A tentative knock at the door cuts through the water’s roar, and his voice follows it, “Celeste.”
I answer, trying to make it sound like I’m not falling apart at the seams, “Yeah?”
“I’m going to put some clothes on the counter for you,” he says, and the sentence is so simple it almost undoes me. How can I have clothes here when nothing survived last night? “Take your time, but get ready. I want to take you out for a bit.”
When I peel back the curtain and step into the cooler air, a neatly folded outfit waits next to the sink: a sleek, matching jogging set in a soft, muted teal that looks impossibly gentle against the harsh bathroom light, the fabric smooth beneath my fingertips, the kind that promises comfort without sacrificing strength. A lightweight zip-front jacket lies on top, its seams clean and intentional, paired with fitted joggers that look like they were made for movement. Beside them sit white running shoes with teal accents that brighten when I lift them, and two pairs of socks, one striped, and the other solid.
When I open the bathroom door, Lucian is leaning against the wall across from me, hands in his pockets, head tipped back slightly as if he’s been listening for the moment I’d step out. His eyes lift to mine, and something warm flickers there, then it’s gone before I can hold onto it.
I nod, and he pushes off the wall, guiding us down the hallway and into the elevator. The lobby smells like chicory and warm pastries, and before I can ask what the plan is, he gestures toward the café tucked in the corner.
“Coffee first,” he says, voice low. “Do you want to grab a seat, and I’ll get us drinks?”
I nod, trusting him to get my order right, and slip into a booth by the window, the vinyl cool beneath my palms as I settle in. Outside, New Orleans stretches awake in slow, honey-colored light.
For a moment, I let myself watch it all unfold. The world feels gentler than it has any right to be after the night I had, after the violation of seeing my rig torn apart. The sunlight glints off the windows across the street.
“Celeste.”
I jump, breath catching, fingers curling against the table. My heart stutters like it’s trying to climb out of my ribs. Lucian sets the coffees down, his movements quiet.
Shit. I didn’t realize how wound up I was.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I swallow, trying to steady myself. “You didn’t scare me.”
His eyes flick to mine, sharp and knowing, because of course he can read me even after all the time we spent apart.
“Are you okay?” he asks finally, the words rough around the edges, like he had to drag them out.
I nod, though I’m not sure it’s true. “Yeah, I’m just… watching the city wake up.”
His jaw flexes, a tiny movement, but I catch it. “Good. You need something normal today.”
Normal. As if anything about this is normal. As if his sitting across from me with that familiar crease between his brows doesn’t pull at every old wound and every old comfort at the same time.
He takes a sip of his coffee, eyes still scanning the room. “After this, we’re going for your morning run.”
I blink. “We’re going on a run?”
He looks at me with something steady in his gaze that feels like a hand on my spine even though he’s not touching me.
“You need it,” he says simply. “It helps you breathe.”
The words land with a weight I’m not ready for, because he’s right, and because he remembers, and because he shouldn’t still know me this well.
Outside, the city keeps waking, soft and golden and alive, and inside, Lucian sits across from me like a storm I once survived and somehow still crave.
When he reaches for his coffee again, his fingers brush mine, and the world tilts just slightly, like it’s reminding me that nothing between us is simple, and nothing ever really was.
We sit in silence for a long stretch, and I feel the tension between us growing. This is the longest we’ve been in each other’s company, especially since I’ve been trying to avoid him unless necessary.
I wrap my hands around my coffee cup, letting the warmth seep into my palms, trying not to think about how close he is, how familiar the shape of him feels even now.
Lucian keeps staring out the window, watching the street, jaw tight, shoulders coiled like he’s bracing for something only he can see.
Then, without warning, he exhales and blurts, “I’m sorry.”
