Chapter 21 Celeste
Celeste
The crowd’s roar still hums under my skin as we spill into the green room, the four of us shedding stage adrenaline like glitter.
Sweat, laughter, and exhaustion blur together in the soft lamplight someone mercifully switched on while we were changing.
By the time I tug my clothes back on and sink onto the couch, my legs feel like overcooked noodles.
Link throws himself down beside me like he’s been shot, letting out a groan that sounds like it’s been fermenting in his soul for decades. “If I die tonight,” he announces to the ceiling, “tell the world it was my bodyguard’s fault.”
Korbyn, already stretched out on the floor like she’s auditioning to be a corpse, snorts. “What, do you think he’s going to try to kill you in your sleep?”
“Worse. He snores like a chainsaw. But like, a chainsaw that’s also possessed. I’m talking full-body vibrations. I had to down four energy drinks just to stay conscious today.”
“That explains the twitching,” Rowan calls from across the room without looking up from whatever he’s fiddling with.
“I roomed with my brother. It was like being twelve again. He kept talking in his sleep, and I might’ve threatened to smother him with a pillow. Honestly? It was kinda nostalgic.” Korbyn says the last part around a groan as she stretches out her back.
Shiloh settles cross-legged beside me, picking at the hem of her joggers. “Mine was fine,” she says, which is Shiloh-speak for I’m not elaborating, don’t ask.
And then, like a flock of synchronized birds, they all turn to me.
Heat rushes up my neck so fast it’s dizzying. I can feel it blooming across my cheeks, bright and traitorous.
“I…” My voice cracks, which is great. Fantastic, actually. Exactly what I wanted. “I don’t really know what happened last night.”
Four pairs of eyebrows lift.
I tug at the ends of my hair, staring very intently at a spot on the floor. “I’m still trying to figure out where Lucian and I even… stand.”
There’s a beat of silence before Link sits up and leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes wide with feral curiosity. “Okay, but something happened. You don’t get that shade of tomato red from nothing. That’s like heirloom tomato red.”
Korbyn props herself up on her elbows. “Did he say something? Did you say something? Did someone cry? Blink twice if someone cried. Blink three times if it was him.”
I exhale slowly, because they’re not wrong, and knowing them, they’re not going to let this go. “He apologized.”
That gets their attention. Rowan actually looks up. Linkin’s eyebrows shoot so high they practically leave his face. Korbyn sits all the way up.
“For real?” she asks. “Like… a real apology? Not a Lucian-brand ‘grunt and eye roll’ apology?”
“Yeah, a real one. About everything. How he left, how he handled the accident, and for shutting me out. And then he… took me shopping.”
Korbyn grins. “Okay, that’s cute.”
I groan. “It’s not—I mean—that’s not the point.”
Shiloh tilts her head. “Is there more?”
“He also… might’ve bought me books.”
“He bought you books?” Rowan asks.
When I hesitate, Korbyn narrows her eyes. “Celeste.”
“He ordered an overflowing cart full,” I mumble.
“A cart?” Link repeats, blinking like he’s trying to reboot his entire operating system. “Like… a full cart? That’s—wow. That’s a lot of books. That’s like… ‘I’m in my feelings’ levels of books.”
But the joke doesn’t land the same way. Not this time.
Korbyn sits up straighter, her expression shifting from amused to something far more serious. “Celeste…”
Link leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice softer than I’ve heard it all night. “That’s a big gesture. And I’m not saying it’s bad. I’m just saying, it’s big.”My throat tightens. “I know.”
Korbyn scoots closer, resting her chin on her knee as she studies me. “We’re not trying to rain on anything. We just want to make sure you’re okay. That you’re not getting swept up in something before you’re ready.”
“I’m not,” I say quickly, then wince. “I mean… I don’t think I am. I just… don’t know what any of it means.”
Shiloh smiles softly. “You don’t have to know yet.”
Rowan crosses his arms, his voice low and steady. “Just remember, you don’t owe him anything. Not because he apologized, or because he bought you things, and definitely not because of the past.”
