Chapter 15
Lucien
Ihear her before I see her. Soft footsteps, the gentle clink of something in the bathroom, the faint hum of music she must’ve left playing out of habit.
Then she appears in the kitchen doorway, dressed more casually than I’ve seen her yet, hair still a little damp, a worn sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder.
Comfortable and relaxed, offering a glimpse of who she was before all of this happened.
“You’re finally up,” she says, smiling as she moves toward the counter. “I was starting to think you’d sleep through the whole morning.”
“Reasonable assumption,” I reply, my voice still rough, a hint of dry humor cutting through it. “I do have a reputation.” I lean where I am, letting my gaze follow her for a second longer than necessary before looking away.
“Do your days keep a pattern?” I ask, like it’s idle curiosity. “Or was yesterday an exception?”
She studies me for a second, head tilting before a soft laugh escapes her. “It’s Saturday, Luc. No work today.”
“Oh. Right.” I shake my head, filing that away.
Opening a cabinet, she continues. “I don’t have anywhere to be, but .
. . don’t feel you have to stick around just for me.
It’s not that I’m kicking you out or anything, I just .
. .” She pauses, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes not quite meeting mine.
“I just don’t want you to feel like you’re stuck babysitting me. ”
There’s a shakiness in her voice, but something else beneath it. Uncertainty, maybe. I step a little closer, careful not to close the distance too fast.
“So,” I say lightly, “what do your Saturdays usually look like?”
I tip my head, a trace of dry amusement in the gesture. “On the assumption that no babysitters are involved.”
She studies me for a moment before smiling, the expression gentler than before.
She leans back against the counter, considering.
“It varies,” she says. “Errands. Questionable cooking experiments. Wandering into places I have no business being in because of my limited finances.” A small shrug. “Mostly ordinary things.”
“I could leave,” I say after a moment, my tone even. “Or I could stay. Just for a bit.”
Her hazel eyes catch mine, and I can see her weighing the idea. When she speaks, her voice is lower. “Staying might be nice.”
I nod once, as if that settles it, though my chest tightens all the same.
We leave the apartment midmorning, the city already buzzing with weekend energy.
Dogs tug on leashes, sidewalk cafés spill with half-finished lattes, and the distant rhythm of someone’s music echoes from an open window.
It smells of roasted coffee beans and warm pavement.
Cece walks beside me, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, chin tilted to the breeze.
“This is my favorite kind of day,” she says, almost offhand. “Where you don’t have to be anywhere, and no one expects anything of you.”
I nod, watching her. “I can see why you’d want to hold on to that.”
She glances at me, a small smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “You’re not used to this, are you?”
“The city?” I ask.
“No. Just . . . this. Being ordinary.”
I don’t answer right away. We pass a street vendor selling flowers, and the scent of crushed petals follows us. “I don’t think I’ve had an opportunity to feel this,” I admit. “Until you.”
She says nothing, but her pace slows just a little, as if to walk closer to me without deciding about it.
We drift through the park, letting the day unfold without a plan.
She points out the bookstore she likes, the coffee shop that never remembers her name but has the best cold brew, and the corner where a busker sometimes plays Hozier and makes her cry for no good reason.
I watch her. The way her eyes light up at familiar things. The way she smiles when a passing dog jumps up on her to say hello.
At some point, she buys two paper cups of a hot drink from a small cart tucked between two buildings. She hands one to me.
“Try this, it’s chai,” she says. “It’s like autumn in drink form.”
I take a sip. It’s warm, spiced, a little sweet. The aroma is thick and woody, curling into my nose before I’m even ready for it. She watches me closely, hopeful, almost proud, like my reaction is the entire point of this moment. Which, honestly, makes it taste better than it actually is.
Because in truth, it’s pretty fucking awful.
“I see why you drink this,” I say, hoping it comes off remotely truthful.
She snorts. “You’re just saying that.”
“I’m not.” I pause. “Okay, fine. I am.” I see her smile.
“You don’t even like it, do you?”
I shrug. “Define like. It’s becoming . . . tolerable?”
She laughs, and it makes people turn to look at her. Not because she’s loud, but because the sound is so pure, warm, and inviting. A laugh that makes you want in on the story that prompted it.
