Celeste hadn't moved from the couch in hours.
The evening sun stretched long shadows across the floor, dipping the living room in a dull orange glow. Her phone lay beside her, screen dark, Damien's last message still lingering in her mind.
"If you don't feel like it, I understand. But I'll come anyway. Just in case you need someone."
She didn't reply.
What was there to say?
Her chest still ached in that strange, echoing way—as if her heart had been cracked open and filled with silence. Not rage. Not tears. Just… hollow.
She heard the knock before she saw him.
Three soft taps.
She didn't move at first. But then the door creaked open slightly, and Damien peeked in, holding up two paper cups of coffee and a bag of something warm.
"Hey," he said quietly. "I brought cookies. The overpriced kind."
Celeste blinked at him.
"I thought I said I wasn't coming," she mumbled.
"You did." Damien stepped fully inside, nudging the door shut with his heel. "But you didn't say I couldn't come."
He moved like he was afraid to startle her. Gently. Slowly. Like approaching a bird with a broken wing.
Celeste sat up, her eyes dry but her shoulders still heavy.
"I don't want to talk about it."
Damien nodded. "Then we won't."
He set the cookies and coffee down, then took a seat beside her—close, but not too close. The warmth of him, the steadiness, slowly filled the space between them.
They sat like that for a long moment. No TV. No music. Just the occasional hum of traffic from outside and the quiet shifting of the world that didn't care someone had just broken her heart.
"You want to go somewhere?" Damien asked eventually. "We don't have to talk. We don't even have to smile. We can just… be."
Celeste stared ahead. For a second, she almost said no. Almost curled back into the cushion and stayed in that quiet, grey place.
But Damien didn't look away. He wasn't pushing. Just… there.
"I don't have the energy to pretend tonight," she whispered.
"Good," he replied. "Then don't pretend."
And somehow, that made all the difference.