The light seeping through her curtains felt like punishment.
Celeste groaned, dragging the blanket over her face. Her head pulsed with the rhythm of a hangover she definitely deserved. Mouth dry. Stomach queasy. Her dress from last night was still clinging to her body like a bad memory.
She'd danced. Drank too much. Cried. God—had she cried in public?
She forced herself upright. The room spun. Her phone buzzed again on the nightstand. She squinted at the screen.
Damien: "Lunch? You need food. I need food. Let's pretend we're normal people for an hour."
She winced.
He'd been there last night, hadn't he? Brought her out. Held her hand. Literally. Or figuratively? It was all one sticky blur.
She dragged herself into the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face. Her reflection looked like the ghost of someone who'd made bad decisions with glitter eyeliner.
What exactly had she said to him?
What had she done?
Nothing embarrassing, she hoped. Damien always made her feel safe. Too safe. Like she could fall apart in front of him without shame. But there was danger in that, too—danger in needing someone the way she didn't allow herself to need anyone.
She brushed out her hair slowly, trying to untangle the fog in her head. Then her phone buzzed again.
Damien: "The kind that doesn't judge hangovers. Be ready in 30."
Celeste stared at the screen.
He was still here. Still showing up. Still making her feel like she hadn't completely lost everything.
Maybe she hadn't.
She tugged on a hoodie and jeans, no makeup, hair loose. She didn't have the strength to pretend today. And with Damien… she didn't think she needed to.
She grabbed her purse and headed to the front door, still nursing the whisper of a question she hadn't asked out loud:
Why did he look at her like something had changed?