Chapter 18 Lucian
Lucian
The door clicks shut behind Celeste, and the sound feels louder than it should in the tiled room. I stare at the rippling surface of the water where she’d been curled against my chest minutes ago.
I can still feel her.
The shape of her body molded to mine, and the soft, steady rhythm of her breathing. She held on to me as if I were the only solid thing left in her world.
Now that she’s gone, the tub feels twice as cold, and twice as empty. Like the water itself is missing something.
I drag a hand down my face and lean forward, bracing my good knee, shifting my weight slowly and carefully, trying to find the angle that won’t send that familiar warning spike up my spine. Getting out of the tub used to be effortless. A thought, a movement, and nothing more.
Now it’s a negotiation with gravity. And gravity usually wins the first round.
The edge of the tile bites into my palms as I brace and heave.
My muscles protest, a low burn that radiates up my arms and across my shoulders.
There’s no grace, just effort and water sloshing as I finally manage to hoist myself upright.
I’d never let anyone see this side of my new life if I could help it.
Especially not her.
I towel off in silence, keeping my eyes away from the mirror. I don’t need the reminder of what’s missing. I feel it every time I move.
Sitting on the closed toilet lid and let myself breathe for a moment, staring at the tiny travel bag tucked in the corner.
The diffuser and oils Shiloh shoved into my hand while Celeste was looking through the damage in her rig are still inside.
They’ll help her sleep, she’d said. And don’t tell her it was my idea. Just do it.
So I will.
After fitting my prosthetic back on, I grab the bag, check my balance, and open the bathroom door.
Soft light spills across the room from the cracked window and the bedside lamps, warm and low. It takes me a second to adjust, to shift from the harsh tile and steam to this quiet, golden calm.
She’s in bed.
Right in the middle of it, wrapped in a towel, hair damp, curled in on herself in a way that says hold me without a single word.
And God, I want to. I want to slide in beside her, let her tuck herself against me the way she did in the tub, pretend for one night that we didn’t lose almost eight months to fear and pride and everything we never said.
She let me hold her tonight because she broke, not because she’s ready to let me back in.
Still, I want to be close. Close enough that if she wakes up shaking, I’m there, and she won’t have to reach far.
I cross the room quietly, aiming for the side of the bed between her and the door. The place I always take, which lets me keep her safe from anyone who might come through the door unexpectedly.
I set the diffuser on the nightstand and unscrew the top, my hands moving quietly. It’s easier to focus on the motions than on the shape of her under the blankets. The sound of the soft cotton bedding swishes as she tries to get more comfortable.
She doesn’t say anything until I click the diffuser on and the soft blue glow pulses from within, like moonlight caught in glass.
“What are you doing?” Her voice is rough and soft, already drifting toward sleep.
I keep my eyes on the diffuser. Looking at her right now feels like a risk I am not steady enough to take. “Setting up a diffuser,” I say quietly. “There are a few oils in here. Chamomile, vetiver, lavender. Things that are supposed to help us sleep.”
I let myself glance over my shoulder.
She has pulled the covers up to her chin, watching me with a focus that is almost childlike in its honesty. Something in her sleepy expression softens. She is letting me take care of her, even if it is only in this small, fragile moment.
I move to my side of the bed and reach down to undo my prosthetic. The comforter dips under my weight, and I pause, turning toward her. A quiet settles between us into something warmer that almost feels like permission.
Then I see what she’s wearing.
For a moment, everything inside me goes still.
Then I’m hit with a strong wave of pride that she felt comfortable enough to go through my things and steal something from me again. Comfortable enough to reach for a piece of my life like she used to, without asking, without hesitation.
The shirt is soft from too many washes, the neckline stretched from all the times I tugged it over her shoulders while she laughed and pretended to be annoyed.
The cotton clings to her like it remembers her body.
It used to be her favorite. A stupid old band tee from a concert we never even went to together.
She always stole it from my drawer, and I always let her.
Even after the accident, after I pushed her away and convinced myself she deserved better than the broken version of me, I never left that shirt behind. If I’m being honest with myself, I couldn’t, not when it was the only piece of her I let myself keep.
Looking at her in that shirt feels like someone reached inside me and twisted something vital. It knocks the air out of me in a way I am not prepared for, a slow, tearing ache that feels too much like bleeding.
“I see you found the shirt,” I manage, keeping my voice level. “Did you find your crazy socks too?”
She pulls the covers down just enough to bend her knees and lift her legs, feet pointed toward me. “Obviously.”
She is wearing those ridiculous, mismatched, fuzzy thigh-high socks I found on the floor of her rig, somehow left untouched.
They’re soft blue, one is scattered with tiny stars, and the other has horizontal stripes.
She used to match her socks wrong, and I am thankful for that tonight; I’d have a useless pair of matching socks.
Seeing her wrapped in all these small pieces of our old life does something to me I cannot control. My body reacts before my brain can shut it down, heat punching low and sharp. I grit my teeth and shift under the blanket, praying she does not notice. If she does, she keeps it to herself.
She exhales, a soft, tired sound, and then she rolls onto her side, giving me her back, then slowly inches back toward me.
Not enough to touch me or to make it blatantly obvious. Just enough that her warmth reaches across the thin space between us, a quiet signal I feel in my chest before I feel it anywhere else. It is subtle, intentional, the kind of nearness that says more than words ever could.
