Chapter 13 Lucian
Lucian
Sir Sass kneads the collar of my jacket, determined and relentless, as if he presses hard enough, he can anchor me to this moment. His weight is solid against my throat, a warm and steady reminder that I’m here, upright, breathing.
The number Orion sent me is bolted to the side of the rig in clean black numbering against white siding. My reflection stares back at me through her tinted windows. So this is her space.
I hadn’t expected to stand here like with my heart racing, and nerves stretched thin with a cat that clings to me like emotional body armor. It’s almost funny. Almost.
Still, I hesitate.
When I take one step forward, there’s no undoing it. Two steps, and whatever version of my life existed before this door closes behind me is gone.
My pulse climbs into my throat, as if my body knows exactly what’s waiting on the other side and is bracing before my mind can catch up. I lift my hand and knock three times, as if there’s a quiet, unspoken message buried in the rhythm.
I’m here.
I showed up.
I’m trying.
The door opens almost immediately, like she was waiting for me.
But it isn’t Celeste.
It’s a wet, shirtless, heavily inked man, far too comfortable in his stance to be standing in someone else’s doorway.
His dark hair is damp and curling at the ends, like he stepped straight out of the shower and into my path.
He leans against the frame with an ease that suggests ownership, bare feet planted, posture relaxed in a way that’s almost confrontational.
Shit.
I glance past him, then back again, my brain trying to recalibrate. Maybe I’ve got the wrong place. Maybe this isn’t—
“I might be lost,” I say before I can stop myself, pulse dropping to my stomach. “I was told this is Celeste’s rig.”
His expression shifts, and interest sparks behind his eyes before a slow, amused smile spreads across his face. He straightens just enough to extend a hand. “It is. You must be Lucian.”
The way he says it tells me he already knows who I am. His voice is smooth and confident, carrying the particular tone men use when they assume they’re the most compelling person in the room. Something sharp presses in behind my ribs, tight and unwelcome.
Sir Sass chooses that moment to purr louder against my shoulder, vibrating with smug approval like he finds this entire situation entertaining.
“And you are?” I ask, voice even, but my jaw tightens just enough that I know he notices.
“Linkin,” he answers, and it’s delivered like a title rather than a name. His smirk suggests I should recognize it. “I’m her… friend,” he adds, the pause just as deliberate as the emphasis, “and Umbra’s guitarist.”
The way he says friend tells me he wants it to mean more.
“Bodyguard,” I say mildly, angling my chin toward the interior of the rig. “Do you mind?”
He studies me for a beat, reassessing, then shifts just enough to let me pass, but close enough that we brush shoulders. A territorial move, subtle but unmistakable, meant to remind me whose space this is.
Sir Sass flicks his tail directly into his face as we squeeze by.
Good boy.
The moment I step inside, instinct takes over.
My gaze sweeps the living area automatically, cataloging exits and angles before settling on details I don’t mean to notice but can’t ignore.
The space is warm, lived-in, unmistakably hers, with mismatched throw pillows on the couch, half-burned candles scattered like forgotten thoughts, a mug by the sink with a faint smear of lip gloss on the rim.
Celeste is everywhere.
I tell myself I’m assessing the environment, but the truth is simpler and more dangerous: I’m looking for her. Wondering if I can catch a glimpse of her before she sees me and locks herself down.
“Quick heads up,” Linkin says behind me, leaning back against the island like this is casual conversation. “Celeste is… particular about who she lets into her space.”
I turn slowly to face him. “I know,” I say evenly. “And I don’t need your permission to do my job.”
His grin falters just long enough to satisfy something dark in me.
He smooths it away, voice light again, friendly on the surface. “She’s tough. Brilliant,” he says, like he’s listing credentials. “Just don’t forget she’s not yours to hurt.”
My brows lift. “Excuse me?”
“Just saying,” he replies, sweetness layered over something sharper. “Handle her with care, okay? Doesn’t take much to break something important… again.”
