They stayed on the balcony a while, not talking. The ocean didn't ask them to.
Celeste leaned forward on the railing, her fingers trailing along the cool metal. Damien stood close enough for his warmth to brush against her side, but not enough to trap her. He always left space — like he knew she needed to choose closeness, not be pulled into it.
After a few minutes, she glanced at him.
"You hungry?"
He turned, surprised. "Was that an offer?"
"I'm not cooking," she said, walking back into the room.
He laughed. "Didn't think so."
She pulled open the mini fridge and took out a pack of fruit, tossing it onto the counter. "This is the most effort you're getting from me today."
"Charming," he said, grabbing it before she could change her mind. "Romantic, even."
She gave him a look.
Damien sat on the edge of the bed, biting into a slice of pineapple. "So what's the plan? Stay hidden for another day or go pretend to be tourists?"
"I haven't decided yet," she said honestly. "It feels like the moment I move, something bad's going to catch up with me."
He nodded. "Then don't move yet."
Celeste sat across from him, tucking her legs under her. "You really don't care who I am, do you?"
"I care," he said, chewing thoughtfully. "But I don't need a label to know I trust you."
She stared at him for a second. "You shouldn't."
"I know."
Another long pause passed — soft, but weighty.
Then, trying to shake it off, she nodded toward the fruit. "You gonna share or hog the whole thing?"
He held out a slice. "Peace offering?"
She took it, biting it in half. "Truce."
They fell into a quiet rhythm after that — slow bites, messy fingers, the kind of morning that felt almost domestic if you didn't look too closely.
Celeste didn't know what this was between them. It wasn't defined. It wasn't safe. But it was real in a way that nothing else in her life had been lately.
And for now, she didn't need to define it.
She just needed it to last.