We find a bench in the shade, and she stretches her legs out in front of her, head leaned back, letting the sun warm her face. I watch the light paint gold across her skin, and I wonder what it is about her that makes this world feel even less foreign.
“You’re different today,” she says after a while.
“Different how?”
“Less armored.” Her voice softens.
I look at her. The woman I pulled into another world without warning, the one still standing here anyway, making me drink shitty-tasting tea, leading me through the city like I belong in it.
“You make it easier,” I say.
She turns to face me, a little unsure. “To what?”
“To just . . . be.”
Cece looks away, blinking like the weight of that answer catches her by surprise.
“Come on.”
She blinks. “Where?”
I stand, offering my hand. “Just a little farther up the path. There’s a view I want to show you.”
I meet her eyes. “Trust me?”
She hesitates for only a moment. Then she places her hand in mine. “I do,” she says, just above a whisper.
We walk together toward the rise in the park, hand in hand, the city stretching behind us like a painting in motion.
We reach the top of the hill, and the city is laid out below us.
The sky has dipped into that golden-blue hour, where everything softens.
The hum of traffic is distant now, muffled beneath birdsong and wind threading through the leaves.
She slows, her hand still in mine, not letting go.
There’s a small bench tucked beneath a crooked maple, its leaves just beginning to blush with the season’s change. I sit first, and when she follows, she moves closer than I expect. Not quite touching, but near enough that I can feel her warmth bleed through the space between us.
Her hair glows in the light, a halo of soft brown-gold. She sips the last of her chai, absentmindedly tracing the rim of the paper cup with her thumb. Her movements are unguarded now, like she’s slowly letting herself settle into the nearness of me.
I glance at her, the profile of her face etched in the sun’s last light. “Can I ask you something?”
Cece lifts her eyes, curious. “You already are,” she jokes softly.
I smile, then meet her gaze steadily, letting her know this is different. That I’m serious. “I’d like to know more about your life. Before all of this craziness. What mattered to you then and . . . what still does.”
Her eyes widen, like she’s not used to anyone asking anything like that. “You want to talk about my job?” she teases, but she seems more open.
“I want to talk about you,” I say.
She goes quiet, watching me for a second, weighing the invitation. Then she exhales. “Alright. Um, let me see. I started a new job six months ago. SciCell. It’s a pharmaceutical company. I’m in research operations.”
Her fingers tighten around the empty cup, like she’s anchoring herself. “It’s mostly behind-the-scenes work. I help coordinate clinical trials. Scheduling, budgets, site logistics. I’m not the one doing the research itself, but I keep the wheels turning.”
“Do you like it?”
She hesitates, eyes glancing to mine. “I think I do. It’s intense. Sometimes even frustrating. But it feels like I’m part of something that matters. I wanted something that touches people. Something alive.”
The way she says it, alive, hits me unexpectedly. She’s glowing a little now, just from speaking about something she believes in. And I feel myself pulled closer to her. To the way she’s built herself space in a world that’s constantly trying to push her into smaller spaces.
“You want to be close to impact,” I offer.
She nods. “Exactly.”
A silence settles. She leans back against the bench and lets her shoulder brush mine.
I let it linger.
“What are the things you love?” I ask gently. “The people? The moments that still make your heart race, beyond duty and beyond work?”
She hesitates, just long enough for the stillness to feel heavy. Then her voice comes, soft but clear.
“Science,” she says with a small smile, like the word itself is a memory.
“Always science. I remember this old toy microscope I had as a child. One of those cheap plastic ones with terrible lenses. It was one of the only gifts I ever got, but goodness, I loved it. I spent hours peering at leaves and threads.”
A shadow flickers behind her eyes.
“I loved my mother,” she continues. “She died when I was very young, and I never knew my father at all. There are so many things I wish I could ask them, just to know more about who they were . . . and who I am.” She looks away for a moment, as if collecting herself, then draws a breath and shifts her tone.
“Slow weekends when the sky’s clear, and I can just wander without a plan. I love sunlight on my skin and the kick you get from cold-brew coffee. Too much of it, honestly.”
She glances down as she speaks, adding to the list with absent-minded strokes, her expression warm and faraway, like each item comes with its own memory she’s quietly reliving.
“Oh, and losing myself in a good book, especially on the weekends when I can stay up reading way too late, until I fall asleep with the lights still on.”