Celeste doesn’t sit down.
She stays standing for a moment longer than necessary, as if height is a weapon she’s always carried. The restaurant hums around us—silverware, quiet laughter, the soft clink of glasses—but the air at our table is sharper, colder, like everything else has stepped back to watch.
I remain standing too.
I don’t give her the comfort of seeing me fold.
“You wanted to meet,” I repeat. “So talk.”
Celeste’s smile doesn’t waver. If anything, it deepens, as if she’s pleased I’m trying to be brave.
“That’s what I like about you,” she says softly. “You’re not dramatic. You’re… direct.”
“I’m not here for compliments.”
“Oh, I’m not complimenting you,” she replies, sweet as poison. “I’m observing you.”
She gestures toward the chair.
This time, I sit—not because she ask
