He studies me for a beat, reassessing, then shifts just enough to let me pass, but close enough that we brush shoulders. A territorial move, subtle but unmistakable, meant to remind me whose space this is.
Sir Sass flicks his tail directly into his face as we squeeze by.
Good boy.
The moment I step inside, instinct takes over. My gaze sweeps the living area automatically, cataloging exits and angles before settling on details I don’t mean to notice but can’t ignore. The space is warm, lived-in, unmistakably hers, with mismatched throw pillows on the couch, half-burned candles scattered like forgotten thoughts, a mug by the sink with a faint smear of lip gloss on the rim.
Celeste is everywhere.
I tell myself I’m assessing the environment, but the truth is simpler and more dangerous: I’m looking for her. Wondering if I can catch a glimpse of her before she sees me and locks herself down.
“Quick heads up,” Linkin says behind me, leaning back against the island like this is casual conversation. “Celeste is… particular about who she lets into her space.”
I turn slowly to face him. “I know,” I say evenly. “And I don’t need your permission to do my job.”
His grin falters just long enough to satisfy something dark in me.
He smooths it away, voice light again, friendly on the surface. “She’s tough. Brilliant,” he says, like he’s listing credentials. “Just don’t forget she’s not yours to hurt.”
My brows lift. “Excuse me?”
“Just saying,” he replies, sweetness layered over something sharper. “Handle her with care, okay? Doesn’t take much to break something important… again.”
That word lands exactly where he intends it to.
I meet his gaze, steady and unflinching. Whatever warning he thinks he’s issuing, I don’t rise to it.
“I’m not here to break anything,” I say quietly.
The door at the end of the hallway opens, every instinct sharpening at once. Then she steps into view, and the air in the rig shifts like it’s been pulled tighter around us.
Celeste.
She looks sleep-warm and bare-faced, hair pulled back in a high knot, unguarded in a way that feels almost deliberate. She’s dressed in a matching two-piece jogging set that somehow makes the early light lean toward her.
And mismatched socks.
Of course.
It’s such a small thing, but it hits with familiar precision. Celeste has always been two truths at once. Intention and rebellion. Elegance with a quiet refusal stitched into the seams. The woman who builds her armor carefully, then breaks one rule just to remind herself she can.
My chest tightens before I can stop it.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve seen her like this before. Watched her dress with the same meticulous care, matching everything except one detail no one else would ever notice. She likes order, but she never cages herself.
Still, the sight lands harder than I expect.
“Lucian,” she says, slow and measured, like she’s testing the word before releasing it.
“Celeste.”
The space between us fills with something brittle. Linkin shifts nearby, clearly sensing it, but I don’t look away from her.
“Orion said you’d be here at six,” she says, already moving past me toward the coffeemaker, her tone casual enough that it’s almost convincing.
Almost.
“He had a car pick me up at five-thirty,” I reply evenly. “I assume chaos was the goal.”
