Planning

The upload bar hit 100%, and just like that, the weight of the world lifted off my shoulders.

I slumped back in my desk chair, staring at the screen. The album—my album, the one I had pulled out of thin air in a caffeine-fueled fever dream over the last two weeks—was officially in the hands of the label.

My phone buzzed. It was Violet, my social media manager.

Violet: Teasers are queued. The fandom is already losing its mind over the silhouette photo. Go to sleep, Cee. I’ve got the wheel.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Usually, this was the part where I would micromanage the font choice on the Instagram stories or refresh the comments section until my eyes bled. But tonight, I just turned the screen off.

I had one more VIP guest to impress, anyway.

I checked the time. 9:00 PM. Parker had texted earlier saying he’d wrap up on set around eight.

As if summoned by my thoughts, the buzzer to my apartment rang.

When I opened the door, Parker looked like he had been run over by a truck, but in a very fashionable, cinematic way. His hair was a mess, his shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and he was carrying a plastic bag that smelled distinctly of grease.

"I come bearing offerings," he said, holding up the bag. "Fried chicken. The good kind. Not the healthy kind."

I stepped aside to let him in. "You are a savior. I haven't eaten anything that wasn't a protein bar since Tuesday."

He kicked off his shoes and walked into the living room, collapsing onto my sofa with a groan that rattled his chest. "That director is a tyrant. I think I played the same measure of Chopin four hundred times. My fingers are going to fall off."

"Good thing you have a girlfriend who’s a musical genius to nurse you back to health," I joked, plating the chicken.

He cracked one eye open, a tired smile playing on his lips. "Is that so? The genius part, I mean. Is it done?"

"It is." I handed him a plate and sat down on the rug beside the coffee table. "It’s actually... really good. I mean, I had to rush the engineering a bit, but the raw emotion? It’s there."

We ate in a comfortable silence, the kind that only exists between two people who are too tired to keep up appearances. It was domestic. It was terrifyingly domestic.

Once the food was demolished, I wiped my hands and stood up. I walked over to the grand piano that took up half of my living room—my pride and joy, a Steinway that cost more than my first three cars combined.

"Do you want the exclusive premiere?" I asked, running my hand over the glossy black wood.

Parker sat up, his expression shifting from exhausted to attentive. "Live?"

"Live."

I sat on the bench. Usually, when I played for an audience, I put on the "Celeste" mask. I sat with perfect posture, I smiled at the right intervals, I made sure my hair fell perfectly over my shoulder.

Tonight, I just slumped a little. I let my shoulders drop.

I played the opening chords of the title track. It was one of the songs I had written during the "fake date" brainstorming session. It wasn't a bubbly pop anthem about fireworks; it was slower, a ballad about the quiet moments where you realize you're in over your head.

“I’m reading lines from a script I didn’t write / But why does it feel so true under the light?”

My voice was a little raspy from the long days in the booth, but it felt right for the song. I closed my eyes, letting the melody carry me. I wasn't thinking about the charts, or the fans, or the lie we were selling. I was just thinking about the way Parker had looked at me in the hotel room, and the text message that I had almost deleted.

When I played the final chord, letting the note sustain until it faded into the silence of the apartment, I didn't look up immediately. I felt exposed.

Then, I heard slow, soft clapping.

I turned around. Parker was watching me with an intensity that made my stomach do that traitorous flip again.

"Okay," he said softly. "You keep the genius title."

I felt my face heat up, so I turned back to the keys, playing a random major scale just to do something with my hands. "You think? It's not too... sappy?"

Parker stood up and walked over to the piano. He leaned against the curve of the instrument, looking down at me. "It's honest. That’s the best thing you can be."

"Ironic," I muttered, "considering our current situation."

He laughed, but it was a warm sound. "Maybe."

He pulled his phone out. "Come here. We need to document the 'Happy Producer' face."

I leaned in as he held the phone up high. In the screen, I saw us—him looking tired but happy, me looking flushed and devoid of my usual stage makeup. He snapped the picture.

"Don't post that," I warned. "I have bags under my eyes."

"I'm not posting it," he said, pocketing the phone. "Keeping it."

The air between us felt charged again, heavy with the things we weren't saying. I knew I needed to break the tension before I did something stupid, like kiss him for real.

"So," I said, spinning around on the bench to face him fully. "Since you came up with the date idea last time... and since I am officially free from the shackles of the recording studio..."

Parker raised an eyebrow. "Oh no. I know that look. That’s your 'I have a plan' look."

"I do have a plan." I crossed my arms. "You’re wrapped on set for a few days next week, right? Before the press tour starts?"

"Technically. But I was planning to sleep for forty-eight hours straight."

"Boring," I declared. "I checked our schedules. We have a three-day window where neither of us has to be anywhere. No cameras, no interviews, no managers."

I grinned, feeling the excitement bubble up. "I'm planning a vacation. For us."

Parker blinked. "A vacation? Like... a real one? Not a photo op?"

"A real one. I'm thinking somewhere quiet. Maybe the mountains? Or a cabin? Somewhere we can just... turn off." I looked at him, feeling a sudden spike of nervousness. "Unless you don't want to. I know you're tired—"

Parker cut me off. "Celeste."

"Yeah?"

"I think that sounds perfect."

I beamed, my mind already racing with logistics, packing lists, and travel routes. "Great. I'll send you the itinerary by tomorrow morning. Pack warm clothes."

"Yes, ma'am," he saluted lazily.

I turned back to the piano, playing a cheerful trill on the high keys. For the first time in a long time, the music wasn't the only thing making me happy.