WATER IN THE CRACKS

Celeste's POV:

The morning after we return from the cabin, I wake before Damien.

He's still on his side of the bed — the same place he always occupies, body curled slightly away from mine, breathing steady. I watch him for a long moment, not because I'm angry or hurt. I just want to feel something.

But there's nothing.

No trace of the woman who used to reach for his hand beneath the sheets. No guilt for how far I've drifted. Only a strange, icy clarity. Like I've surfaced after being underwater too long.

The cabin trip was… quiet. Predictable. Damien brought a stack of books and spent most of the days reading. He asked about work, nodded at my answers, poured me wine at dinner. We had sex once, on the second night — mechanical, forgettable, like we both needed to check a box.

I didn't cry. I didn't recoil.

But afterward, I'd gone to the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror for fifteen minutes, wondering if he even noticed that I never closed my eyes. That I never kissed him back.

I came home empty.

But also, somehow, heavier.

---

At the clinic, I go through the motions. My 9 a.m. is a couple exploring non-monogamy; my 10:30 is a woman grieving a miscarriage; my noon cancels last minute.

I don't eat lunch. Just sit at my desk, staring at my notes.

And then I see it. An envelope.

Heavy, ivory paper. No postage. No name, except mine, handwritten in ink that curves and loops like a secret.

I freeze.

This is not Damien's handwriting. It's not from the clinic staff. And it sure as hell isn't professional correspondence.

I wait five minutes before I touch it. Five full minutes of rationalizing. Of pretending this might be something innocent, unrelated.

Then I slide my finger under the flap.

You don't have to run.You just have to stop pretending you want to stay.

No signature. No threat. Just truth.

Hot, flaying, surgical truth.

My hand shakes.

I fold the letter back up and place it in the drawer, carefully, like it might shatter if handled wrong. But the words are already in me. Seared into that soft, forbidden place I've been trying to smother since I walked out of that lounge.

I don't need to wonder who sent it.

I know.

Lucien Moreau doesn't ask questions.

He speaks in absolutes. In truths most men are afraid to hold, let alone hand over like a gift you didn't know you wanted.

And this?

This feels like a gift.

---

At night, I can't sleep.

Damien is downstairs in his office. The house is quiet. Too quiet.

I slip out of bed and walk barefoot to the kitchen, every step echoing. I pour a glass of water. Drink. Refill it.

When I pass the mirror in the hallway, I stop.

Not because I look different. But because for the first time, I look like myself.

Not the curated image. Not the counselor. Not the wife.

Just me.

Barefoot. Awake. Wanting.

I run my fingers along the inside of my wrist, over the gold bracelet. The one I haven't taken off in weeks. The one Lucien placed on me like a mark.

I should take it off. I should.

But I don't.

---

In the morning, Damien mentions the bracelet over coffee. For the first time since I wore it days ago, he has noticed it just now.

"New?" he asks casually.

I freeze for half a second too long before answering. "Gift from a patient."

He nods. Doesn't press. Doesn't notice the lie sitting in my lap like a tiger with its teeth bared.

He leaves for the firm, and I exhale.

At the clinic, I cancel my lunch again. My hands keep drifting to the drawer. The letter.

I reread it. Twice.

You don't have to run.

God.

What would it feel like — not to run?

To stop pretending? To give in?

Not just physically. Not just in lust. But to hand someone the map of every buried thing in you and say: here. Find me.

I close the drawer.

---

I call in my afternoon session as sick. I'm not sure if I'm being impulsive or intentional — maybe both.

But I know where I'm going.

The gallery is closed to the public, but the side entrance opens the moment I buzz.

It's dark inside. Not pitch-black, but soft-lit, like dusk held hostage indoors.

I walk slowly. Past canvases that feel like confessions, sculptures that breathe tension. Every piece speaks in heat and weight and silence.

And then I see it.

In the center of the room. The new piece.

Steel and silk. A structure shaped like a corset, but large enough to step inside. It's suspended — just barely — above the ground, held by invisible threads from the ceiling.

There are no instructions. No signs. Just the sensation that it's meant to be experienced.

I step forward. Slide my palm along the edge of the steel — cool, smooth. The silk is wound through the middle in tight, intricate knots. It would take time to unravel. Patience. Willingness.

And that's when I realize: it's not about the piece.

It's about what I see in it.

Lucien knows.

He knew I'd come here. Knew I'd find this. Knew I'd feel it like a hand on my spine.

I sit on the bench nearby. My breath is uneven.

And then, behind me — a sound. I turn.

He stands in the doorway. Dark suit. No tie. Shirt open at the collar.

He doesn't move. Neither do I.

The silence between us is a living thing.

And I break it with the only question that matters.

"What do you see when you look at me?"

He doesn't blink. Doesn't smile.

"I see the fire under the water," he says. "The part you keep submerged because you think it'll burn everything if it surfaces."

My throat tightens.

"What if it does?" I whisper.

He steps forward, slow.

"Then let it."