Just enough that I know she is asking without asking.
Hold me.
I swallow, my voice low. “Come here.”
Celeste tenses at my command.
I let the words settle between us, softer this time. “If you still need to be held, I’m here for you.”
The room holds its breath with me, the quiet stretching thin and fragile.
My pulse hammers my ribs, too loud in the stillness, every instinct I’ve tried to bury clawing its way back up as if it’s been waiting for this exact moment to break free.
I brace myself for her to pull away, to shut down, to rebuild the wall she had up earlier when everything felt too sharp and too close.
Instead, she shifts.
It’s a small movement, barely more than a sigh, but it ripples through me like a warning and a promise all at once.
She moves slowly, carefully, like she’s afraid the moment might shatter if she pushes too hard.
Like she’s testing the air between us, checking if it’s safe to step into the space I’ve kept her away from for months.
Then she rolls onto her other side, facing me now. Her eyes are half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion and something softer, something that hits me straight in the ribs. There’s a vulnerability there that I haven’t seen in a long time, one that makes my breath catch before I can stop it.
She inches closer.
Not all at once. Just a slow, hesitant drift, closing the space between us one breath at a time until her forehead brushes my chest. The touch is feather-light, tentative, like she’s asking a question she’s not sure she’s allowed to voice.
And God help me, I answer it without thinking.
I wrap an arm around her waist and ease her into me, guiding her into the familiar place she always used to sleep.
Her head tucks beneath my chin like it remembers the shape of me.
Her leg drapes over my hip, warm and trusting.
Her fingers settle near the edge of my ribs, curling lightly into my shirt like she’s anchoring herself to something she’s been missing.
And just like that, we’re right back where we used to be.
Where the ache of wanting her feels like a wound that never healed, and she fits against me like she never left at all.
I hold her tighter, pressing my nose into her hair, breathing her in like a man who’s been drowning and finally breaks the surface. The scent of her, the weight of her, the way she melts into me, it all hits at once, overwhelming and devastating.
My heart is a mess of contradictions. My body wants everything. My mind is screaming that this is a terrible idea, that I’m opening a door I won’t be able to close. And my soul… my soul is already unraveling in her hands, helpless and exposed.
What the hell am I doing? Why am I letting myself fall into this? Why am I torturing myself with something I don’t deserve?
Her breath hitches, and she presses closer, like the weight of the world might lift if I just hold her right. That tiny shift undoes me more than anything else tonight.
It settles over me slowly, like a truth I’ve been circling without ever letting myself touch.
This isn’t about me. It’s about her.
She needs this comfort and safety she’s always found in my arms. I can give her stability in the middle of all the chaos that’s been tearing her apart. And if I can be that for her, even for a single night, I will.
Even if it breaks me in the process.
I press a kiss to the top of her head, and I hold her like she’s still mine.
The rise and fall of her chest against mine is steady, her leg stays curled over my hip, her fingers twitching once before settling near my ribs again, as if her body is remembering a rhythm it hasn’t followed in a long time.
Her nose tucks into my collarbone like some part of her still knows this was always where she felt safest.
I close my eyes and breathe her in, letting the familiarity of her sink into me. It’s almost too much, and yet almost not enough.
And when her breath has gone soft and even, and I know she won’t hear the way my voice fractures, I bare my soul to her.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper into the dark, the words rough and raw at the edges. “I never should’ve pushed you away.”
The confession scrapes its way out of me like glass, coated in the guilt I’ve been carrying since the moment I ended things. It burns, but it’s the truth.
“I thought I was doing the right thing. That I was protecting you from all of this.” My hand slides gently along the curve of her spine, following the familiar path it used to know by heart.
“From me… but I was wrong about everything. I swear to you, Celeste… I’ll do everything to fight for you and make things right. ”
My fingers tighten just slightly against her hip, not enough to wake her. Just enough to anchor myself to the promise I didn’t even know I was going to make until it spilled out of me.
Because every word of it is true.
I don’t care if she forgives me tomorrow or never. But I’m not walking away this time. Not again.
Not unless she looks me in the eye and tells me she doesn’t want me.
And even then, God help me, I’m not sure I’ll survive it.
A tremor runs through me, small but sharp, the kind that comes from holding too much in for too long. I bury my face in her hair, letting the scent of her undo me in ways I’ve been pretending it doesn’t.
She breathes softly against my throat, completely unaware of the way she’s breaking me open just by existing in my arms. Completely unaware of the way I’m falling apart around her, quietly, desperately, hopelessly.
I swallow hard, the ache in my chest spreading like a bruise.
“I missed you,” I whisper, the words barely audible, scraped raw from somewhere deep. “More than I ever let myself admit.”
My voice cracks on the last word. I don’t try to hide it.
“I should’ve fought for us, I should’ve stayed with you. You were the best thing I ever had, Celeste. And I let you go like you meant nothing.” A shaky breath escapes me. “You mean everything.”
The words hang there, fragile and final, sinking into the quiet like stones.
I hold her a little tighter, just for tonight, just for this moment, just for the version of us that still exists in the dark.
And I let myself break quietly around her, piece by piece, in the only place she’ll never see.