The part of me that aches to be close to him again?
Is grateful.
18
Lucian
The door clicks shut behind Celeste, and the sound feels louder than it should in the tiled room. I stare at the rippling surface of the water where she’d been curled against my chest minutes ago.
I can still feel her.
The shape of her body molded to mine, and the soft, steady rhythm of her breathing. She held on to me as if I were the only solid thing left in her world.
Now that she’s gone, the tub feels twice as cold, and twice as empty. Like the water itself is missing something.
I drag a hand down my face and lean forward, bracing my good knee, shifting my weight slowly and carefully, trying to find the angle that won’t send that familiar warning spike up my spine. Getting out of the tub used to be effortless. A thought, a movement, and nothing more.
Now it’s a negotiation with gravity. And gravity usually wins the first round.
The edge of the tile bites into my palms as I brace and heave. My muscles protest, a low burn that radiates up my arms and across my shoulders. There’s no grace, just effort and water sloshing as I finally manage to hoist myself upright. I’d never let anyone see this side of my new life if I could help it.
Especially not her.
I towel off in silence, keeping my eyes away from the mirror. I don’t need the reminder of what’s missing. I feel it every time I move.
Sitting on the closed toilet lid and let myself breathe for a moment, staring at the tiny travel bag tucked in the corner. The diffuser and oils Shiloh shoved into my hand while Celeste was looking through the damage in her rig are still inside.They’ll help her sleep,she’d said.And don’t tell her it was my idea. Just do it.
So I will.
After fitting my prosthetic back on, I grab the bag, check my balance, and open the bathroom door.
Soft light spills across the room from the cracked window and the bedside lamps, warm and low. It takes me a second to adjust, to shift from the harsh tile and steam to this quiet, golden calm.
She’s in bed.
Right in the middle of it, wrapped in a towel, hair damp, curled in on herself in a way that sayshold mewithout a single word. And God, I want to. I want to slide in beside her, let her tuck herself against me the way she did in the tub, pretend for one night that we didn’t lose almost eight months to fear and pride and everything we never said. She let me hold her tonight because she broke, not because she’s ready to let me back in.
Still, I want to be close. Close enough that if she wakes up shaking, I’m there, and she won’t have to reach far.
I cross the room quietly, aiming for the side of the bed between her and the door. The place I always take, which lets me keep her safe from anyone who might come through the door unexpectedly.
I set the diffuser on the nightstand and unscrew the top, my hands moving quietly. It’s easier to focus on the motions than on the shape of her under the blankets. The sound of the soft cotton bedding swishes as she tries to get more comfortable.
She doesn’t say anything until I click the diffuser on and the soft blue glow pulses from within, like moonlight caught in glass.
“What are you doing?” Her voice is rough and soft, already drifting toward sleep.
I keep my eyes on the diffuser. Looking at her right now feels like a risk I am not steady enough to take. “Setting up a diffuser,” I say quietly. “There are a few oils in here. Chamomile, vetiver, lavender. Things that are supposed to help us sleep.”
I let myself glance over my shoulder.
She has pulled the covers up to her chin, watching me with a focus that is almost childlike in its honesty. Something in her sleepy expression softens. She is letting me take care of her, even if it is only in this small, fragile moment.
I move to my side of the bed and reach down to undo my prosthetic. The comforter dips under my weight, and I pause, turning toward her. A quiet settles between us into something warmer that almost feels like permission.
Then I see what she’s wearing.
For a moment, everything inside me goes still.
