Chapter6
Celestia's POV
My throat tightened. The rational part of my brain was already building walls.
"Celestia?" His voice pulled me back. "Are you still there?"
"I'm here," I said, but my voice sounded distant.
"I want to see you again. Tomorrow night. Seven o'clock. Boston Public Garden. Let me prove I'm not just another person who's going to disappear on you."
My first instinct was immediate: run.
"I don't think that's a good idea," I heard myself say, hating how my voice shook. "I'm busy tomorrow."
"Busy," he repeated quietly. "Or scared?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah, Tia. It matters." His voice was gentle but firm. "Because if you're busy, I'll wait. But if you're scared, then we should talk about that."
"You don't know me well enough to psychoanalyze me."
"Maybe not. But I know what it looks like when someone's been hurt so badly they'd rather be alone than risk it happening again." He paused. "I see it in the mirror every morning."
Something in my chest cracked.
"What if you're wrong about me?" I asked quietly. "What if I'm not worth the effort?"
"Then I'll have wasted one evening." His voice carried a hint of a smile. "But I don't think I'm wrong."
"Or maybe you understand what it's like to need someone and have no one show up." His voice went softer. "I'm showing up, Tia. I'm asking you to let me."
I was quiet for a long moment. He'll hurt you. Damien promised forever. Maxwell promised a family.
But then I remembered the way Lysander had trembled in my arms.
"I'm not good at this," I admitted finally. "Trusting people. The last time I did that, it ended badly."
"How badly?"
I laughed, bitter. "The kind of badly that makes you want to burn the whole world down just to feel warm again."
"Then we'll go slow. One evening. If you want to leave, you leave. No questions, no pressure. I just want a chance to prove that not everyone is going to hurt you."
"You can't promise that."
"You're right. I can't promise I won't accidentally hurt you." His voice was honest. "But I can promise I'll try not to. And I can promise that I'll show up when I say I will."
Something about the rawness in his voice made my defenses waver.
"What if I say yes and then regret it?"
"Then you'll have learned something." He paused. "But Tia? I think you're tired of being alone. I think you want someone to prove that it's possible to be safe with another person. And I think you're terrified that I might actually do it."
My breath caught because he was right.
"One evening," I heard myself say. "Seven o'clock. But Lysander, if you don't show up, I won't give you another chance."
"I understand." The relief in his voice was palpable. "I'll be there, Tia. I promise."
"Don't make promises you can't keep."
"I'm not." His voice was steady. "I'll be there."
After I hung up, I stood there staring at my phone, hands shaking. What the hell was I doing?
But my traitorous heart was already counting down the hours.
The next evening, I stood by the frozen lagoon as dusk painted the sky amber and violet. I'd changed outfits three times before settling on a beige trench coat over a simple black dress.
When Lysander appeared at exactly seven, my breath caught.
When his eyes found mine, the intensity in his gaze made my stomach flip. I could see the same careful wariness I felt.
Light caught on his wrist as he raised his hand. Silver flash. Patek Philippe.
"Friend gave it to me," he said. "Knockoff. Looks real though, right?"
His palm was warm against mine. His thumb brushed across my knuckles, gentle, giving me an out.
I didn't take it.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," I replied. "You came."
"I said I would." His eyes searched mine. "Did you think I wouldn't?"
"I thought there was a fifty-fifty chance."
His hand tightened on mine. "I'm here, Tia. And I'm not going anywhere unless you tell me to."
For the first time in two lifetimes, I started to believe him.
We walked through the garden as lights came on one by one. The cold air made me shiver, and he slipped his arm around my waist, pulling me closer.
He led me to the footbridge over the lagoon, and we stopped in the middle, looking out at reflected lights on dark water.
"I used to come here when things got bad," he said quietly. "Something about the way the lights reflect makes everything feel less sharp."
"I know that feeling," I said, leaning into him.
He turned to look at me, and his hand came up to brush hair from my face. "Is that what this is for you? A place the bad things can't reach?"
"I'm not sure yet," I admitted. "But I want it to be."
His breath hitched. "Me too." His forehead dropped to rest against mine.
We stayed like that, breathing the same air.
He kissed my forehead, and I felt something crack open inside me.
Without thinking, I wrapped my arms around his waist. His arms came around me immediately.
We were quiet for a while after that, still standing on the bridge, his arm around my shoulders. Then he shifted beside me, something tentative in the way he moved.
"There's something I want to show you," he said. "Back at my place. "
I looked up at him. The offer was careful, almost overly so, like he was afraid I'd bolt if he pushed too hard.
"What kind of something?" I asked.
"The kind you can't really explain with words." A small smile. "You'll either think I'm an idiot or you'll understand immediately. No middle ground."
I studied his face for a moment. The golden light caught the line of his jaw, the careful hope in his expression.
"Okay," I said.
His apartment was warm and smelled faintly of cedar and old books.
"Sit," he said, shrugging off his peacoat. "I'll get wine."
I settled onto the couch and watched him move through the kitchen with the ease of someone who knew exactly where everything was. He came back with a bottle of Burgundy and two glasses.
I raised an eyebrow.
"Gift," he said flatly.
"Sure," I said.
He poured, and the wine was exactly as good as it looked. I held the glass in both hands and watched him settle at the other end of the couch, close but not crowding me.
"So," I said. "What did you want to show me?"
He reached over to the shelf behind him and pulled out a small framed photograph, setting it on the cushion between us. Two kids, maybe eight and ten, squinting into the sun on what looked like a beach somewhere cold. The older one had his arm slung around the younger one's shoulders.
"That's me," he said, pointing to the smaller one. "And my brother."
I looked at the photo for a long moment. The boy's face was open and unguarded in a way Lysander's never was now. Happy in the uncomplicated way children are before they learn better.
"You looked like a troublemaker," I said.
He laughed, surprised. "I was absolutely a troublemaker." He took the photo back, studying it with an expression I couldn't quite read. "I just wanted you to know there was a before. That I wasn't always like this."
"Like what?"
His eyes met mine. "Careful. Closed off. Performing a version of myself for everyone around me."
The honesty of it landed somewhere tender. I took a slow sip of wine, buying myself a moment.
"I know the feeling," I said finally.
"I know you do." He turned slightly toward me, his knee almost touching mine. "That's why I wanted you to see it. Because you look at me like you already know there's something underneath the performance. And I wanted to give you something real. Even if it's just a photograph."
The apartment was very quiet. Outside, the wind pressed against the windows, but in here the air felt still and close and warm. I was suddenly, acutely aware of how little space there was between us.
"That's the most honest thing anyone's said to me in a long time," I said quietly.
"Is that a good thing?"
I looked at him. The careful hope in his expression. The way he was holding himself very still, like he was afraid sudden movement would break something fragile that had settled between us.
"Yeah," I said, my voice coming out softer than I intended. "It is."
He reached over and refilled my glass without breaking eye contact, and the small intimacy of it made my pulse stutter. The wine was making everything warmer, the edges of the room softer, the distance between us feel less necessary.
His kiss came without warning, fierce and unrestrained, as though the wine had finally burned away every layer of caution that had kept us apart for weeks.
