---
Celeste never believed in fate.
She believed in design. Timing. Pressure. The right words said by the right woman in the right hallway.
So when her assistant asked, "Why are you suddenly visiting the editorial floor three times a day?" — Celeste smiled sweetly and said, "Research."
Never mind that her "research" just happened to involve walking by the intern desk where Miki Arata always sat with headphones in and her eyes glued to some dusty manuscript.
Never mind that she now took her coffee at exactly 9:07 a.m., the same minute Miki arrived.
And never mind that she had a new habit of leaving behind red lipstick-stained coffee cups on the shared café counter, because she knew Miki hated mess.
It was all coincidence.
"Coincidence," she repeated to herself, tapping her pen against her chin in her corner office. "If I say it enough, maybe even I'll believe it."
---
That afternoon, Celeste sauntered past the editorial floor again — slow enough to seem aimless, fast enough to seem unbothered.
Miki was there.
Black turtleneck today. Hair tied up. A pencil between her fingers, twirling without thought.
Celeste paused at the water cooler, listening.
Someone passed by. "Miki, are you joining for lunch?"
"No," came the calm reply.
Celeste's lips curled.
---
By 1:15 p.m., Celeste had planted herself at the rooftop garden bench — the one closest to the shade.
She knew Miki liked shade.
She even had two cups of coffee. Black. No sugar. No milk.
When Miki appeared from the stairwell — like she always did when avoiding the crowded staff lounge — Celeste greeted her with a slow, smug smile.
"I had a feeling you'd come."
Miki blinked. Her hands were in her coat pockets. "That's either a coincidence or stalking."
Celeste patted the space beside her on the bench. "I'm hoping you'll call it lunch."
Miki stared at her a moment too long.
Then sat. Not close. But not far.
Celeste passed her the coffee.
"You remembered," Miki said flatly, taking it.
Celeste grinned. "Of course. I remember everything about you."
Miki sipped once.
Then quietly muttered, "That's unsettling."
Celeste laughed — truly laughed this time.
"You're starting to talk more," she said.
"I'm starting to get used to you."
Celeste's smile faltered.
Not because it was an insult.
Because it was progress.
---
Later that night, in her penthouse, Celeste added something to her notebook:
> She's starting to let me stay.
And one day, she'll ask me to.
--