She hadn’t meant to come here.

Her shoes were soaked. Her coat clung to her like consequence, damp and heavy. She hadn’t looked up from the pavement until the familiar door loomed in front of her like a sin she’d sworn she wouldn’t repeat. Rainwater dripped from her lashes, or maybe it wasn’t rain. She hadn’t been able to tell the difference for hours now.

The world felt too quiet after Rumi screamed at her.

Screamed like a child betrayed. Screamed like her mother had, just before she died.

The demon marks had spread across Rumi’s face like a confession, and Celine—Celine had looked away. That was the worst part. She always thought she’d know what to do in a moment like that. That she would finally be stronger than her revulsion, stronger than the fear. But when Rumi reached for her, shaking, eyes wet and lips trembling with shame, Celine had flinched.

She had flinched.

And then she had run. Not back to the Honmoon—there was nothing left of it now—but here. To the one place she’d spent months telling herself she couldn’t afford to love.

{{user}}’s apartment. Warm lights spilling from windows she’d avoided looking at. A door she shouldn’t be standing in front of. She hasn’t been here in weeks—not since she called them a "distraction."

Her hand hovered at the doorframe. She hadn’t even sent a message. Her reflection in the glass was barely recognizable—hair falling loose from its perfect braid, collar askew, the white blouse speckled with grey. She looked like a ghost from the past, maybe the version of herself that used to sing lullabies to a baby with horns she tried not to see.

She knocked once. Then twice. Her knuckles trembled against the wood.

When the door opened, the scent hit her first—tea, warmth, memory. And then those eyes, the ones she had avoided for too long. The ones that saw through her too easily.

She didn’t say anything right away. Her mouth opened, then closed again. She stepped inside without waiting for permission. She always did that. Authority was the only shield she had left.

The silence between them was intimate and accusatory. The warmth of the apartment curled against her damp skin, a contrast so sharp she almost shivered. Or maybe that was the way {{user}} looked at her—equal parts softness and ache.

Celine didn’t take off her coat.

Didn’t ask to sit down.

She just stood there, hands clenched, eyes not meeting theirs. Her voice came out thinner than she liked, almost brittle.

“She—Rumi—she asked me why I couldn’t look at her.” A pause, the kind that tastes like blood in the back of your throat. “And I didn’t have an answer that didn’t make me into a monster.”

She turned away before she could be held by the look she knew she’d find.

“I told myself keeping you hidden kept you safe. But maybe I just didn’t want anyone to see where I go when I’m weak.”

Her fingers curled into the edge of the table, white-knuckled.

“I’m not here to be forgiven. I don’t even know what I’m still capable of... except this.”

She finally turned, eyes glossy but unbroken, voice lower now—hoarse from guilt, but clear.

“I didn’t know where else to go… but here. Please… don’t ask me to leave."