The table was quiet except for the sound of spoons tapping against plates. I’d cooked, she’d set the table, and now we were sitting across from each other—normal, ordinary, like nothing had happened.
Except sothing had.
Because instead of chaos, instead of teeth-baring or sharp words the way I’d been bracing for, she’d been... calm. Almost too calm.
I stole another glance at her. She was focused on her food, humming faintly as she took a bite, like the rice really was all she cared about. Her hair was still ssy, falling into her face, my shirt hanging loose on her shoulders. Innocent. Unbothered. Like the scene with Avery hadn’t even happened.
I looked again. And again. I couldn’t help it.
The fourth ti, she caught . Her eyes flicked up, narrowing slightly before softening. "...What?"
My fork paused halfway to my mouth. "What?" I repeated, way too quickly.
Her lips curved, not quite a smirk, not quite shy. "You keep staring."
"I wasn’t."
"You were," she said, leaning forward now, eyes squinting like she was studying the sa way I’d been studying her. Then softer, almost shy, she asked again. "...What?"
I set the fork down, exhaling. "You’re different."
Her brows drew together. "Different?"
"Yeah." My voice lowered without aning it to. "Normally you’d... I don’t know. You’d have made it a war. Or at least thrown a sarcastic grenade in her face. But you didn’t. You were calm. You didn’t even... get mad at ."
She blinked at , then tilted her head, letting her hair fall further over her shoulder. "So... you’re staring because I didn’t scream?"
"Basically."
Her cheeks pinked, but she tried to cover it with a roll of her eyes. "You’re ridiculous."
"No, seriously." I leaned forward, elbows on the table. "What was that back there? You didn’t even—"
She cut off with a little shrug, poking at her food. "I told you. I’m not going to waste my ti on soone who doesn’t get what no ans. It’s boring."
I raised a brow. "Boring?"
"Yes, boring. She’s boring." She lifted her eyes to mine, lips twitching like she was fighting a smile. "Why would I waste my pretty voice arguing with her when I can use it to tell you the rice is getting soggy?"
I stared at her. Then I laughed, because she was insane, but in a way that made my chest feel lighter. "That’s your reasoning?"
"Obviously." She stuck out her tongue at , bratty as ever, then went back to eating like the conversation was over.
Except I was still watching her.
She noticed again, groaning softly. "Kai, stop. You’re making shy."
"You? Shy?" I couldn’t help but grin. "That’ll be the day."
"I am shy," she said, cheeks puffing slightly, though the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her. "I’m just... multitalented. I can be shy and bratty at the sa ti."
I laughed again, shaking my head. "That’s not a talent."
"It is." She pointed her spoon at like she was proving a point. "You just don’t appreciate it."
"Oh, I appreciate it."
Her eyes narrowed, suspicious. "That sounded sarcastic."
"It wasn’t."
"Mhm." She chewed slowly, still watching . Then, quieter: "You’re really not mad at ?"
"For what?" I asked.
She shrugged again, smaller this ti, eyes flicking down to her plate. "For... being ."
That made go silent. For a beat, the only sound was the clink of her spoon against the bowl.
Then I said, firmly, "Never that. Not once."
Her head snapped up, her cheeks going even pinker. She tried to glare, but it was weak. "Ugh. You’re annoying."
"Annoying?"
"Yes." She shoved another bite into her mouth to hide her face. "Making all shy in the middle of breakfast. How dare you."
I smirked, leaning back in my chair, watching her squirm. "Guess I’ll take that as a win."
"Don’t get used to it," she mumbled around her food.
But she was smiling. And laughing under her breath. And I couldn’t stop stealing glances, even if she caught a hundred more tis.
---
The rest of the day passed the way it always did when it was just us—easy, simple, like the world outside didn’t exist. She made fun of the way I cut fruit, I laughed at the way she tried to defend her "perfect" cooking skills, and sohow we ended up on the couch, tangled up, trading stories that didn’t matter. Hours slipped by without either of us caring.
She looked lighter, brighter, every ti she laughed. The kind of laugh that shook her shoulders and had her hiding her face in her hands like she didn’t want to see. I pulled her hands down every ti, just so I could.
It felt good—normal. Like this was the part of life we both deserved.
By the ti she finally gathered her things to head ho, she was humming under her breath, hair still a little ssy, my hoodie draped over her like it belonged more to her than to . She tugged the sleeves down past her hands, swallowed up in it, and still sohow managed to make it look unfairly good. Before leaving, she leaned in and kissed my cheek—soft, quick, like she didn’t want to ruin the mood with words.
But I didn’t know her house wasn’t the place she wanted to go.