Link points at me with the cap of his water bottle, his expression surprisingly earnest. “Exactly. You get to choose what happens next. Not him. You.”
Korbyn reaches up and squeezes my hand. “If you decide to try again, to take it slow, or to walk away, know we are here for you. No questions asked.”
Shiloh nods as Rowan gives a small grunt of agreement. Link offers a crooked, soft smile that’s so un-Link it almost knocks the air out of me.
“You’re our girl,” he says simply. “We’ve got you.”
The warmth of it hits hard. I’m still trying to breathe through it when the door swings open, and Lucian steps inside.
His eyes sweep the room, landing on me for a heartbeat before he shifts into business mode. “Everyone good?”
Link lifts his water bottle in a half-salute, tone light but edged. “Peachy.”
Lucian’s jaw ticks. “Since you’re all here, I want to tell you about an update I got from Orion.”
And just like that, the air shifts again.
He tells us about the call—the hooded figure, the footage, the backpack, the possibility that it was James. Every word lands like a stone in my stomach. He asks if anyone has any questions or comments, and no one pushes for details. I don’t think any of us wants any more.
Lucian turns toward Rowan and Korbyn. “Have either of you heard anything from James?”
Rowan shakes his head immediately. “No.”
Korbyn hesitates before echoing him. “Nothing.” The single word lands, and every head turns. “It’s just weird, he always reaches out to gloat. Especially when he thinks he’s gotten under someone’s skin.”
Shiloh’s brows draw together. “What do you mean by ‘gloat’?”
“I mean, he should’ve called by now. Or texted. Or… something.” Her voice thins, barely above a whisper. “Him being quiet? That’s not good. That means he’s planning something worse.”
A cold ripple moves through the room.
Lucian’s jaw tightens. “We’re not letting anything happen to you. Any of you.”
* * *
My pulse quickens, a steady, insistent rhythm that moves from my ribs up into my throat until it feels like the only sound in the car.
The memories don’t arrive as flashes so much as a slow tide, folding over one another until the edges of the hurt and the edges of the wanting blur; there is warmth threaded through the ache, and it makes the present feel both heavier and more possible.
He had a way of making ordinary things feel private and sacred: the quiet ritual of him clearing the plates while I perched on the counter, the small, exacting ways he learned what made me laugh, the way his hands remembered me even when his mouth would not speak.
Those moments are not gone; they live under my skin, patient and precise, and tonight they press against whatever armor I’ve built until something gives.
I am not naive about how he acted when he ended things. I remember the silence that followed, the months that taught me how to breathe around an absence, the nights I convinced myself I could be whole without him. That history is a ledger I will not erase.
But there is also a ledger of tenderness, of the kind of attention that arrives without fanfare and settles into the small architecture of a life. Standing at the edge, I feel a decision forming that is neither surrender nor denial; it is a deliberate, careful opening.
He will have to earn my trust back. It’s not a thing I can easily hand over twice.
I will keep my boundaries like a map, clear and visible, and I won’t confuse longing for readiness.
But I need to stop pretending the part of me that loved him didn’t survive the fall.
That part is stubborn and true, and it has a voice I can’t ignore.
I let the thought settle in me like a small, dangerous seed: I want to try.
The future feels fragile in the way new glass does, like it could be beautiful, or it could cut.
I am choosing to hold it anyway, to see whether what he offers now is the same hollow echo or something rebuilt with intention.
My breath evens out a fraction as the road hums on.
The idea of moving forward with him feels less like a trap and more like a choice I am willing to make on my own terms.
Lucian parks the car, and I realize we’ve made it the entire drive without talking. By the time we make it up to the room, my breathing is shallow again, and my heart feels like it’s about to fall out of my chest.
The room door closes behind us with a soft click that sounds louder than it should.
The lights are dim, the city glittering through the window like a promise and a dare.
He drops his bag by the armchair, and for a moment we just stand there, two people who have rehearsed this silence in different ways.
