Scene 51¶
Notes26-01-23e¶
Scene 49¶
[26-01-23]
Scene 49 — “Consequences” (Celeste POV)
I waited until lunch.
Not because I wanted to punish her with time.
Because if I spoke too soon, my voice would carry the wrong emotion.
I needed to be the adult.
And—this was the new part—I needed to be the adult while my body still wanted her hands on my skin.
That was the discipline now.
After lunch, I sent Charli a single message.
Back room. Five minutes.
No emoji. No softness. Structure.
Charli arrived exactly on time, of course.
She stood just inside the door like a schoolgirl, shoulders tight, hands clasped in front of her as if her fingers couldn’t be trusted.
Her eyes were red-rimmed. She’d tried not to cry. She’d failed. Quietly.
I didn’t comment on it.
I leaned against the table and kept my face calm.
“What happened this morning,” I said, “was unsafe.”
Charli flinched.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“No,” I said, and held up a hand. “Not that word. You don’t apologise to make yourself feel smaller. You listen.”
Charli’s mouth closed. She nodded once, hard.
I continued, steady.
“Wardrobe is a women’s workplace. It is a safe space by design. That design depends on two things: privacy and clarity.”
Charli stared at the floor, breathing shallowly.
“You touched me in a way that signalled intimacy,” I said. “In front of staff. In front of a client.”
Charli’s throat moved. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to signal—”
“I know,” I said, and my voice softened one notch because it was true. “But intent is not the point.”
Her head lifted slightly, eyes wet.
“The point,” I continued, “is consequences. In a room like ours, intimacy becomes currency for other people. Gossip. Leverage. Narratives. And women pay for that.”
Charli’s face crumpled, not theatrically—just honest pain.
“I didn’t think,” she whispered.
“I know,” I said again. “That’s why we’re talking.”
I pushed off the table and stepped closer—not to comfort her, but to anchor her with fact.
“This is not me rejecting you,” I said, very clearly. “This is me protecting you. And protecting Wardrobe.”
Charli’s eyes snapped up.
“You’re… not…?” Her voice broke.
I held her gaze.
“No,” I said. “I’m not.”
She exhaled shakily, as if she’d been holding her breath since morning.
Then the devotion returned—too fast, too eager—and she stepped forward like she wanted to touch me to confirm it.
I stopped her with a small gesture.
Charli froze.
I let the silence do its work.
“This is part of being a woman in a women’s space,” I said. “You don’t get to let your feelings spill wherever they want. You learn where it’s safe.”
Charli nodded rapidly, tears slipping now.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes. I can. I will.”
“Good,” I said.
Then I delivered the consequence, clean and boring, like policy.
“For the next two weeks,” I said, “you and I behave at work as we always have. Professional. No private signals. No touches. No looks that linger. We don’t feed anyone a story.”
Charli’s face tightened in fear.
Two weeks must have sounded like exile.
I watched her carefully.
“This is not punishment,” I added, because I meant it. “It’s training. It’s protection. It’s a reset.”
Charli swallowed.
“Yes,” she whispered, and I could see her trying to be brave.
“And,” I continued, “if you feel the urge to touch me at work, you redirect it into craft.”
Charli blinked.
I nodded toward the shelves.
“Pins,” I said. “Ties. Tension. You put your devotion into the work. That is how women survive in public.”
Charli’s breath shuddered.
“Yes,” she said again, steadier this time. “I understand.”
I held her gaze for a long beat, then—because I am not cruel—I gave her one truthful softness.
“Last night,” I said quietly, “was real.”
Charli’s eyes filled again, but this time the tears looked like relief.
“And it will continue,” I added. “At home. After hours. Where it is safe.”
Charli nodded, trembling.
“Yes,” she breathed. “I’ll be good.”
I sighed—small, controlled.
“Don’t say ‘good’ like that,” I said. “Say ‘careful.’”
Charli swallowed, corrected herself.
“I’ll be careful.”
“Better,” I said.
I stepped back and opened the door.
“Now,” I said, returning to the adult voice, “wash your face. Fix your posture. Go back out there. You’re not in trouble. You’re learning.”
Charli wiped her cheeks with the heel of her hand, nodded, and turned to go.
At the doorway she paused—hesitated—then looked back at me with a question in her eyes.
Not asking for touch.
Asking for certainty.
I gave her a small nod.
The kind that says: We are still us. Just not here.
Charli exhaled and went back into Wardrobe.
I closed the door and stood alone in the back room for a moment longer than necessary, letting the ache in my chest settle into something I could carry.
Because this was the new truth:
I wanted her.
I wanted her touch.
And I would still choose the standards that kept her safe.
Even when it hurt.
Especially when it hurt.
If you like, the next scene can be the evening after this consequence talk — where Charli, determined to “be careful,” becomes almost comically cautious… and Celeste has to guide her back into softness: “Careful doesn’t mean distant.” That’s a gorgeous way to show Celeste’s floodgates staying open in the correct place. 💛