---
Celeste had not been drunk in over a century.
There was a good reason for that.
Vampires didn't metabolize alcohol well. It took more than most bars stocked to get them even mildly tipsy. But once the effects did hit, they hit hard — not in the messy, loud human way, but in a slow, syrupy unraveling.
Celeste Lorrain — feared executive, immortal predator — was currently slouched on a beanbag chair meant for interns, sipping something aggressively fruity and blinking up at the sky like it had personally wronged her.
Dana, watching from the corner, muttered, "This is a disaster."
---
Across the rooftop, Miki stood rigid beside a group of confused interns, eyes fixed on Celeste.
She had only taken her gaze off the vampire for five minutes. Just five.
And now?
Now Celeste was slowly rising to her feet, hair tousled, blouse slightly untucked, wine glass still in hand. She turned to the small gathering like she was on stage, voice rich with drama and just a hint of wobble.
"I would like to make an announcement," she declared.
Miki's stomach dropped. "No—"
Celeste pointed toward her with theatrical flair.
"Miki Arata."
Dead silence.
"I am too intoxicated," she said solemnly. "And the city is a dangerous place. There are cars. There are streetlights. There are stairs."
Someone near Miki whispered, "Is she... serious?"
Celeste placed her glass down with the utmost care and then clasped her hands together.
"So, for my safety, I ask…" Her eyes locked with Miki's — warm, glassy, and entirely sincere.
> "May I stay at your apartment tonight?"
---
A wave of gasps, giggles, and stunned expressions rippled through the rooftop crowd.
Miki stared, frozen.
Celeste took a step closer, almost tripping, and Dana hissed under her breath from the sidelines. "Oh, no, no, no—"
But the interns were already chiming in.
"She's right, Miki. She can't walk home like that!"
"Yeah, come on. CEO safety protocol!"
"She's clearly obsessed with you. Let her crash on your couch at least."
"Think of the headlines: 'Intern saves immortal CEO from tripping over sidewalk curb.'"
Miki slowly turned to glare at them all. "You're not helping."
Celeste took one final step — not too close, not invasive — just enough to whisper.
"I promise I won't touch anything," she said. "Except maybe your bookshelf. And maybe the cat, if you have one."
Miki exhaled.
And gave in.
"…Fine."
---
The walk to Miki's apartment was quiet, save for Celeste humming some 18th-century tune and randomly pointing at pigeons.
"You know," she murmured, arm barely brushing Miki's, "you're very warm."
"You're drunk."
"You're still warm."
Miki glanced sideways.
And for a moment — just a moment — her heart squeezed.
Because Celeste's usual sharp grace was gone. She wasn't flirtatious. She wasn't manipulative. She was just… soft.
Almost fragile.
---
Miki's apartment was small and tidy — a bookshelf, two cushions on the couch, no pets, a single potted plant.
Celeste took it all in like she'd stepped into a secret library.
"You live like a monk," she whispered.
"I live like someone who pays rent."
Miki handed her a blanket and pointed at the couch. "You sleep here. No complaints."
Celeste blinked. "I haven't slept on furniture this uncomfortable since the French Revolution."
"You'll survive."
Celeste stared at her.
Then lowered herself slowly onto the couch, draping the blanket around her like royalty accepting defeat.
Miki turned to head to her room—
"Wait."
She paused.
Celeste looked up, eyes less foggy now. "Thank you."
Miki didn't answer at first.
Then, without turning around, she said softly:
"…You're welcome."
---
That night, Miki couldn't sleep.
Not because Celeste made noise. Not because she was afraid.
But because she kept hearing that voice — soft and unsure.
> "May I stay at your apartment?"
And even worse:
> "You're very warm."
---