August stood in the quiet warmth of his living room, the last glow of evening light fading through the curtains. Empty plates had been cleared, and the clatter of dishes was replaced by silence.
On the couch, curled up like a small cat claiming territory, was Liam, fast asleep. His tiny frame nestled into the cushions, breaths slow and even, exhaustion finally taking over after a long, triumphant day of competition and ice cream celebrations.
August paused a moment, watching the boy with a gentle smile.
"Looks like he finally fell asleep," he murmured to no one in particular.
Celine sat nearby, blanket wrapped around her shoulders. "Yeah," she replied softly. "He's so energetic… How old is he again?"
August lifted a brow, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Four?"
"Four," she confirmed, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.
He hesitated only a moment before gesturing toward the couch. "I've got whiskey."
She glanced up, a slow smile spreading. "Are you trying to get me drunk this early, Chef?"
Caught, he chuckled and ducked back into the kitchen. A moment later he returned with a bottle, two glasses, and a couple of ice cubes clinking in a soft rhythm. He poured, a generous pour for both of them, and handed her a glass.
Celine lifted it to her lips, took a slow sip, then exhaled, not quite a sigh of relief, but something like it. The fire warmed her from the inside out.
"It's been a day," she said, eyes distant for a heartbeat.
August took his own sip, leaning back against the couch arm with a quiet ease. "Mm. It has."
They sat like that for a while, just two souls with drinks warming their hands, the soft rise and fall of a sleeping child beside them.
Finally, Celine set her glass down on the coffee table with a gentle thud. "You know… I didn't think tonight would end this peacefully."
August looked at her then, truly looked, a softness in his gaze edged with something deeper. "Sometimes peace is exactly what we need."
Celine's lips curved in the tiniest smile. "You caught me," she teased lightly. "Maybe a little peace and whiskey is exactly what I need."
He lifted his glass toward her in a quiet salute.
"Cheers," he said.
"Cheers."
Celine took another sip, tucking her legs beneath her on the couch as she watched August over the rim of her glass.
"Can I ask you something?" she said, voice casual but clear.
August glanced over, brow raised. "Sure."
"Why cooking?"
There was no judgment in her tone, just pure curiosity, like she genuinely wanted to understand the man behind the apron.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked down at his glass, turning it slowly in his hand. The ice clinked.
"I guess…" he began, his voice thoughtful, "because it's the one thing that always made sense. Even when nothing else did."
She tilted her head slightly. "How do you mean?"
He shrugged. "I was seventeen, pissed off at the world. Parents fighting. My little brother worshipped me, but I didn't want to be anyone's role model. I'd sneak into the kitchen at night just to get away. Ended up cooking my first proper meal by accident."
He smiled faintly at the memory. "It wasn't even good. But something about it, the rhythm, the heat, the way everything came together… it gave me control. Peace."
Celine listened, eyes soft, fingers wrapped loosely around her glass.
"And now?" she asked. "Does it still bring you peace?"
He looked at her now, really looked. "Not always. Sometimes it's just work. Long hours, crazy customers, too much caffeine." He chuckled. "But when I get it right, when someone tastes something and their whole face changes? That still feels worth it."
She nodded slowly, eyes never leaving his. "You're really good at it."
He raised an eyebrow, teasing. "My food or my tragic backstory?"
She laughed. "Both."
There was a beat of silence. A warm, charged kind of quiet.
"You ever think of doing anything else?" she asked, quieter now.
He leaned back, eyes drifting toward the window. "Sometimes. But I think... even if I wasn't a chef, I'd still end up feeding people. Guess it's just in me."
Celine smiled gently. "That's not a bad thing to have in you."
August turned back to her, his gaze steady.
"And you? Why fashion?"
Her smile widened, not ready for that question but welcoming it all the same.
"Touché," she murmured.
The night stretched, and the questions didn't stop, only got softer, deeper. Like they were building something. And neither wanted to blink in case it disappeared.
***
Celine had taken a few days off work, officially.
But her mind? It didn't know the meaning of rest.
Stacy had stopped by earlier, true to her word, dumping a duffel of fresh clothes, her laptop, and a stack of carefully sorted documents on the table. She'd also brought her usual peace offering: coffee. Strong, steaming, and just how Celine liked it.
Now, curled up on August's couch in a borrowed T-shirt and soft shorts, Celine sat with her legs tucked beneath her, fingers flying over the keyboard. Her eyes flicked between the sketchpad beside her and the screen, where a sleek winter coat design was slowly coming to life.
The scent of roast something wafted from the kitchen. She barely noticed. Her world, for now, was wool cuts, cinched waists, and delicate threading. Every stroke of her pen was sharp, intentional, focused, like she was trying to regain control, one line at a time.
Despite everything, this, designing, building, creating, was her escape. Her armor. And nothing, not even fear, was going to take that from her.
August leaned on the doorframe, a steaming mug of tea in one hand, still drying his hands on a dishtowel. He'd just returned from the bathroom and had paused when he saw her so deep in work, eyes narrowed with that quiet intensity only artists carried.
He tilted his head slightly.
"That looks lovely," he said casually, nodding toward her screen.
Celine glanced up, blinking out of her focus. A small smile tugged at her lips.
"Thanks. It's part of my winter collection." She turned the laptop slightly so he could get a better view.
He stepped closer, curiosity piqued. The design was clean and elegant, a tailored coat with unique cuts—bold but wearable.
"I like how it shapes the waist," he said, surprising her with his observation. "You've got a good eye."
"Comes with the job," she replied, sipping her coffee. "Besides, women deserve to look powerful and feel warm at the same time."
August chuckled. "Spoken like a woman who's been freezing in style too many winters."
"You have no idea," she muttered, typing again.
He watched her for a second longer, then said with a teasing glint,
"Let me know if you ever need a model. I can smolder and walk in a straight line."
She smirked without looking up.
"Only if you can fit into a size four."
Celine glanced at him over the rim of her coffee mug, her tone light but curious.
"Aren't you going to the restaurant today?"
August sipped his tea and shrugged.
"Not this morning. I left things in good hands. Besides…" — he motioned vaguely toward her laptop , "I figured I'd stick around. Make sure my unexpected houseguest is still breathing."
She snorted, shaking her head.
"Very funny."
He smirked, walking to the kitchen counter to refill his tea.
"You looked like you were designing the next revolution. Didn't want to disturb the genius."
She chuckled. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Then, more quietly, "Thanks… for letting me stay. And breakfast. And... you know, not being weird about everything."
August turned back to her, leaning against the counter with a casual shrug.
"You're welcome. Besides, I don't think you've reached weird houseguest status yet."
He raised a brow.
"Though if you start doing your fittings on my couch, I might have to start charging rent."
Celine smirked.
"I'll pay in sketches."
"Deal."