Chapter 15 Celeste
Celeste
Cleaning keeps my hands busy, which keeps my thoughts from getting too far ahead of me.
Lucian has been going on my daily runs with me, so those are no longer safe from his presence. After my post-run shower, I move through the rig with deliberate care, folding clothes, straightening surfaces, resetting small things that don’t actually need fixing.
He has been here for five days now, careful and quiet and trying not to take up space, and it’s somehow worse than if he’d just existed loudly.
Every shared hallway carries weight, every near miss feels intentional.
It’s easier to focus on what I can control than on the fact that the man who broke my heart has been sleeping ten feet away.
Last night added another layer I haven’t been able to shake.
Korbyn’s voice stayed level when she told me what her relationship with James looked like behind the facade and the ways he scared her, but the effort it took to keep my emotions hidden sat heavy in my chest long after we turned the lights off.
She moved in before either of us had time to second-guess it, and the rig hasn’t felt quite the same since.
So I clean.
I start in the living area, lifting the blanket off the couch to fold it properly. Something slips free as I shake it out and drops onto the cushion with a soft thud.
Bending down, I pick up the book automatically, already recognizing the cover, and my grip tightens before I can help it. I’ve had this on my Tbr for months. I know this book is one that people say you can’t start unless you’re prepared to lose an afternoon to it.
I didn’t see Korbyn reading it last night, and there’s no bookmark tucked inside.
That makes me hopeful she won’t notice if I borrow it for a day or two.
We’ve always gravitated toward the same stories, the same emotional terrain, and it makes sense she’d bring something like this with her and forget about it in the chaos of yesterday.
I set the book on the side table instead of putting it away and finish folding the blanket. The tension in my chest doesn’t disappear, but it eases enough to remind me how tired I am.
That feels like permission.
It’s a conscious choice, one I don’t make often, but the tightness in my shoulders has crossed the line from useful to dangerous. If I don’t bleed some of it off now, I’ll carry it straight through soundcheck and onto the stage tonight, and that never ends well.
I take the book with me into the kitchenette and set it on the counter while I make tea instead of coffee.
I need a drink that’s steadying, but not sedating, I need calm without dullness.
I reach for one of the blends Shiloh left behind, the kind she insists helps with nerves without killing focus, and turn my kettle on.
That’s when I see the note folded on the counter in Korbyn’s handwriting. I pick it up and unfold it slowly.
I kidnapped your grumpy FBI man. Security’s going to be tight today, and I also need to run my nerves out.
You’ll get him back. Promise.
She doesn’t go on runs often, but I am glad to know she’s safe with him.
When the kettle clicks off, I pour the water, steam rising sharp and herbal, and wrap both hands around the mug for a moment before moving back to the couch. The rig hums quietly around me, systems cycling, air conditioning steady, everything functioning the way it’s supposed to.
I curl into the corner cushions and open the book, tea warming my palms as I let my focus narrow. My thoughts stop racing three steps ahead of me; they settle into the page instead.
The story pulls me in faster than I expect. The pacing is tight, the chemistry unmistakable, tension coiled between the characters in a way that feels deliberate and earned. I read without checking the time, without tracking the quiet, without cataloging exits or possibilities.
By the time the restraint finally gives way and the dialogue drops, when proximity turns charged and breathless, I’m fully absorbed, pulse ticking faster for reasons that have nothing to do with security or logistics or the weight of everything waiting for us tonight.
The front door bursts open.
I yelp as the book goes flying, landing facedown on the floor with a dull thump.
“Shit—!”
Tea splashes across the cushion and my hand, warm but thankfully no longer hot, and my heart slams so violently against my ribs it steals my breath. I twist toward the doorway, adrenaline flooding my system, every muscle primed for a threat I’ve been trying not to imagine all morning.
For one awful second, my mind fills in the wrong face.
And the terror that filters through my veins tells me exactly how thin the line between calm and chaos really is right now.
“Celeste—shit, are you okay?”
