They’d woken late, still tangled in the quiet aftermath of the dinner, the string lights from the terrace barely cool when dawn crept over the city. Celeste had drifted back to sleep after Damien slid out of bed to make coffee, this time not the programmable kind, but by hand, something ritualistic in the press and pour.
When she finally wandered barefoot into the kitchen, the scent of dark roast and toasted bread met her first. Damien was at the counter, sleeves pushed up, phone tucked between shoulder and jaw, murmuring something in that even tone he reserved for early calls.
She lingered in the doorway, just watching him: the way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly, the clipped way he said "Understood" before ending the call. He placed the phone down face-first on the marble island
