Chapter 19 Celeste
Celeste
The water is hot enough to blur the edges of the room, and I let it run until the steam softens the world, and the tile under my palms is the only thing that feels real.
I know if I stop the water, then the silence will come back, and with it the memory of last night, the way his arms folded around me, and the way my body fit into him as if it had been waiting for that exact place to rest.
After the way James tore through my rig and left everything exposed and raw, safety should be a foreign word, something I no longer recognize; instead safety is the memory of Lucian’s chest against mine, the slow, even beat of him under my cheek, and how he held me like he could gather the jagged pieces and lay them back where they belonged, and that contradiction sits in my ribs like a stone I cannot swallow or spit out.
I keep replaying fragments of his voice the way you replay a song you are not sure you remember correctly, soft and wrecked and urgent: I’m so sorry, I never should’ve pushed you away; I thought I was protecting you; you mean everything, and the words drift through the steam and my doubt until I cannot tell whether they landed in the dark last night or whether my heart stitched them together out of need.
A tentative knock at the door cuts through the water’s roar, and his voice follows it, “Celeste.”
I answer, trying to make it sound like I’m not falling apart at the seams, “Yeah?”
“I’m going to put some clothes on the counter for you,” he says, and the sentence is so simple it almost undoes me. How can I have clothes here when nothing survived last night? “Take your time, but get ready. I want to take you out for a bit.”
When I peel back the curtain and step into the cooler air, a neatly folded outfit waits next to the sink: a sleek, matching jogging set in a soft, muted teal that looks impossibly gentle against the harsh bathroom light, the fabric smooth beneath my fingertips, the kind that promises comfort without sacrificing strength.
A lightweight zip-front jacket lies on top, its seams clean and intentional, paired with fitted joggers that look like they were made for movement.
Beside them sit white running shoes with teal accents that brighten when I lift them, and two pairs of socks, one striped, and the other solid.
When I open the bathroom door, Lucian is leaning against the wall across from me, hands in his pockets, head tipped back slightly as if he’s been listening for the moment I’d step out. His eyes lift to mine, and something warm flickers there, then it’s gone before I can hold onto it.
I nod, and he pushes off the wall, guiding us down the hallway and into the elevator. The lobby smells like chicory and warm pastries, and before I can ask what the plan is, he gestures toward the café tucked in the corner.
“Coffee first,” he says, voice low. “Do you want to grab a seat, and I’ll get us drinks?”
I nod, trusting him to get my order right, and slip into a booth by the window, the vinyl cool beneath my palms as I settle in. Outside, New Orleans stretches awake in slow, honey-colored light.
For a moment, I let myself watch it all unfold. The world feels gentler than it has any right to be after the night I had, after the violation of seeing my rig torn apart. The sunlight glints off the windows across the street.
“Celeste.”
I jump, breath catching, fingers curling against the table. My heart stutters like it’s trying to climb out of my ribs. Lucian sets the coffees down, his movements quiet.
Shit. I didn’t realize how wound up I was.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I swallow, trying to steady myself. “You didn’t scare me.”
His eyes flick to mine, sharp and knowing, because of course he can read me even after all the time we spent apart.
“Are you okay?” he asks finally, the words rough around the edges, like he had to drag them out.
I nod, though I’m not sure it’s true. “Yeah, I’m just… watching the city wake up.”
His jaw flexes, a tiny movement, but I catch it. “Good. You need something normal today.”
Normal. As if anything about this is normal. As if his sitting across from me with that familiar crease between his brows doesn’t pull at every old wound and every old comfort at the same time.
He takes a sip of his coffee, eyes still scanning the room. “After this, we’re going for your morning run.”
I blink. “We’re going on a run?”
He looks at me with something steady in his gaze that feels like a hand on my spine even though he’s not touching me.
“You need it,” he says simply. “It helps you breathe.”
The words land with a weight I’m not ready for, because he’s right, and because he remembers, and because he shouldn’t still know me this well.
Outside, the city keeps waking, soft and golden and alive, and inside, Lucian sits across from me like a storm I once survived and somehow still crave.
When he reaches for his coffee again, his fingers brush mine, and the world tilts just slightly, like it’s reminding me that nothing between us is simple, and nothing ever really was.
We sit in silence for a long stretch, and I feel the tension between us growing. This is the longest we’ve been in each other’s company, especially since I’ve been trying to avoid him unless necessary.
I wrap my hands around my coffee cup, letting the warmth seep into my palms, trying not to think about how close he is, how familiar the shape of him feels even now.
Lucian keeps staring out the window, watching the street, jaw tight, shoulders coiled like he’s bracing for something only he can see.
Then, without warning, he exhales and blurts, “I’m sorry.”
I blink at him. Is this what I think it is? “For what?”
