Celeste turns to me, brows lifting. “Pickup?”
Before she can press, the door swings open and the clerk wheels out the dolly.
And there it is.
Stacked from the bottom of the cart and halfway to the top are bags and bags of books.
Her TBR.
Celeste goes still beside me.
The clerk beams. “All ready for you.”
I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how this might look. “Since everything in your rig was destroyed… I figured you shouldn’t have to start from zero. Thought I could help rebuild your library.”
Her reaction isn’t what I expected.
“Oh,” she says, her voice and body stiff. “That’s… a lot.”
I try to keep my tone light. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to carry any of it; they’ve got a dolly, and I’ll load it into the SUV.”
She nods, but her jaw is set in that way I recognize, like she’s holding something back and swallowing words she doesn’t want to say in public.
She pays for the duplicate books before grabbing them and thanks the clerk before walking toward the door without waiting for me. I follow with the dolly, my stomach sinking even though I’m trying not to show it.
I was doing so well. How did I fuck up?
“Celeste,” I say quietly once we’re a few steps down the sidewalk. “Talk to me.”
She stops, turns to me, and gives me a look sharp enough to cut.
“Are you trying to buy me?”
The words hit harder than I expected; it’s the last thing I ever wanted her to think.
“What?” I manage, keeping my voice low. “No. That’s not—”
“You show up with clothes. You take me shopping. Now this?” She gestures toward the dolly stacked with books. “It feels like you’re trying to fix everything with money! I have more money than I ever could’ve imagined growing up. I can pay for my ownfuckingclothes and replace my ownfuckinglibrary thousands of times over!”
I swallow, forcing myself not to react defensively. She deserves better than that; she deserves honesty.
“I’m not trying to buy you,” I say, steady. “I’m trying to give back what was taken from you. That’s it.”
She looks away, jaw tight. “It’s a lot, Lucian.”
“I know,” I admit. “And if it’s too much, tell me. I’ll slow down. I keep trying to tell you I am here to follow your lead.”
She doesn’t answer right away. The streetcar rattles past, the breeze lifts her hair, and she stands there breathing like she’s trying to decide whether to stay angry or let it go.
Finally, she exhales. “I’m not ungrateful. I just… I don’t want to feel like you think buying me will make me want to give you another chance.”
That one hits deep. Deeper than I let show.
“You’re not,” I say quietly. “You’re someone I care about. Someone who lost everything in one night. I’m trying to help you stand back up, not put you on display.”
Her eyes flick to mine, searching for sincerity or proof I’m not the same man who walked away from her eight months ago.
Whatever she sees softens her expression the tiniest amount.
