The tension that’s been coiled tight along my spine starts to unwind. The cops, the reports, the shadows that have been trailing us, they’re still out there, but right now they feel distant. Celeste is in her element, surrounded by people who love her, and watching her like this does something to me I don’t have a name for.
I glance over at her, still twisted around like she’s trying to climb into the backseat without actually doing it. “Doesn’t that make you carsick?” I ask.
She turns back toward me just long enough to raise a brow. “Lucian. My brother is Orion; he turns leisure drives into street races. I got an iron stomach years ago.”
Fair point.
Forty minutes slip by. The road stretches ahead in long dark ribbons. I’ve had the destination in the back of my mind all week, Colorado Springs.
I glance over at her, wearing my shirt, and am reminded of how it nearly knocked the breath out of me when she walked downstairs. She catches me looking, and the corner of her mouth lifts. She has no idea how much planning went into this night for her. I want it to hand her back a piece of herself she’s had to tuck away, and give her a moment to stand in that part of herself again, even if only for a moment.
By the time I ease the SUV off the exit, the backseat is still buzzing, Linkin is retelling another story of his time in Miami, and Shiloh is answering in that flat, amused way that makes his exaggerations sound like confessions.
I parallel park into the spot right in front of the building and hold my breath. I’ve been planning this exact moment all week. What if she thinks I overstepped again? The engine settles into a low hum, vibrating through the wheel and into my palms. Celeste looks up and freezes when she reads the sidewalk sign.
“Lucian…” Her voice is soft, almost disbelieving. “Are we about to do what I think we are?”
I cut the engine, let the quiet settle, and allow myself a small smile. “I told you I had a surprise for you.”
Her eyes shine in the dim glow of the lamp post we parked next to, like I just handed her back a piece of herself she thought she’d lost.
Linkin leans forward from the backseat, wearing a grin so obnoxious it should be illegal. “I call dibs on HOT TO GO!” Linkin whoops as he starts to dance.
“It’s not karaoke, Linkin, it’s open mic night,” I correct, cutting him off. The sidewalk sign hasOPEN MIC TONIGHTwritten in chalked letters.
We spill out of the SUV and fall into step toward the door. Noise pours from the bar before we reach it. Linkin struts ahead like he owns the place, already teasing Shiloh about signing her up to sing. I keep my arm locked around Celeste as I scan the room, looking for anyone out of place.
Celeste has a sparkle in her eyes I haven’t seen before. She’s buzzing, like the world could cave in and she’d still be happy. She walks up to the signup table and comes back with a small, private grin; the table eases into easy chatter while we wait, stories pinging between us like loose change.
Celeste shakes her head, laughing softly at something Linkin said. She’s glowing, her hair catches in the low lights, a quiet joy rolling off her like waves. I’ve seen her on a couple of the biggest stages in the States, but this is going to be different. This is just Celeste, not Ara, unarmored but still fierce.
“Next up, Celeste.” The host calls her name in a casual voice. The words land like a bell, making everything inside me go still.
She slides out of the booth with the calm of someone who has already chosen every step she will take. She walks to the stage and sits at the piano as if the place has always been hers, then turns her gaze back toward us. The room hums with ordinary noise, glasses clinking, low conversation, a laugh from the far side of the bar. For most of the room, it is background noise. For me, the air around the stage tightens, and I find myself leaning forward without meaning to.
She adjusts the mic, and the casual din softens as people turn to look at the newest musician on stage. She leans into the mic and introduces herself. “Hi. My name is Celeste, and I’m going to play an original tonight.”
Her fingers press into the first chord, and the sound blooms warm and full through the room. My chest tightens at the softness of it.
The room goes quiet the moment she starts to play. It is just her and the piano now; there’s nothing to hide behind, it’s just her voice, her hands, and her truth.
When she finds my eyes, something in her expression opens. It is not the sharp, reckless spark from that first night we met that felt like we might set the world on fire just by breathing in the same space. This look is quieter and far more dangerous. It is the look of someone offering the truth of herself with both hands, steady and unflinching, as if she is placing her heart on the table and waiting to see what I will do with it.
My lungs forget how to work when she begins to sing.
The first line is soft and intimate, a confession wrapped in melody, something about walls and storms. I hear every word, but part of me is still caught in that moment when she looked at me like she was giving me something she would never take back. The lyrics follow in slow, deliberate steps.
I freeze.
This isn’t—is this about us?
The song unfolds like a confession. Each chord feels like a heartbeat. Each line feels like a truth she has never dared to say out loud. My throat goes dry. All the months of second-guessing, all the wondering if I would ever feel like a whole man again, loosen their grip.
She pins me with those electric blue eyes as she sings, “No empty promises, just truth in your eyes. No white flag, just a love that survives.”
My pulse roars in my ears.
She keeps singing, but the only thing I can hear is the way those words hit me square in the chest.Love that survives.I have spent this past year in survival mode, clawing my way through the wreckage of myself, and now she is up there saying she sees something worth loving again in the middle of it.