Lucian is already moving before my heart has time to slow, the door banging shut behind him as he crosses the space in three long strides.
His eyes sweep the scene in a single pass, noticing the overturned mug, the dark spill soaking into the couch cushion, the book on the floor like something dropped in a hurry.
“I’m fine,” I manage, though my pulse is still skidding. “I just—oops?”
“Sorry.” He reaches back, grabs the back of his hoodie, and pulls it over his head in one smooth, practiced motion. The hoodie hits my lap as he drops to his knees in front of me. The unfairly familiar movement knocks the air from my lungs.
His attention follows the spill instead, over my arms, my lap, the place where the tea soaked through the fabric of my shorts.
He shifts closer, still on his knees, and his hands slide to the outside of my thighs to steady me as he blots at the mess, methodical and protective, completely unaware of how this looks.
“That’s on me, with everything going on, I should’ve knocked. ”
“Any burns?” he asks, glancing up briefly, voice low and steady. “It wasn’t hot, was it?”
“No,” I say quickly. “It had cooled down.”
He exhales, the tension draining out of him in a way I feel more than see. His grip on my thighs loosens, relief settling into his shoulders, and he tips his head forward without thinking.
His loose hair brushes my bare thighs in a way I’m sure is innocent and entirely unintentional.
My body doesn’t care.
Heat blooms low and sharp, a visceral response I don’t have time to stop, my muscles tightening as if they recognize the position before my mind has fully caught up.
Lucian, on his knees, has never been neutral for me.
It’s always meant unwavering attention, almost relentless in the way he gives himself over to it.
My pleasure is something he takes responsibility for, something he refuses to rush or half-finish.
He’s still talking, apologizing, checking for burns like he didn’t hear me tell him I’m okay, his voice steady and concerned while my pulse turns traitorous.
I focus on the sound of him, on the cadence of his words, because it’s safer than focusing on where he is or what his hands are doing.
I force my breathing even and grip the edge of the cushion hard enough to anchor myself, to keep the reaction contained, to keep it off my face.
I was already wound tight from the book, from the slow, deliberate build it dragged me through, and the whiplash—from anticipation, to fear, to this—leaves me lightheaded.
My thoughts scatter, then betray me entirely, pulling memories forward that I do not need right now.
I remember the way he could coax the orgasms out of me, and how, no matter how desperate I sounded, he would refuse to rush.
The one time he made me count, low and breathless, insisting I stay present even as everything else started to blur.
I remember losing the numbers somewhere along the way, and how sensation overtook logic, the way my body trembled so hard I thought I might pass out in his hands, vision darkening at the edges while he stayed exactly where he was, devastatingly focused.
He always gave like that. Fully, and without keeping score.
A memory hits hard enough that I have to swallow, the motion tight and deliberate as I fight the urge to shift and give myself away. My fingers curl deeper into the cushion beside me, nails biting into the fabric like it might keep me anchored in the present instead of drifting somewhere dangerous.
Lucian stills.
The hoodie is damp in his hands when he looks up at me, his expression immediately sharpening, concern cutting through everything else. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly. “You went pale.”
I roll my eyes at him, more reflex than irritation, refusing to give the moment any more oxygen than it already has.
He studies me for half a second longer than necessary, like he’s weighing whether to push, then nods once and accepts it. He starts to rise, already shifting back into logistics and responsibility as if nothing just happened, as if he hasn’t just knocked the air out of me in more ways than one.
“Cafe du Monde took longer than I expected,” he says in explanation of where he’s been with Korbyn.
“The line was brutal. I’m running a little behind, but if you’re ready, I’ll take you to the stadium.
Rowan wants us in early for soundcheck, and so I can oversee the changes security’s making after what happened yesterday. ”
I nod automatically, even though my body takes a second longer to catch up with the moment.
Lucian gathers his hoodie and stands, completely unaware, or pretending to be, that the space between us has changed. The room feels smaller now, like something invisible has been shifted and not put back where it belongs.
I pass him on my way to the back of the rig and disappear into the bedroom to grab my gear bag, taking a moment to breathe where he can’t see me.
