Chapter 12 Celeste #2
Linkin watches me for a long moment before speaking again. “And what do you choose?”
I straighten a little, brushing my hair back from my face and shrugging the blanket off my shoulders like I don’t need it anymore. When I speak, the words feel tentative at first, then steadier as I hear myself say them.
“I choose me,” I say. The sentence lands, then expands. “I choose my career. My band. My peace. If he wants to exist anywhere near my orbit, he can do the work. If he doesn’t?” I lift one shoulder. “I’ll still be fine.”
Linkin’s smile spreads slowly, lighting up his face, proud in that unmistakable way that always feels like sunlight aimed directly at my chest. “There she is.”
“You’re acting as if I disappeared. I wasn’t gone,” I say quietly, searching for the right phrasing. “Just… discombobulated.”
He nods solemnly. “Completely valid. If my ex, whom I accidentally trauma-bonded with, showed up unexpectedly, I’d also require twelve weighted blankets and possibly a priest.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. “You’re an idiot.”
“A sexy, emotionally intelligent idiot,” he corrects, patting my knee. “Please respect my brand.”
Link reaches for the notebook perched on the side table and flips it open. “Okay. We need to come up with a game plan.”
“For what?” I ask. “Surviving my new bodyguard?”
My brows lift just as that familiar, dangerous grin creeps across his face. With him, that look can mean violence, glitter, or both. Usually, the Venn diagram of the two is a perfect circle.
He wiggles the notebook. “Obviously, we’re strategizing with a tasteful amount of pettiness.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “This is ridiculous.”
“Yes,” he agrees cheerfully. “But so fucking necessary.”
He taps the notebook with one of his ridiculous pens—this one says ‘in loving memory of when I gave a fuck’—and straightens like he’s about to deliver a keynote speech.
“Welcome to my TED Talk,” he announces. “It’s called How to Psychologically Dominate Your Ex in Three Easy Steps. Step one: emotional presentation.”
A laugh sputters out of me. “You’re insane.”
“You already knew that, but I prefer the term effective,” he corrects, scribbling something down. “When he sees you this morning, you will radiate serenity and superiority. Ideally, with flattering lighting. Step two: physical presentation.”
I groan. “Link—”
He cuts me off with a raised hand. “Don’t argue. We both know you already picked your outfit—I mean armor, in your head.”
…I did. I don’t know if I love or hate how fast he clocked that.
Something soft crosses his face, the humor giving way to fond understanding. “You’ve always worn armor, ‘Leste. You just forget sometimes that it’s yours by choice.”
I sit a little straighter. “Fine. Physical presentation. What’s the plan?”
Linkin’s eyebrows do a little dance. “Soft Celeste for morning rehearsals. Ara for soundcheck and stage prep.”
He looks at me like I’ve asked him something precious. “Because you are both. And he needs to see that you exist fully in every version of yourself. You’re not the woman he walked away from.” His smile is warm. “You’re stronger. And you deserve to feel that.”
He stretches his long, tattooed arms over his head. “Step three: boundaries.”
“Boundaries,” I repeat, careful with the word.
“Yes. Boundaries.” His tone is light, but there’s steel under it. “You control the who, the what, and how close he gets—emotionally and physically. He doesn’t set the pace. You do.”
A slow breath leaves me. “I like that step.”
“I knew you would.”
I shift, letting the warmth of the blankets sink into the places that still ache from last night. “Link… I don’t want to be angry all day. I don’t want to be weak either. I just want to feel normal.”
He bumps his shoulder against mine. “Then decide that you are. Because normal for you isn’t fragile. It’s fire.”
His words settle in my chest, unmistakably true.
Linkin snaps the notebook shut and tosses it onto the side table like he’s officially concluded a very serious meeting. “All right,” he says briskly. “Enough emotional coaching. My rates double if you keep crying.”
“I am not crying.”
He pushes to his feet anyway, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck as he looks in a mirror and eyes the state of his hair with open disdain. “C’mon. Walk me to the bathroom. If I’m awake before noon the day after a concert, I require moral support.”
I stand, stretching the stiffness from my back as I breathe in the familiar comfort of his space. It grounds me as we head toward the hallway together.
My socks slide softly over his rug while Linkin yawns wide enough to unhinge his jaw. He mutters about needing a gallon of coffee and divine intervention in equal measure, and I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my mouth. He’s ridiculous in the most reliable way.
At the bathroom doorway, he stops. “‘Leste?”
“Link?”
He turns, and the humor fades just enough to let something sincere through. His eyes soften, steady and certain. “Whatever happens today, you’re ready.”
Nodding, I remind him, “I know.”
And I do. Lucian may be here soon, but there’s something he needs to remember. He’s stepping into my world. I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin. There’s a familiar steadiness settling into my spine now, heat gathering where doubt tried to live.
It’s time to breathe fire again and remind him exactly who I am.
And then—because Linkin cannot help himself—his expression shifts again. Like a switch flipping from emotional support human to absolute menace.
“Ooh,” he says, eyes widening with sudden inspiration. “Wait. Important question.”
I squint at him. “…Linkin, whatever it is, the answer is ‘no’. I do not like that look.”
He lifts a finger. “How do you feel about a teeny, tiny amount of chaos?”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
His grin turns maniacal. “I think I should shower in your rig this morning.”
I blink. “Why the hell would you do that when we both know your shower products cost twice what mine do?”
He taps his lip, thoughtful. “Well. Maybe because someone might be arriving for his shiny new job and accidentally catch me exiting your shower. Hair wet. Shirtless. Possibly humming something sensual.”
“Link.”
He presses a hand to his chest like he’s deeply wounded. “Think of it as establishing dominance.”
I choke on a laugh. “Whose dominance? Yours or mine?”
“Exactly.”
“You are absolutely not showering in my rig.”
“Picture it, ‘Leste.” He gestures wildly. “He walks up, you open the door, steam wafts out, I stroll past in a towel like I own the place—”
“You don’t own the place, it’s mine!” I remind him.
“—and then he just… has to live with that. In his brain. Forever.”
Despite myself, I laugh uncontrollably.
God, I needed that.
“You’re deranged.”
“Thank you, I work hard at it.”