That word lands exactly where he intends it to.
I meet his gaze, steady and unflinching. Whatever warning he thinks he’s issuing, I don’t rise to it.
“I’m not here to break anything,” I say quietly.
The door at the end of the hallway opens, every instinct sharpening at once. Then she steps into view, and the air in the rig shifts like it’s been pulled tighter around us.
Celeste.
She looks sleep-warm and bare-faced, hair pulled back in a high knot, unguarded in a way that feels almost deliberate. She’s dressed in a matching two-piece jogging set that somehow makes the early light lean toward her.
And mismatched socks.
Of course.
It’s such a small thing, but it hits with familiar precision. Celeste has always been two truths at once. Intention and rebellion. Elegance with a quiet refusal stitched into the seams. The woman who builds her armor carefully, then breaks one rule just to remind herself she can.
My chest tightens before I can stop it.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve seen her like this before. Watched her dress with the same meticulous care, matching everything except one detail no one else would ever notice. She likes order, but she never cages herself.
Still, the sight lands harder than I expect.
“Lucian,” she says, slow and measured, like she’s testing the word before releasing it.
“Celeste.”
The space between us fills with something brittle. Linkin shifts nearby, clearly sensing it, but I don’t look away from her.
“Orion said you’d be here at six,” she says, already moving past me toward the coffeemaker, her tone casual enough that it’s almost convincing.
Almost.
“He had a car pick me up at five-thirty,” I reply evenly. “I assume chaos was the goal.”
Linkin, unable to help himself, brightens like a man stepping into a live wire. “So, how does this go? Do you two glare at each other until someone combusts? Should I go grab my safety goggles?”
Celeste pauses mid-pour. I catch the way her shoulders lift and settle, the subtle tell she’s never quite managed to break—the one that used to appear when I pushed her buttons on purpose.
She turns with the mug still warm in her hands and leans back against the counter, posture deceptively loose, expression carefully neutral. It’s the look she wears when she’s decided not to give me anything for free.
“We start now,” she says. “I need a run first, then we have a tour meeting, followed by rehearsal.”
“Understood.”
“Look, I don’t want chaos,” she adds, her voice tightening just a degree. “Or attitude. We’re professionals.”
A faint smile touches my mouth before I can stop it. “We always have been. I’ll set up wherever you need me,” I keep my tone steady and my posture relaxed. “You tell me your expectations. I’ll exceed them.”
Linkin lets out a quiet, oh damn.
Celeste rolls her eyes at me as her fingers tighten ever so slightly on the mug. She needs to know I’m not here to lick wounds or beg or break. I’m here to build—and if she gives me the slightest opening, to win.
“Fine,” she says, turning away like she didn’t just flinch. “We’ll go over details after our run.”
Her voice is smooth, controlled, but there’s a tremor beneath it that slices deeper than anger ever could. She grabs her shoes and angrily puts them on.
We all head out, the air is still cool enough to sting our lungs with each inhale.
Linkin heads back to his rig as Celeste and I follow the trail through the campground that cuts straight into the trees.
Celeste sets the pace without looking back, with a long, efficient stride like she’s trying to outpace me.
I fall in beside her, not to crowd her but to try and match her rhythm. Half a mile in, her shoulders loosen enough that I can see the tension slowly bleeding out of her through this run.
By the time we loop back and are standing in front of her rig, sweat darkens the collar of her shirt, and her breathing has evened out. She wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist, her eyes flicking toward me with something that isn’t quite softness but isn’t hostility either.
“Better?” I ask quietly.
She ignores me and yanks open her door as I follow her. She takes two steps, then stops, placing her hand against an angled door next to her.
“This is Jamie’s room, you’ll be staying here for the next three months. We modified it for her to have somewhere comfortable to sleep.”
Three months.
The words settle in my chest with quiet weight.