When I come back, he’s leaning against the counter, scrolling through something on his phone, his posture relaxed but alert in that way that never really turns off.
The ride settles into a quiet that feels deliberate rather than awkward.
Lucian sits beside me in the cab, his posture loose but alert, with one arm stretched along the backseat like a man trained to look relaxed while tracking every possible variable.
He’s too composed and too still all at once, and the contrast needles at me in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
Shifting slightly, I notice the bag in the seat between us.
A white paper bag rests there, grease-spotted and folded shut, unmistakably fresh.
I hesitate before opening it, moving slowly, careful not to draw attention to the way my breath catches. The smell of fried dough, powdered sugar, and a hint of cinnamon hits me immediately.
With everything that happened at my rig, I had completely forgotten his comment about Cafe du Monde.
Something tightens in my chest before I even take a bite. The familiarity of it aches in my heart at the quiet way he’s always given without making a show of it.
I eat one in silence, powdered sugar dusting my fingers, using it like armor to keep my expression neutral, like makeup that might hide the heat gathering behind my eyes.
Lucian doesn’t comment or give me a triumphant look.
He keeps his gaze fixed out the window, jaw set, as if this is simply a thing that needed to be done, not something meant to earn a reaction.
By the time the Superdome comes into view, the bag is empty, my pulse has evened out, and something else has started to hum beneath my skin.
The walk to the green room passes in silence.
Lucian doesn’t hover, but he doesn’t trail either.
He stays close enough to me; he doesn’t crowd me, entirely aware of everything happening around us.
Neither of us speaks. By the time we reach the door, my spine is tight, and my jaw aches from clenching.
I slip inside without looking back.
The door closes behind me, and the silence changes shape.
Korbyn is sitting cross-legged on the couch, her oversized hoodie bunched at her wrists, a half-drunk smoothie sweating onto the table beside an open tarot deck.
Her hair is piled into messy space buns on the side of her head, and she’s humming under her breath—an old melody we never officially recorded, something familiar enough to feel like a loop meant to keep her anchored.
She looks up when I walk in and gives me a tired smile.
“Hey,” I murmur, letting the tension drain from my shoulders as I drop my bag by the door. “How was your run? Are you okay?”
Korbyn shrugs. “Yeah, I had some really weird dreams last night. So I did a quick spread when I woke up and thought about it while I was out on my run.”
Raising a brow, I sink into the chair beside her, grateful for the excuse to shift my focus away from the door. “What’d you pull?”
She gathers the deck and thumbs through it, drawing a few cards free with practiced ease. “Wheel of Fortune. Reversed Three of Swords. And the Sun.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah,” she says with a crooked smile. “Cosmic bitch-slaps incoming, but there’s light at the end of the tunnel.”
“That’s your entire love life in three cards.”
She laughs, then gestures to the space between us. “Do you want one?” She’s already watching me like she knows the answer.
“Sure,” I say. “Hit me.”
Korbyn shuffles with that quiet grace she slips into when she reads, her movements smooth and deliberate, eyes half-lidded as if she’s listening for something beneath the noise. The whisper of the cards grounds me in a way I didn’t realize I needed.
She stops, then taps the deck once. “Cut it.”
After I do, she draws the top card and lays it face-up between us.
The Lovers.
We stare at it in silence, then she slowly looks up at me and winks.
I don’t trust myself to respond. Laughing feels hysterical, crying feels too close to the surface. Although throwing the deck across the room does feel tempting.
Instead, I study the illustration of the two figures standing at a crossroads, connection and choice tangled together, something that looks equal parts divine and devastating.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, voice low and careful.
“No.”
“Do you want to continue?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely not.”
She nods, accepting it without question. The card disappears back into the deck, and she starts shuffling again, giving me the quiet, the rhythm, the space she knows how to offer.
I lean back in the chair, cross my arms over my chest, and close my eyes for a moment.
Lucian is still outside this door.
And fate, apparently, has a sense of humor.