Celeste's POV:
I don't cry on the drive home.
I don't scream, or tremble, or press my fingers between my thighs the way I've done after dreams I never admit to remembering.
I just sit there. Breathing. Too evenly. Too controlled.
Because if I let myself feel — really feel — I'm afraid of what might crack.
Lucien didn't kiss me.
He didn't press me against a wall. Didn't touch the inside of my wrist or whisper promises against my neck. He didn't do any of the things I've spent years reading between the lines of in my patients' stories — things I used to analyze and gently redirect.
He looked at me. He saw.
And I don't think anyone ever has.
---
Damien is already asleep when I get in.
Good.
The bedroom is dark. Cold. He always sets the thermostat low. I slip into bed without turning on the light, facing the wall instead of him.
His breathing is steady. Familiar.
The sound of a man who's never had to wonder if he's enough.
I used to believe that was safety.
Now it sounds like silence.
The kind that settles on a coffin.
---
In the morning, I wake before him.
His arm is draped loosely over my waist — a placeholder more than an embrace. I ease out from under it and move to the bathroom.
I don't turn on the overhead light. The dim vanity glow is enough.
I stare at my reflection for a long time.
My lips are slightly parted. My pulse visible at my throat.
I still haven't taken the bracelet off.
I trace it with one finger. It feels heavier today.
Or maybe I just feel more awake.
Damien knocks softly, still drowsy. "You okay?"
I clear my throat. "Yeah. Just needed a minute."
He mumbles something I don't catch. Retreats back to the sheets.
I stay at the sink until I'm sure I won't say something I'll regret. Or mean.
---
The morning passes in a haze.
Two clients cancel, which usually would give me a sense of relief. But today, it just means more time to think.
More time to feel the echo of Lucien's voice in the gallery:
"I want to free you."
"I won't touch you until you ask."
What would it sound like if I did? How would it taste?
Would I stutter? Would I shatter?
I find myself staring at my phone.
No messages. No missed calls.
Just a silence that waits.
---
At lunch, I meet Nadia, a close friend of mine.
She's early, already sipping something iced and green. Her makeup is sharp, her nails blood-red.
"You look like you haven't slept," she says as I sit.
I give a weak smile. "I haven't."
She arches a brow. "Work or sex?"
I choke on my water.
She laughs, and it's so free, so unapologetically loud that people turn.
I envy that.
I used to be like that.
Didn't I? Now I am even wondering if I was ever like that. It feels like a dream if I was.
"You should come with me to the Hamptons next weekend," she says. "My cousin's throwing this ridiculous engagement party. Terrible taste in men, fantastic taste in champagne."
I shake my head. "I've got things to take care of here."
She narrows her eyes. "Is this about Damien or someone else?"
I don't answer.
Her smile fades. She leans forward, suddenly serious.
"Celeste. You don't owe anyone your emptiness."
The words hit harder than they should.
I swallow. Nod. "I'll think about it."
But I already know I won't go.
There's only one place I want to be.
And he's not in the Hamptons.
---
By evening, I've convinced myself to take the long way home.
It's reckless. I know that. But I do it anyway.
I walk past the gallery. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a woman pretending not to be watching for something.
The lights are out. The doors are closed.
But still, I feel him.
Somewhere near. I wonder if he feels me, too.
---
At home, Damien's in the kitchen, making pasta. The smell of garlic and basil wraps around me like nostalgia I didn't ask for.
He smiles when he sees me. "You okay?"
I nod. "Tired."
He plates food and pours wine. Asks about my day. Tells me about some board member's divorce scandal.
I try to listen. I really do.
But every time I close my eyes, I see Lucien.
Not undressing me. Just watching.
Like I'm something worth unraveling slowly.
Damien reaches across the table, covering my hand with his. "You've been different lately."
I meet his eyes.
He's not accusing. He's not demanding. He's… trying.
Which somehow hurts more.
"I'm just… sorting things out," I say.
He nods. "We could take another weekend away. Somewhere warm this time."
"I'll think about it."
---
Later, in bed, I turn off the light.
He touches me. Softly. Hesitantly.
His lips graze my shoulder. His hand slides to my hip.
He's careful. Polite. Like a man trying to be good.
And that's the problem. Because I don't want good.
Not tonight. Not anymore.
His hands don't wake me up. They don't crack me open.
They don't make me forget who I am.
Lucien's hands would.
Not because they'd take. But because they'd know.
Damien moves closer, his body pressing gently to mine.
And I let him.
But my mind is elsewhere.
Not in guilt. Not in shame.
In craving.
And then, without permission, the words echo through me — silent but sharp.
I want him to touch me like that.
Only him.