Later That Day
By noon, the sun was high and the city felt alive.
They started with no plan — just two people walking side by side, slipping through alleyways and small streets lined with shops, cafés, and laughter that didn't belong to them.
Celeste wore sunglasses and a baseball cap Damien bought her at a stand. He said it made her look like a lost tourist. She said he looked like someone who should've been arrested for fashion crimes.
They called it even.
She hadn't laughed this much in ages.
Not the polite laugh she used in front of cameras. Not the tight one she gave when pretending to be unbothered. This was different.
Real.
Like something inside her was stretching awake again.
They stopped at a market where she sampled things she couldn't pronounce. Damien tried something spicy and spent five minutes coughing dramatically while she filmed him and offered zero help. They took photos of food, of stray cats, of ridiculous hats they didn't buy.
And when a little girl ran into Celeste by accident and apologized in a language she didn't understand, Celeste bent down and smiled — not because someone was watching, but because it just felt right.
There was no name to defend today.
No lie to uphold.
Just air in her lungs, and Damien beside her, looking at her like she wasn't falling apart anymore.
At one point, they found a tiny courtyard tucked between buildings. No tourists. Just a fountain, some wildflowers, and shade.
Celeste sat on the stone edge, stretching her legs, sipping a cold drink. Damien sat beside her.
"No one here knows who I am," she said, almost to herself.
Damien looked at her. "You like that?"
"I need that."
He nodded, quiet.
Then, without warning, she leaned her head on his shoulder — no tension, no fear, no hesitation.
He didn't say anything. Just rested his hand over hers where it lay between them.
And for a few more hours, the world stayed kind.