I don’t want to be theatrical, or hand him a speech or a list of conditions like a contract. I want to be honest, raw in the way that matters. So I let the quiet do the work until it’s mine to break.
“I want to try,” I tell him. The words land between us like a careful offering.
“Try what?” His voice is cautious and hopeful, as if he’s afraid to break whatever fragile thing we’ve just set down between us.
“Us,” I say, and the single syllable carries everything I haven’t let myself admit.
“Not the version that picked up where it left off, because that version is broken. I don’t want a reset that pretends the damage never happened.
I want to see if we can build something that lasts this time—if you can be the man who shows up when it’s inconvenient, who keeps the promises he makes in private, who remembers the small things without me asking. ”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he closes the distance with a slow, deliberate step.
Lucian stops just close enough that I can see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his jaw works when he’s choosing words.
“I’ll show up and do the things you asked for, even when it’s boring or hard.
I don’t expect you to forgive me overnight.
I don’t expect trust to be given back because I ask for it.
I will earn it, and I will be patient. If groveling is what it takes, I’ll do it.
I’ll get on my knees if that’s what you need. ”
My chest tightens, and the air seems to thin around us the moment he says he would get on his knees.
It’s not the image of him begging that unmoors me, but the picture my mind stitches together: Lucian on his knees, eyes fixed on mine, that dangerous mouth softened into something like contrition.
I feel it as a physical thing, a pull under my ribs, because I’ve never seen him like that.
He’s always been the one who takes up space, who reads me and bends me with a look, who can break and rebuild me with the same hand.
Now my brain short-circuits, not with shame but with memory: his fingers tangled in my hair, the heat of his breath at my ear, the way his voice could turn rough and private and make the world shrink until it was only us.
Those memories are electric and messy and utterly his, and imagining that same man choosing humility and being on his knees, not as a performance but as an offering—feels like watching a storm learn to be gentle.
“Let me show you.” He reaches for my hand and guides me toward the bed with the same careful steadiness he promised.
The sight of him lowering himself is nothing like the image my mind had skittered toward earlier. This is way fucking hotter.
Lucian’s hands come to my hips, anchoring me while his gaze drags over me like he’s memorizing every inch he’s been denied. There’s something reverent in it, like he’s stripped himself of every sharp edge and kept only the part of him that knows how to kneel.
Lucian’s thumbs press into my hips like punctuation, grounding me there while his hands slide outward, tracing the line where fabric meets skin. He pauses, just long enough to look up at me, a silent question in his eyes.
I nod.
That’s all it takes.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my skirt and eases it down inch by inch, never breaking eye contact. The drag of fabric against my skin feels louder than it should, every centimeter exposed deliberate, intentional. When it finally pools around my ankles, he nudges it aside.
His hands return immediately, reverent again, palms smoothing over bare skin as if he’s apologizing for every moment he wasn’t allowed to. His touch is unhurried, like he’s proving something with restraint instead of hunger.
Lucian leans in, pressing his mouth to my thigh first. Not where I expected, or where I want. A soft kiss, then another, mapping his way upward with maddening patience. His breath ghosts over me between touches, close enough to promise, far enough to torment.
I shiver, and he notices.
A quiet sound leaves him—approval, maybe? Satisfaction.
He trails kisses higher, pauses again, then drags his hands slowly up my legs, thumbs brushing just close enough to my center to make my pulse stutter. Every movement feels intentional, like he’s reminding me that this isn’t about urgency, and instead it’s about attention.
When he finally rises, it’s unhurried, his mouth worshiping its way back up my body, his hands following, anchoring, steadying.
By the time his hands reach my waist, and his mouth is on my sternum, I’m already undone, my breathing turns shallow, as my skin hums, completely aware of every place he hasn’t touched yet.
Lucian rests his forehead against my neck for a beat, still on his knees, like he’s collecting himself.
Then he looks at me again, eyes dark, mouth soft, devotion written all over his face.
And I know—this isn’t him asking for forgiveness.
This is him earning it.