It’s the only room he prepared.
I stand there, taking it all in—the emptiness of the other rooms, the effort gathered here, the quiet intention behind every small choice.
Of course, there’s only one bed.
Of course.
Lucian exhales beside me, a low, almost apologetic sound. I don’t look at him yet. I’m too busy trying to steady the strange, warm ache blooming behind my ribs.
31
Lucian
Celeste studies the queen-sized bed as if it has committed a small, personal betrayal; her arms are folded, one hip jutted out, the tilt of her head cataloging every indignity the room offers. “We seriously need to stop ending up in places with only one bed,” she says in a dry and amused tone.
A chuckle slips out of me. “At this point, it’s either fate or someone with a twisted sense of humor.”
She lifts a brow. “This time, the blame lies solely with Theo and Selene.”
I nod toward the doorway in the direction of the sad, overstuffed couch that passed for furniture before I offer, “I can take the couch, if you want the bed.”
She glances toward the door, then back at me with a look that’s half horror, half amusement. I can only assume the look on her face is from her picturing me folded into an origami man. “You’d snap it in half, and not in the fun way.”
Her line gets a real laugh from me, the kind that surprises me because it’s so unexpected.
She steps closer, the space between us narrowing in a way that makes the light in the room seem warmer. “It’s fine. We’re consenting adults. We’ve shared a bed before.”
I find myself holding her with my eyes because the quiet makes everything feel more intimate than it should. “We might be consenting adults, but are you sure this is a step you want to take right now?” I ask, not to test her, but because the question needs asking in the wake of everything that happened yesterday.
She hesitates and tips her head down before nodding. “I’m still figuring things out, but I think sleeping beside you might be the safest I feel for a while.” The sentence settles between us like a small truce, and I let the weight of her words sit there, because some things are better held than explained.
I wrap her in a gentle hug and lean down to kiss the top of her head. “I’ll take the side closest to the door.”
“You always do.” She nuzzles into my neck, and her voice is softer when she answers.
We move through the small rituals without much talk. While she brushes her teeth, I walk through each room, checking windows and doors with slow, methodical attention in an attempt to stitch normal back over the raw edges of the last days. The house holds us in a hush: the bed made neat, a lamp on the nightstand, the faint, familiar smell of coffee and cedar that follows me through each room.
By the time we climb into bed, the house is dark except for a thin slice of hallway light cutting across the floorboards; she slips under the covers first and turns onto her side with her back to me, a small, deliberate offering of space. I hesitate long enough to feel the weight of her permission, then slide in behind her.
I wrap an arm around her waist and let my chest settle against the curve of her spine, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath beneath my ear. She shifts her body into mine as the house narrows to the two of us and the soft, deliberate care as I run my fingers up and down her arm.
I’m not sure how long we let the silence wrap around us before Celeste half turns toward me. When she speaks, there’s a raw edge under the words that makes my chest tighten.
“I’ve never been so scared in my entire life,” she says, and the sentence lands like a stone.
I hold her a little tighter, careful not to speak just yet.
I remember the absurd, useless details that crowded my head on the drive to the park. She was supposed to be in Linkin’s rig; we’d had an entire discussion about where the band would be safest since all their security would be in a meeting. The idea that she wasn’t there made the wordsshe’s okaywobble until they meant nothing at all. Rowan’s clipped delivery should have been a relief. Instead, it was a trigger, a small, bright panic that lit up every dark corner I had.
That day in the cab of my SUV, I felt my hands go too big for my body. I remember gripping the wheel like it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart. Each red light felt like a test I was failing. I filled in the blanks with images that had no right to be there. The not-knowing was worse than any picture.
There’s a quiet fury in her voice. She tips her head up enough for me to catch my eyes in the dim light, the way she sets herself like a thing preparing to be reclaimed. “I’ve always been so sure of myself; I’ve never felt this… shaken before. It feels like someone came and picked the confidence out of me and left the shell. I don’t know how to get it back, Lucian. I don’t know where to start. Can you teach me how to defend myself? Please, I don’t want to feel that helpless again. Can we maybe talk to your physical therapist to get permission for this? I know there’sa difference between you guarding me and you actually sparring with me, so I don’t want to hurt your recovery while you’re helping mine.”
The thought of calling my PT tomorrow makes my annoyance sweep through me. After everything that’s happened the past few days, I don’t have the energy to deal with Kelsey. But I imagine the drills, the slow repetition that turns panic into reflex, the way confidence grows from doing the same small, hard things until they stop being choices and become instinct. I want her to be able to experience the unshakeable confidence that can come along with it.
“I’ll call my PT in the morning,” I tell her. “We’ll make sure we do this right. If she gives me any restrictions, I’ll figure out a way to work around them, but I won’t hold back in training. I’ll make sure you learn how to defend yourself confidently.”
She lets out a breath, and the small movement of her shoulders against my chest feels like an answer. I shift, pinning her gently beneath me, not to trap her, but to make sure she knows I’m here. My hands rest at her sides, careful and steady, and the weight of me is an unspoken promise.
