A Throne for the Forgotten

Chapter 20

She hadn’t planned what she’d say—but she never needed words to shake him.

Lucan opened the door before she could knock. As if the sound of the car alone had been enough. He stood still in the threshold, half in shadow, all in disbelief.

Celeste looked the same. Or maybe stronger. There was no question in her eyes. Just silence. Sharp, searching. The kind that made people confess.

“You burned your house to protect me,” she said. Not a question. A statement. He didn’t flinch. He nodded once. “It wasn’t a house,” Lucan replied. “It was a prison.”

His voice held no regret—just reality. The kind you admit too late. She gave him a look. Sad. Strong. “You almost became it,” she murmured. And somehow, that hurt more.

For a moment, they didn’t move. The air between them stretched thin. Not awkward. Just loaded. He reached for her hand, slow, careful. Like he knew one wrong move would undo everything. She didn’t pull away. But she didn’t grip back either. “Do you hate me?” he asked. His voice was small. Smaller than he meant it to be.

“No,” she said. “But I don’t belong in ruins anymore.” Her answer was honest. Clean. It didn’t tremble. He looked down at her fingers resting against his. Not clasped. Not entwined. Just there. Present.

But already fading. He knew she could leave again. And this time, she wouldn’t come back. This wasn’t a loop. It was a goodbye in slow motion.

“I wanted to tell you that night,” he whispered. “That I was sorry. That I didn’t see you soon enough.” “You saw me,” she replied. “You just didn’t want the world to.”

Her words didn’t bite. They didn’t accuse. They simply told the truth. And that was worse than anger. It meant she’d already made peace without him.

Lucan stepped aside. Gave her space. She walked into the entryway, slowly. The place hadn’t changed. The same worn rug. The same shelves. The same ghost of everything she’d once tried to love.

“You kept this place,” she said, scanning the room. “I thought you’d leave it behind.” “I thought you’d walk through it again,” he answered quietly.

She turned to him. “Is this where you wait for people you lose?” “No,” he said. “It’s where I remember the people I should’ve fought for.”

The sentence landed between them like a soft blow. Neither moved. Neither filled the silence. The walls didn’t echo with apologies. They just stood—aged, cracked, honest.

“I don’t need saving anymore,” Celeste said. “I know,” Lucan replied. “I just needed you to know I finally would’ve tried.” “But you didn’t,” she said. “Not when it counted.”

Her voice wasn’t cruel. It was grounded. Like someone who had finally learned the difference between almost and enough.

He nodded. “You’re right.” He didn’t ask for more. Didn’t beg. Didn’t plead. He just stood there, letting her be the one who owned the moment.

That, maybe, was the most he could give her. The space. The respect. The silence that wasn’t abandonment—but understanding.

They sat for a while in the kitchen. No food. Just quiet. She sipped water. He poured a second glass, more for something to do than thirst.

“Do you ever miss it?” he asked. “Us?” She smiled, barely. “I miss who I thought we were. Not what we were.” That, somehow, was worse than a no.

“You were the first person I wanted to build with,” Lucan said. “But you didn’t build. You inherited,” Celeste replied. “And when the foundation cracked, you blamed the walls for falling.”

The metaphor was too real. Too accurate. He looked down at his glass. “You always had the words I didn’t.”

She softened slightly. Just enough. “Because I had to say them for both of us,” she said. “You stayed quiet while they wrote over me. I learned to scream without making a sound.” Lucan looked at her, fully this time. “And now the whole world listens.” “Because I stopped waiting for you to speak first.”

The distance between them wasn’t physical. It was the kind that lives in memory.

But he leaned forward anyway. “If I could take it back—” “You can’t,” she said. “And I don’t want you to.” He blinked. “You don’t?” “Because if you did,” she said, “maybe I’d still be quiet. Maybe I’d still be waiting.”

He nodded slowly, the weight of it all settling in his chest. “Then why are you here?” he asked. “Because I wanted to see you look at me and finally understand,” Celeste said.

“Not with guilt. With clarity.” “Do I look at you that way now?” he asked. “Almost,” she said softly. “And that’s enough.”

He stood. Walked to her. Close. Not forceful. Just close enough. “You’ve always been fire,” he said. “You just needed me to stop being the water.”

Her eyes closed briefly. “And I needed to stop waiting for you to burn first.” The words were soft. Brutal. Final.

Then she kissed him. Soft. Deep. Real. Not for forgiveness. For memory. For the girl she used to be. For the boy who didn’t save her.

For the people they once were, and never would be again. But she pulled away first—leaving him on the porch.