Damien hadn't slept much.
After dropping Celeste home in the early hours of the morning—drunk, heavy with emotion, still clutching the remnants of heartbreak—he'd sat in his car for a long time.
Replay. Rewind. Repeat.
Because somewhere between the third drink and her quiet tears, she'd leaned in. Her hands cupped his face, trembling, lips soft and clumsy against his.
She kissed him.
It wasn't long. It wasn't perfect. But it happened.
And even if she didn't remember… he did.
Now, hours later, he stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down his shirt collar, watching the hope in his own eyes like it was a secret he didn't want to name.
He wasn't stupid. He knew it might've been the alcohol. The heat of the moment. The aching mess of heartbreak.
But maybe—just maybe—it meant something.
He'd seen the way she smiled last night, even if it was brief. He'd seen how she leaned into him, not just because she was drunk, but because she trusted him. That kiss had felt like more than pity. More than confusion.
So today, he was showing up again.
Different this time.
Clean-cut. Dressed in his best casual shirt. A quiet cologne. A small bouquet—nothing loud, just sunflowers, simple and warm.
He messaged her.
"Lunch? You need food. I need food. Let's pretend we're normal people for an hour."
She replied slower than usual.
"What kind of food?"
He smiled, already walking to his car.
"The kind that doesn't judge hangovers. Be ready in 30."