“The sheets are clean,” she adds, already walking away again, like logistics are easier than looking at me. “The bathroom is mine in the mornings. Don’t touch my stuff.”
“Understood,” I say, because it’s the only response that won’t betray me.
She disappears down the hall, and her presence lingers after her—the warmth of citrus and salt, that familiar scent that clings like memory.
Old nights surface without permission.
Her fingers in my hair.
Her laugh against my throat.
The way she used to curve into my lap as if she belonged there.
I lock it all down before it reaches my face.
I stand there for a moment, then force myself to move all of my stuff into my new room.
Not mine—but Jamie’s.
Her room is small, but everything is functional.
The bed is already out with the sheets neatly tucked in, it looks soft with wear, creased where a body has slept and gotten comfortable.
There’s a pillow with a faint indentation at its center, a blanket folded with the kind of casual care that says someone actually uses it instead of performing tidiness.
They didn’t just make space for Jamie.
They made sure she belonged here.
I set the suitcase Orion packed at the foot of the bed and unzip it slowly, giving my hands something to do. The sound of fabric and zippers fills the room for a moment, then—
The shower turns on.
Water rushes through the pipes with a low, steady roar, echoing down the narrow hallway. It’s louder than it has any right to be, like the rig itself is amplifying it, carrying it straight through the walls and into my bloodstream.
She’s right there.
I freeze, fingers still curled around the strap of my duffel.
Get it together.
I force myself to unpack anyway. I don’t even look at what Orion packed for me.
The folded shirts go into the small dresser.
Socks into the bottom drawer. My spare hoodie that went missing a couple of weeks ago gets shoved deeper than necessary, like I can hide the past under cotton and denim if I try hard enough.
The water continues.
Steam must be filling the bathroom by now. Beading on the mirror. Clinging to her skin. I don’t want to think about it, but my brain doesn’t ask permission.
I remember the way she always tilted her head back under the spray. The way she hummed sometimes, barely audible, like she forgot anyone else existed. I remember the slick warmth of her skin under my hands, the way she leaned into me without thinking, trusting that I was there.
My jaw tightens.
This isn’t that.
I straighten, flex my fingers once, then twice, and abandon the room entirely before I do something stupid like sit down and listen too closely.
The kitchen is only a few steps away, but it feels like crossing a boundary. Her space opens up around me, wrapping me in warm, orderly chaos. There’s a bowl of cut fruit on the counter, plastic wrap peeled back halfway like she meant to come back for it and forgot.
I open the fridge to put it away and smile at the neatly stacked containers, labeled in her handwriting.
At least her love of meal prep hasn’t changed since I last saw her.
She loves her color-coded lids, where each day of the week gets a different color.
There’s a small carton of oat milk on the door, a bottle of hot sauce I know she loves shoved behind it.
My chest tightens at how normal and familiar it all feels.
I grab an apple just to have something in my hands, rinse it under the sink, and lean back against the counter while I take a bite.
The crunch is loud in the quiet rig, but it doesn’t drown out the sound of the water roaring through my ears.
I chew slowly, deliberately, grounding myself in the simple act of eating.
I can handle this.
I’ve handled worse.
I don’t look toward the hallway. I keep my eyes fixed on the fruit bowl, on the grain of the wood beneath my palms, on anything that isn’t my imagination filling in details I have no right to picture anymore.
After what feels like an eternity, the shower turns off, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. It’s worse than the noise. My pulse hammers in my ears as the rig settles around us, every sound suddenly sharp and intimate.
Closing my eyes, I try to breathe through it, slow and controlled, the way I was taught. The way I practiced when pain flared, or panic threatened to take me under.
When I hear the bathroom door open, I don’t turn.
I stay exactly where I am—leaning against her counter, breathing carefully, reminding myself over and over that a thin wall and a locked door are the only things standing between memory and reality.
Surviving Celeste isn’t going to be about willpower.
It’s going to be about endurance.