He doesn’t look away this time. “For how I ended things. For how I left.”
My throat tightens.
Ope… It is.
He drags a hand across his jaw, like the words are scraping their way out.
“I was scared,” he says, voice low, steady in that way that means he’s forcing himself to stay in it.
“Not of you. Of me. Of what I would have to deal with after the accident. I didn’t know how to be someone worth keeping around after I lost part of my leg.
And I sure as hell didn’t think I could be someone you could still want.
I knew the tour was coming up, and you were working with Umbra in some capacity, and I didn’t want to hold you back. ”
The confession lands between us like a stone dropped into deep water. I swallow hard. “You didn’t even give me the chance to prove you wrong.”
“I know,” he says quietly. “And I hate that.”
I study him, really look at him. The man across from me isn’t the one who had nurses escort me to the hospital parking lot, leaving me sobbing into my steering wheel.
I’ve tried to ignore it, but there’s something steadier in him now.
Not soft, he will never be soft, but grounded.
Like he finally stopped trying to outrun the parts of himself he doesn’t want people to see.
“What changed?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intend.
His eyes drop to the coffee in front of him. “Well, therapy’s helped. I still have shit to work through. But don’t feel like I’m constantly drowning anymore.”
“But why are you telling me all this?” I whisper.
He leans forward, placing his elbows on the table, and the morning light pours through the window, catching in his eyes and turning them a deep, molten gold. He looks at me like he’s bracing for impact, like the truth is something he’s finally strong enough to hold.
“Because I don’t want to lie to you,” he says. “Not anymore. And because being near you again is bringing up every reason I loved you in the first place.”
My heart stutters, a sharp, startled beat. “Lucian—”
“I’m not asking for you to say it back,” he cuts in, but his voice is gentle, almost careful. “I know I broke something I can’t glue back together. I just needed you to know… it mattered. You mattered, and you still do.”
The words land like a bruise blooming under my ribs. It hurts to hear, because some part of me still wants it too, still remembers the shape of the future we almost had. And yet… I can’t ignore what came after. The silence. The abandonment. The way he left when things got hard.
“I don’t know what to do with all of this,” I whisper, the truth slipping out before I can soften it.
“I’m not asking you to do anything right now,” he says, steady in a way that feels new. “You’ve been through enough. I just needed you to know where I stand.”
I nod slowly, letting the words settle, letting the ache of them loosen just a little. “You’ve come a long way.”
“I’m still making progress,” he admits. “Every day. It’s not linear, but… I’m fighting for myself now. I didn’t know how to do that before.”
“You should be proud of yourself, Lucian.”
“I am. It’s hard work,” he says quietly. “But it’s worth it. Especially if it means I get to sit here with you and not pretend I don’t still feel everything I used to.”
“I appreciate your honesty, but I’m going to have to think about it,” I tell him, carefully, trying to be as honest as I can. Because I owe him that. And I owe myself that too.
“Okay.” He nods once. “That’s more than I thought I’d get.”
And somehow, that simple acceptance, no pressure or expectation in his voice, makes me want to reach across the table and take his hand. Not because we’re back where we were. Not because everything is fixed.
But because maybe… someday… we could build something new from the pieces that survived.
Lucian doesn’t push or reach for my hand or try to fill the silence with promises he can’t make. He just sits there, steady and patient, like he’s willing to let the moment be whatever it needs to be.
Eventually, he glances toward the window, toward the soft gold spilling across the street. “We should get moving,” he says quietly. “Before it gets too hot.”
I nod, grateful for the shift, for the chance to stand and breathe and let my body do something other than hold the weight of everything we just said. We gather our cups, toss them in the bin, and step out into the morning.
We start slow, walking until the sidewalk widens and the morning crowd thins. Then he glances at me, a small question in his eyes.
“Are you ready?”
I inhale, the air thick with humidity and possibility. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
We take off together, our strides syncing without effort, like our bodies remember a rhythm our hearts haven’t caught up to yet.
Running has always been my way back to myself. Step after step, breath after breath, the world narrows into something manageable. And with the way Lucian has been running beside me the past couple of weeks, matching my pace without crowding me, it makes the runs feel different.
My thoughts drift back to the café, to the way his voice softened when he said he still felt everything he used to, and how he didn’t ask for forgiveness or a second chance. Just honesty.
Maybe that’s why this run feels lighter than it should. Because for the first time in months, I’m not carrying everything alone.
We turn a corner, the Mississippi River coming into view, sunlight dancing on the water like it’s laughing, and I realize, somewhere between one step and the next, that maybe I’m not as afraid of the “what if” as I thought.
Maybe, just maybe, there’s room for something new to grow here. Something steadier. Something earned.
Something that doesn’t run.