The afternoon sunlight poured softly through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Damien Leclair's penthouse, casting golden streaks across the expansive bedroom. The sheets were tangled and lazily draped over two exhausted bodies, limbs intertwined, breaths synced in the kind of silence that spoke louder than any confession.
Celeste stirred beneath the silk sheets, the warmth of Damien's arms still lingering on her skin. She blinked slowly, her limbs deliciously sore, her thoughts hazy with the intimacy they had shared. Her eyes fluttering open to the unfamiliar luxury of the penthouse. For a moment, she stayed still, taking in the sound of Damien's slow, even breathing beside her. She felt the soreness in her body—a delicious ache that reminded her of every whispered touch, every stolen gasp from the night before. A faint smile curled on her lips.
She turned slightly to face him. Damien's face, often stern and composed, looked almost boyish in sleep. Vulnerable. The softened tension in his jaw, the way his lashes fanned out over his cheeks, the gentle curve of his mouth—everything about him in this moment was intimate, raw. It made something flutter inside her.
As if sensing her gaze, Damien stirred, eyes blinking open slowly. Their eyes met, a shared stillness lingering for a beat too long.
"Good afternoon," Celeste murmured, voice hoarse from sleep and other things.
He reached out to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. "Afternoon."
They didn't need to speak more. Words felt too small for the gravity of what they had shared.
She sat up, groaning lightly at the ache that stretched from her neck to the tips of her toes. The evidence of the previous night was all around her—from the scattered clothes to the slight bruises of passion on her skin. But more than that, it was the fullness in her chest, a strange warmth that hadn't been there before.
She wrapped the sheet around her and stepped into the bathroom, finding her reflection flushed and glowing. For the first time in forever, she didn't feel hollow.
Brunch was ordered in but mostly forgotten as the two drifted in and out of the bedroom, exploring the unfamiliar comfort of domesticity. Damien, still bare-chested and in his lounge pants, brewed fresh coffee while Celeste sat on the kitchen island, wrapped in his robe, watching him.
"You're staring," he said without looking back.
"Can you blame me?" she teased, sipping her coffee. "You make this look criminally attractive."
He turned, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. "Flatterer."
They ate sandwiches and fruit off the same plate, shared bites, laughed when she stole the last piece. The air between them was warm, charged, yet gentle—like something blooming.
Damien showed her his library, a grand space with high shelves and old books that smelled like ink and time. Celeste ran her fingers over the spines.
"You read all these?"
"Most. Some more than once."
"That explains the intelligence and the brooding."
He shot her a look that was both amused and faintly exasperated. She grinned and leaned up on tiptoes to kiss him—just because she could.
Later, they were back in the living room, sprawled on the oversized couch. A movie played in the background, but neither was paying attention. Celeste had her head on Damien's lap, his fingers gently stroking her hair.
"Do you ever get days like this?" she asked softly.
"Not really," he replied. "Too many responsibilities. Too many people to keep in line."
She looked up at him. "And now?"
He leaned down and brushed his lips over her forehead. "Now I want more days like this. With you."
A comfortable silence settled again, broken only when Damien's hand slid down, tracing the line of her jaw, then her collarbone. His touch was reverent, slow, as if memorizing her.
When their lips met again, it was less desperation, more devotion. She climbed into his lap, arms winding around his neck, while he pulled her closer with both hands splayed at her lower back. The world outside could burn, and neither of them would notice.
They moved back to the bedroom sometime later, drawn by the desire that simmered just beneath the surface. It wasn't rushed. It wasn't frantic. It was slow, indulgent, exploratory—like they had all the time in the world.
Damien whispered her name like a promise. Celeste responded with soft whimpers and arched movements, her hands tangled in his hair, her lips painting her surrender across his skin. She left her mark on him—faint scratches down his back, bite marks along his neck—not to hurt but to remind. To brand.
After, they lay in the silence again, tangled together under the sheets, sweat-slicked and content. Damien brushed his knuckles along her cheek.
"You okay?"
She nodded. "Better than okay."
The day wore on with more soft touches, quiet laughter, and gentle looks. The world outside the penthouse didn't matter. For once, they had this bubble of time, just for them.
Evening rolled in with golden skies bleeding into deep purples. They watched it from the balcony, Celeste sitting between Damien's legs, his arms wrapped around her waist. Neither said much. They didn't need to.
When night fell, they returned to bed again—not for desire this time, but for closeness. For peace. Damien pulled her into his chest, her legs tangled with his.
As sleep began to claim them, Celeste whispered, "Thank you… for today."
Damien pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "No, Celeste. Thank you."
Because in a life of chaos, expectations, and burdens, this day had given him something precious—quiet. Intimacy. Her.
The day passed quietly, wrapped in conversation, slow kisses, and soft touches. Damien showed her his vinyl collection, played some of his favorite tracks, and watched her twirl barefoot to jazz in his living room. Everything felt slow, deliberate, and gentle.
As evening approached, the air grew cooler, and Damien suggested they go out for a walk.
