Linkin, unable to help himself, brightens like a man stepping into a live wire. “So, how does this go? Do you two glare at each other until someone combusts? Should I go grab my safety goggles?”
Celeste pauses mid-pour. I catch the way her shoulders lift and settle, the subtle tell she’s never quite managed to break—the one that used to appear when I pushed her buttons on purpose.
She turns with the mug still warm in her hands and leans back against the counter, posture deceptively loose, expression carefully neutral. It’s the look she wears when she’s decided not to give me anything for free.
“We start now,” she says. “I need a run first, then we have a tour meeting, followed by rehearsal.”
“Understood.”
“Look, I don’t want chaos,” she adds, her voice tightening just a degree. “Or attitude. We’re professionals.”
A faint smile touches my mouth before I can stop it. “We always have been. I’ll set up wherever you need me,” I keep my tone steady and my posture relaxed. “You tell me your expectations. I’ll exceed them.”
Linkin lets out a quiet,oh damn.
Celeste rolls her eyes at me as her fingers tighten ever so slightly on the mug. She needs to know I’m not here to lick wounds or beg or break. I’m here to build—and if she gives me the slightest opening, to win.
“Fine,” she says, turning away like she didn’t just flinch. “We’ll go over details after our run.”
Her voice is smooth, controlled, but there’s a tremor beneath it that slices deeper than anger ever could. She grabs her shoes and angrily puts them on.
We all head out, the air is still cool enough to sting our lungs with each inhale. Linkin heads back to his rig as Celeste and I follow the trail through the campground that cuts straight into the trees. Celeste sets the pace without looking back, with a long, efficient stride like she’s trying to outpace me.
I fall in beside her, not to crowd her but to try and match her rhythm. Half a mile in, her shoulders loosen enough that I can see the tension slowly bleeding out of her through this run.
By the time we loop back and are standing in front of her rig, sweat darkens the collar of her shirt, and her breathing has evened out. She wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist, her eyes flicking toward me with something that isn’t quite softness but isn’t hostility either.
“Better?” I ask quietly.
She ignores me and yanks open her door as I follow her. She takes two steps, then stops, placing her hand against an angled door next to her.
“This is Jamie’s room, you’ll be staying here for the next three months. We modified it for her to have somewhere comfortable to sleep.”
Three months.
The words settle in my chest with quiet weight.
“The sheets are clean,” she adds, already walking away again, like logistics are easier than looking at me. “The bathroom is mine in the mornings. Don’t touch my stuff.”
“Understood,” I say, because it’s the only response that won’t betray me.
She disappears down the hall, and her presence lingers after her—the warmth of citrus and salt, that familiar scent that clings like memory.
Old nights surface without permission.
Her fingers in my hair.
Her laugh against my throat.
The way she used to curve into my lap as if she belonged there.
I lock it all down before it reaches my face.
I stand there for a moment, then force myself to move all of my stuff into my new room.
Not mine—but Jamie’s.
Her room is small, but everything is functional. The bed is already out with the sheets neatly tucked in, it looks soft with wear, creased where a body has slept and gotten comfortable. There’s a pillow with a faint indentation at its center, a blanket folded with the kind of casual care that says someone actually uses it instead of performing tidiness.
