They danced until their legs ached. Until the lights blurred and the crowd thinned and surged again. Until Celeste could almost pretend her heart hadn't been handed back to her in pieces.
Then came the second drink.
Then a third.
Damien tried to slow her down. "Hey, maybe just sip that one—"
But she waved him off, laughing too loudly. "I'm fine! I feel fine. I feel… nothing."
Her lipstick was smudged, her cheeks flushed from alcohol and dancing. She leaned against the bar with a half-finished cocktail in one hand and a new shot in the other.
"This one's to being nobody's second choice," she slurred.
Damien caught the bartender's eye and subtly shook his head. "Water," he mouthed.
Celeste turned toward him, her balance teetering just slightly. "Why'd he do that to me, Damien?"
He blinked. "Leon?"
She laughed, but it sounded cracked. "Yeah. Like I don't already know I'm not… enough. Like he had to prove it. On a boat. At sunset. He made it look like a movie scene."
Damien caught her as she almost tipped forward. "Alright. I think it's time to sit."
But she resisted. "No. I wanna dance more."
She pulled away and stumbled back into the crowd. The music had changed to something heavier—deep synths, pulsing rhythms—and she let it carry her, head thrown back, arms in the air, spinning like the world couldn't touch her anymore.
From the edge of the crowd, Damien watched. Still. Protective. Tense.
She was unraveling right in front of him, piece by piece.
Some guy tried to dance up behind her. Damien was already moving before the guy could get a hand on her waist.
"She's with me," he said firmly, stepping between them.
Celeste blinked at Damien, barely registering what had just happened.
"You don't have to save me," she murmured, swaying on her feet.
"I'm not saving you," Damien said. "I'm just making sure you don't hate yourself in the morning."
He guided her gently toward one of the booths at the edge of the club. She didn't fight him this time. Just collapsed into the seat, her head falling back.
"I want to forget him," she whispered. "I want to forget me."
Damien sat beside her, watching the lights play across her face. "Then forget him for tonight. But don't forget you."
Celeste didn't answer. Her eyes fluttered closed.
A beat passed.
Then she started crying. Quietly. Messily. No words, no big gasps—just the kind of tears that had been waiting all day for permission to fall.
Damien didn't say anything. Just sat there with her in the dark booth while the world raged around them, steady and patient.
And when she finally leaned into him, eyes still shut, fingers curled into his shirt like she was afraid of floating away—he held her. Like she still mattered.
Because to him, she did.