Damien stirred awake to a dull ache pulsing through his head. The room felt dimmer than usual, the weight of the evening still thick in the air. The scent of whiskey lingered faintly, and his throat was dry. He blinked a few times, trying to ground himself, memories slowly piecing together—the drinks, the breakdown, and…
Celeste.
His heart thudded once, hard and sudden.
His gaze shifted, and there she was.
Curled up in the corner of the couch opposite him, her head resting against the armrest, one hand tucked under her cheek. Her breathing was soft and even, strands of hair slightly mussed, the light from the desk lamp casting a golden hue over her delicate features. She was still here. She hadn't left.
Damien sat up slowly, running a hand through his disheveled hair, wincing at the tenderness in his temples. He looked down at himself—his shirt had been unbuttoned slightly, the blanket still over his legs. He remembered the warmth of her touch, the way her fingers brushed his hair, the soft firmness of her voice telling him to rest. Her presence had been like balm on an old wound he hadn't realized was still bleeding.
For a moment, he didn't move. He just watched her. It was a strange kind of peace. One he wasn't used to. In a world that demanded everything from him—perfection, success, dominance—Celeste hadn't asked for anything. She had given instead. Quiet company, a hand on his back, and eyes that didn't judge.
His throat tightened.
Getting up as quietly as he could, Damien walked over to the small office fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. He took a few slow sips, clearing his throat and his mind. As he turned back, his eyes landed on her again.
She looked so small in that moment. Small, but strong.
He grabbed a spare blanket from the cabinet and walked over, gently covering her with it. She shifted slightly at the movement, brow furrowing, but didn't wake. He smiled faintly, lowering himself to sit beside the couch on the floor, just like she had for him.
"Thank you," he whispered, the words almost inaudible in the hush of the room. He leaned his head back against the edge of the couch, his shoulder lightly brushing hers.
It was then that she stirred.
Her lashes fluttered open, confused at first. Then her gaze landed on him.
"Damien?" she murmured sleepily.
"Yeah. Morning—well, whatever time it is," he said, voice rough from sleep and whiskey.
Celeste sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. "You feeling okay?"
He gave a soft huff of a laugh. "Like I was hit by a truck. But I guess that's fair."
She smiled gently, still groggy. "Do you want coffee? Or… more water?"
He looked at her for a long moment. "Why did you stay?"
The question caught her off guard. "Because you needed someone," she said simply.
Damien looked down at his hands, fingers loosely tangled together. "I don't deserve that."
"You don't get to decide what you deserve, Damien. Not when you're hurting."
Their eyes met, the silence between them swelling with unsaid words. There was something there—a fragile, unspoken understanding. Neither of them dared move too quickly, as if a single breath might shatter whatever delicate moment this was.
Finally, Damien stood and offered her a hand. "Come on. Let's get out of here. We need coffee, and something greasy."
Celeste took it without hesitation.
As their fingers clasped, there was no denying it now. Something had shifted. Something real had started to bloom in the quiet of the night.
And neither of them was ready to let it go.
The office was silent, a contrast to the usual bustling hum of activity. Morning light slanted through the half-shut blinds, casting golden streaks across the sleek furniture. Damien Leclair sat on the couch, rubbing his temples, his hangover dull but persistent. When his eyes fluttered open again, they landed on the figure next to him.
Celeste Moreau.
She had fallen asleep in the nearby armchair, her head resting against the cushioned back, arms crossed, brows furrowed even in slumber. Damien watched her in the quiet, blinking slowly as the haze in his mind cleared.
She stayed.
The memory of last night floated back—the drinks, the breakdown, the comfort she offered without hesitation. The way her fingers moved gently through his hair, the warmth of her hand on his cheek, her voice calming his chaos.
A deep breath left his chest, full of something that tasted oddly like guilt and something dangerously close to fondness.
He stood up, steadying himself, and softly padded across the office to the small kitchenette. But before he could reach for the coffee pot, Celeste stirred.
"Don't," she murmured sleepily, sitting up. "I'll make it."
Damien paused. "You're not my assistant."
"No, but I'm your headache's worst enemy right now," she replied with a soft smirk as she pulled herself to her feet. "Sit. I'll handle it."
There was a quiet intimacy in that moment, subtle yet undeniable. Damien didn't argue.
Celeste moved around the kitchenette with ease, barefoot, still in her slacks and blouse from yesterday. Her hair was slightly messy, her movements casual but oddly graceful. She scooped the coffee, filled the kettle, and grabbed the mugs.
Damien leaned against the wall, watching. Her every movement felt oddly soothing, familiar even. Like they'd done this a hundred times. Like they belonged to a routine that hadn't yet begun.
"How do you feel?" she asked as the coffee brewed.
"Hungover. Embarrassed," he admitted, lowering his gaze. "But better."