---
The air inside the Moreau household always felt different. Colder. Heavy, even when nothing was being said. Today wasn’t any different.
Her father was at the dining table, reading glasses sliding down his nose, one hand flipping his tablet screen with a steady swipe, swipe, swipe. Business. Always business.
Her mother sat nearby, perfectly straight posture, tea cup balanced delicately between her fingers, like she was born to sit and judge.
Celestia barely got a foot past the door before her mother’s voice cut through.
"Where are you coming from?"
No hello. No welco. Just that.
Celestia’s steps slowed. She looked over her shoulder, hair falling across her face as her lips curled into sothing that wasn’t quite a smile. More of a shield. "Since when have you ever cared?"
The words slipped out soft, but sharp enough.
Her mother’s brows flicked up, not in surprise but in disapproval. Her father didn’t look up at all.
"You live under this roof, Celestia. You don’t get to speak to that way."
"I don’t an to sound harsh, but... since when has that mattered?" Celestia slipped off her shoes by the door, placing them neatly to the side. Her hands slid into the pockets of the hoodie she wore—my hoodie, still a little too big on her, but I doubted they noticed. Her tone stayed even, polite, almost careful, but her words landed heavier than anything sharp could have.
Her mother’s gaze lingered. "I did ask. So answer."
Celestia’s shoulders rose and fell, a sigh breaking past her lips. She walked further inside, brushing past the table like their presence was background noise. "Fine. My boyfriend’s place."
That word—boyfriend—hung in the air.
Finally, her father looked up. Just barely. Eyes flicking over the tablet before fixing on her like she’d just said sothing blasphemous.
Her mother blinked once, twice. Then, after a beat, her lips curved. "Which one?"
Celestia stopped walking. "What?"
"Which boyfriend?" Her mother set her tea cup down with a soft clink, tone perfectly even, as if she was asking about the weather.
Celestia’s throat worked. Her jaw tightened, but she forced the words out anyway. "The one who ca over the other day."
Her mother’s eyes narrowed just slightly, and then, with the kind of pause that ant calculation, she said, "...You an that boy."
It was soft. Not loud, not cruel on the surface. But the way her mother said "that" made it sound like dirt. Like Celestia had tracked sothing unwanted into their pristine house.
Celestia’s fists curled in her pockets. Her chest rose a little faster. "His na is Kai."
Her father finally spoke, his voice low, tired, like the topic itself wasn’t worth the effort. "I thought it was a phase."
Celestia froze.
He didn’t stop. His eyes were back on the tablet, but his words landed all the sa. "You don’t really plan on being serious with him, do you?"
It was casual. Like the idea was ridiculous.
Like Kai—like I—couldn’t possibly be anything worth being serious about.
Her mouth opened, then shut. She blinked hard, her throat tight.
Her mother sighed through her nose, reaching for the tea again. "Honestly, Celestia. You’re too impressionable. Always chasing the wrong things."
"The wrong—" Her voice cracked, so she stopped, forced it steady, and tried again. "He’s not—he’s not wrong. He’s—"
Her father lifted his hand, silencing her without looking up. "Enough."
Just that. One word. Final.
And it ended there.
Celestia didn’t push. She didn’t scream. She didn’t throw her usual grenades. She just stood there, chest rising and falling, lips pressed tight together.
Then she turned slowly and walked up the stairs. The steps creaked under her feet, and she didn’t rush. Her parents stayed where they were, saying nothing, not even trying to stop her. The quiet in the house said enough.
---
Her room was dim when she pushed the door open.
Duchess was waiting on her bed, curled up like she had been for hours, ears twitching when Celestia entered.
The cat owed once, hopping down and trotting over, brushing against Celestia’s legs like she’d been waiting all day for her.
Celestia crouched down, scooping her up, pressing her face into soft fur.
Her lips moved against Duchess’s head. A whisper. "Hey, baby."
Her fingers carded through the cat’s fur, gentle, steady, the way you touch sothing fragile when you yourself are breaking.
But she wasn’t smiling.
Her jaw stayed tight. Her eyes stayed glassy, too bright. Her throat worked like words wanted out but had nowhere safe to land.
Celestia didn’t say a word. She just curled up on her bed with Duchess in her arms, petting her, holding her close. Breathing in and out like it was supposed to calm her down.
But she wasn’t happy. Not even a little.
And maybe she wouldn’t tell that. Maybe she’d just smile the next ti I saw her, act like nothing happened.
And ? I wouldn’t see it. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. She wouldn’t let .
But one thing I knew for sure—if her family wasn’t going to give her a place, then I’d make one for her with .
---
To be continued...
Reviews
All reviews (0)