They strolled hand in hand through the quiet streets, the city glowing in the soft amber light of dusk. The weekend crowd had dispersed from the nearby park, leaving behind an air of peace, the kind that rarely touched Damien's life.
Celeste was dressed in a soft cardigan and one of Damien's oversized sweaters beneath, hair tied loosely back. Damien wore a beanie low over his forehead, the collar of his coat turned up as protection against the breeze.
They didn't speak much at first. The silence between them wasn't awkward anymore—it was comforting.
As they turned into a quieter lane, they slowed down, eyes catching on a young couple sitting on a bench. The woman had a tiny baby cradled in her arms, while the man leaned over, cooing softly. The child's giggle was delicate, joyful.
Celeste stopped, her hand gently tightening around Damien's.
Damien glanced down at her, noticing the soft shimmer in her eyes. "You okay?"
She gave him a small nod. "They just look… happy."
He followed her gaze.
"I love babies," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Always have. There's just something about their little fingers, the way they cling to you like you're their whole world. It's so innocent. So… real."
Damien's chest tightened.
Celeste continued, almost as if speaking to herself, "When I was younger, I used to dream about having one. A family. Not because I had the best example of one, but because I wanted to make something better. Something warm. Something that wouldn't leave."
Damien squeezed her hand gently. "You'd be an amazing mother."
She blinked up at him, surprised. "You think so?"
"I know so," he said with conviction. "You have the softest heart I've ever seen. The way you care, the way you love—even when you're scared of it. It's there. You'd give everything to someone small like that."
A shy smile tugged at her lips.
"And you?" she asked after a pause. "Ever think about it?"
He looked forward, eyes distant. "Sometimes. Not always. But lately…" He glanced at her again. "It doesn't seem so far-fetched."
Celeste looked back at the couple and their child. The baby had fallen asleep, tiny mouth open, fingers wrapped around their mother's thumb.
"Sometimes I wonder," she said quietly, "how it would feel to hold something so delicate. To know it's yours. To protect them. To be their home."
Damien stepped behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder.
"You'd be someone's favorite place," he whispered.
And in that moment, with the cool breeze brushing against them and the quiet laughter of strangers fading behind them, it felt like a promise not yet made—but very much alive.
They walked back slowly, no rush in their steps, hearts a little fuller than before.
Damien's POV
Damien's gaze followed the couple ahead of them — the man cradling the baby against his chest while the woman gently rocked the infant's tiny feet. Their laughter was soft, quiet, unbothered by the world. The kind of serenity that once existed in his dreams… and slowly faded into a memory he tried for years to forget.
He had always wanted this.
A family.
Not the ones that came with obligations and expectations, not one driven by power, business, or legacy. Just… something simple. Something real. A child to hold, to protect, to watch grow. A family that wasn't a political move or a social maneuver but something built out of warmth and love.
He had tried. He truly did.
With Sepharina, he had once believed they could build that life. In the early days of their marriage, he remembered nervously bringing it up, wondering how she'd react if he said he wanted kids. At first, she brushed it off with a soft chuckle, saying they were young and had time. He believed her.
But as the years passed and the silence thickened around the subject, his requests became more pointed. He stopped suggesting and started asking.
Then begging.
He never forgot the way she looked at him once — like he was foolish. "Children ruin your body, Damien. They ruin your freedom," she had said, rolling her eyes as if he'd asked for a yacht made of gold.
He had smiled through it.
Smiled through the disappointments, the quiet tears, the resentment that grew in the corners of their bedroom. Smiled when everyone in his world assumed he didn't want kids, when the truth was — it was all he ever wanted.
That disappointment stayed like a splinter under his skin, buried, invisible, but always hurting.
And now… Celeste.
Celeste, who didn't even say much. Just a quiet, offhand comment about how cute the baby was, how she adored their tiny fingers, their round faces. But the way her eyes lit up… the way her smile turned tender when she said, "I hope someday I have a little one who holds my finger and thinks I'm their entire world," it wrecked him.
He hadn't expected it to hit that hard.
She didn't even know what that moment did to him — didn't know she had reopened a door he had long forced shut.
His hand squeezed around hers reflexively, and he could feel her glance up at him with surprise, but he didn't say anything. He just walked in silence, afraid that if he opened his mouth, something raw and aching would spill out.
He had spent years convincing himself that dream was dead. But now, with her beside him, his heart stupidly, desperately started hoping again.
Could he have it again? With her?
No. He shouldn't think that far. He shouldn't let those thoughts grow roots. What they had was… what? Temporary? Just a whirlwind neither of them planned? She was ten years younger, bright, driven, free. He was worn out, still healing from a marriage that drained him of everything soft he ever had.
And yet… he wanted.
He wanted so much.
Her laughter.
A home with her curled up on his couch.
A tiny version of her with big eyes and a louder laugh, running through that home.
It was foolish. He hated himself for even imagining it.
But she made it impossible not to.
Because she, in all her softness and fire, made something stir in him that he buried years ago. And now that it was waking, he didn't know how to silence it anymore.