Celeste handed him a cup, their fingers grazing. "Don't be embarrassed. You were… just human last night."
He took the cup but kept his eyes on her. "You stayed. Even after… all of that."
She shrugged. "I couldn't leave you like that. Besides, you needed someone."
The silence returned, but this time it was warmer. Full of things neither dared to say aloud.
They sipped their coffee side by side, leaning against the counter. Damien could feel the walls he so carefully built around himself cracking in the presence of her softness. She didn't press him for more. She just was. There. Steady. Present.
Celeste glanced up at him. "Do you want something for the headache?"
He shook his head. "I think this coffee, and your voice, are doing wonders already."
She chuckled, but there was a quiet blush in her cheeks. "Careful, Mr. Leclair. Someone might think you're flirting."
"What if I am?"
That caught her off guard. Her lashes fluttered, fingers pausing on the rim of her cup. She looked up at him with an expression caught between surprise and something else. Something tender.
"Then I'd say… it's too early in the morning for confessions."
He smiled into his coffee. "Fair."
The rest of the coffee was consumed in companionable silence. Yet under it all, something had undeniably shifted. Like the first hints of spring under a thawing frost, emotions previously buried were beginning to surface.
By the time they both settled into their desks to begin the day, the atmosphere between them had changed.
Not drastically. Not outwardly.
But with every glance Damien stole, and every gentle smile Celeste offered, it was clear: something unspoken was brewing—and it wasn't just the coffee.
The office was slowly stirring to life, but in Damien Leclair's cabin, time seemed to flow differently. The outside world was still, the quiet only punctuated by the soft clink of porcelain as Celeste gently placed a cup of freshly brewed coffee on the glass table. Damien, who had finally pulled himself from the couch, rubbed his temples, the exhaustion from the night before weighing heavily in his bones.
Celeste had noticed his discomfort the moment he sat up. He hadn't said much—just a few murmured words of thanks. His eyes were puffy from crying, and even though he carried himself with the grace of a man used to power, today there was a gentler vulnerability to him that tugged at her heart.
"You really should change, Damien," she said softly, brushing a piece of lint from his wrinkled shirt. "You look like you spent the night in a war zone."
A faint smirk touched his lips. "I did. In my own head."
She didn't press further, instead standing and pulling out her phone. "Call Lucien. Ask him to bring you a change of clothes. I'll take care of myself."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
Her voice left no room for argument.
He sighed and nodded, picking up his phone reluctantly.
As Damien made the call, Celeste dialed Maya. Her best friend answered on the second ring, still groggy from sleep.
"Cel? Everything okay?"
"I need a favor," Celeste said, her voice low. "Can you bring me a fresh pair of clothes to the office? Something business casual, not too flashy. Before people start arriving."
Maya didn't question much—she knew her friend well enough. "Give me fifteen minutes."
Celeste ended the call, turning back to Damien. He was still sitting on the couch, this time looking a bit more composed. But she noticed the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes refused to meet hers.
"Lucien's bringing it," he mumbled.
She gave a nod. "Good."
There was something strange about that morning. The air between them felt heavier, filled with unspoken words, hidden fears, and emotions neither of them dared voice aloud. But in that quiet, in the way she tidied up his cabin, in how she made sure his coffee was perfect—Celeste's care spoke volumes.
When Maya arrived, she did a double-take at Celeste's state but said nothing beyond a knowing smile. Celeste took the small bag, whispered a thank you, and disappeared into the nearest bathroom.
By the time she returned, Damien had changed too—now in a crisp white shirt and black slacks, his hair brushed back with water. They both looked as though the night hadn't happened. But beneath the surface, something had shifted.
There were glances that lingered a little longer, silences that said more than words ever could.
Celeste caught him staring once, while she sorted a few documents on his desk.
"What?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
He shook his head. "Nothing."
But it wasn't nothing.
It was the way she had held him.
It was the way her fingers combed through his hair like a balm to his soul.
It was how she stayed.
And as the office finally woke up around them, Damien Leclair realized—he wasn't quite ready to let go of the feeling her presence gave him.
Damien Leclair ran a hand through his still-damp hair, staring down at the floor as the morning light spilled through the office blinds. The sharp lines of his suit couldn't mask the vulnerability he still felt inside. He had cried—like actually cried—in front of Celeste. Not just in front of her, on her. His arms around her waist, head buried in her shoulder like a lost child. The memory made his chest twist painfully. He was supposed to be the composed one, the CEO who had everything under control, not someone who broke down in his own office.
And yet… she hadn't flinched. Hadn't judged. She just held him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. That made it worse somehow. The soft way she had stroked his hair, the way she whispered comfort instead of questions—it haunted him more than the tears. Damien was used to being feared, respected, obeyed… not understood. Not seen. And he wasn't sure what terrified him more: that she had seen him at his lowest… or that a part of him was grateful she had.