiar internal recalibration—the moment when I remember exactly who I am and stop negotiating with the parts of myself that want to spiral.
I draw in a slow breath, measured and deliberate, and let it out just as carefully, like I’m pulling every scattered piece of myself back into alignment.
Linkin hears it in the way my breath evens out, and feels the way the tremble leaves my shoulders. He tilts his head, like he’s watching someone stitch themselves back together in real time.
“That’s what I figured,” he murmurs.
I shift beneath the blankets and push myself upright until I’m sitting cross-legged in the beanbag.
The throw slides off my shoulders, and the cooler morning air brushes my throat.
I tuck a few loose strands of hair behind my ear, wipe beneath my eyes more out of habit than necessity, and let out a quiet breath.
“I’m fine,” I say.
And I am, just not in the shiny, unscarred way people expect. I’m tired, worn thin, and I’m still buzzing from the emotional whiplash of last night. I’m fine, I’m not breakable.
I sit beside Linkin, wrapped in blankets and warmth and the faint smell of his vanilla candles, letting the quiet hold me while my brain replays everything from last night in sharp, unwelcome flashes.
The way he hovered at the edge of the room, like he couldn’t tell whether stepping closer would help or set something off.
Lucian’s voice and how controlled and unaffected he sounded, like our time together meant nothing.
It still stings.
“I can already tell Orion’s scheming,” I say eventually, staring down at my hands. “Of course, he thinks Lucian being here is some kind of… healing exercise. Like forcing two damaged people into the same space counts as therapy.”
Linkin snorts softly, rolling his eyes. As he shifts, he knocks a pillow off the beanbag. “That’s your brother for you. Zero emotional intelligence, and somehow infinite confidence. Unlike me. I have all the emotional intelligence and confidence. I’m obviously the perfect catch.”
A reluctant smile tugs at my mouth as I ignore his last comment. “So what am I supposed to do?”
He shrugs, long limbs rearranging themselves with careless grace. “That depends. What do you want to do?”
I close my eyes for a second. “Right now, I just want to survive the day.”
He nods, like that answer holds enough weight.
“Are you upset because you still love him?”
The question lands softly, but it still steals my breath. My lungs stutter before I regain control. I keep my gaze fixed on a loose loop of yarn in the blanket, afraid that if I look up, something I’m not ready for will spill out.
“I um…I don’t know,” I whisper. “Not yet.”
“I’m not trying to poke the wound,” Linkin says gently. “I’m just trying to understand how deep it goes.”
“It doesn’t matter how deep it goes.”
A sad look crosses his face as he stares at me. “‘Leste, you don’t mean that. Of course it matters.”
I draw in a breath that tastes like frustration, fear, and something bitterly resolved. “It doesn’t,” I repeat, steadier now. “Because whatever’s still in there, whether it’s love, anger, unfinished feelings, it doesn’t change anything. He made his choice. He treated me like I was disposable.”