I knew Celeste as laughter in my kitchen, bare feet on cold tile, the way she leaned into me like the world went quiet when I wrapped my arms around her. I knew her softness, her sharp humor, the way she watched people as if she was always measuring what they didn’t say.
I was in love with her when I thought that was the whole of her.
But it wasn’t.
She learned how to split herself cleanly in two—one version forged for the world, loud and untouchable and worshipped, and another kept private, and human, and breakable. I only ever held the quiet half. I never realized how much strength it took for her to keep those worlds from bleeding together, and how much trust it took her to give me that side of her.
And now I’m supposed to protect her, the thought sits wrong in my chest. The irony is almost enough to laugh at, if laughing didn’t feel like it might split me open.
I can’t sleep through most nights without waking up tangled in phantom pain, but sure—put me next to the woman I broke and call it personal growth. Call it fate. Call it whatever makes this easier to swallow.
No. She’s not the woman I broke.
She’s Celeste.
I scrub a hand down my face, jaw locking as if I can physically hold myself together by force alone. I told myself I left because I was doing the right thing, and I was sparing her from watching me fall apart, from seeing the man I was turning into.
That was the lie; the truth is uglier.
I didn’t walk away from her.
I ran. Full tilt. As fast as I could manage. I told myself distance was strength, that cutting her out was a clean, decisive thing instead of the coward’s exit it really was. I couldn’t stand the thought of her seeing me altered, scarred, unsure of who I was without the body I trusted. I couldn’t stand the idea of needing her.
Standing in front of her tonight and seeing this other side of her feels like all that running finally slammed to a stop. Like I hit the wall I’ve been sprinting toward for seven months and only just realized it was there.
I’ve been avoiding the wrong thing this whole damn time.
I grab my compression sleeve and pull it on with more force than necessary, then push myself upright before putting the rest of my prosthetic on with practiced ease that has come from months of going through the same motions. Orion disappeared at some point during my mental breakdown, and Sir Sass watches from the chair, eyes tracking me like he knows I’m about to do something reckless. I don’t look at him for long. I know if I stay in this room another minute, I’ll drown in the weight of everything I left behind.
The hotel gym is mostly quiet at this hour, just the low hum of fluorescent lights, the steady rhythm of someone else’s footsteps on a treadmill across the room, and the soft, metallic clink of weights as I rerack my last set. The physical strain helps and anchors me in something immediate, something I can control.
That’s how Orion finds me.
I don’t know how long I’ve been grinding my frustration into steel or how long he’s been watching from the doorway, but he doesn’t announce himself; he just waits to see how much of an idiot I’ll make of myself.
He leans there, his arms crossed, his shoulder braced against the frame like he has no care in the world. The look on his face isn’t judgment. It’s the same quiet, watchful focus he’s worn beside me in parking garages, briefing rooms, and crime scenes that smelled like gunpowder and bad endings.
I grunt and wipe my face with the towel around my neck. “Are you gonna say something, or just keep staring at me like a disappointed parent?”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “I’ve seen disappointed parents,” he says, pushing off the doorframe and stepping inside. “If I were like mine, you’d be bleeding.”
I snort under my breath. “Give it time.”
I lower myself onto the bench, slow and deliberate. My leg is throbbing now, heat pulsing in time with my heartbeat. I pushed it too far, and we both know it.
Orion drags another bench over and sits across from me, his forearms resting on his knees. The sleeves of his hoodie ride up slightly, revealing old scars I recognize. We’ve both collected them over the years, some together, others separately.
“You remember when you told me,” he says after a beat, “that the worst thing someone could do to you after an injury was take away your choice?”
I glance up, surprised. “Yeah.”
“You were right, and I’m not here to do that.” He holds my gaze, steady and direct, the way he always has when he’s about to say something that really matters.
“I talked to your physical therapist,” he continues. “Then I spoke with your doctor. Separately. Neither of them knew theother had already talked to me. They both said the same thing, that you’ve been working harder than most people half your age. Your recovery isn’t luck; it’s a result of your determination and discipline. They cleared you. Not conditionally. Fully.”
The words land heavier than I expect. My pride swells first, followed immediately by unease. Clearance means possibility, and possibility means risk.
“I want you to take over Jamie’s position while she’s on leave.”
