Along the Malibu coast, a gentle wind swept in.
Salt-tinged and warm, it wove through blades of grass, brushed against the windows and candle flames, and finally reached the hilltop villa with quiet, unhurried grace.
Night did not fall so much as it bloomed—not in darkness, but in music.
As if some old jazz record had been set playing again.
Here, even the night glowed with softness.
At the center of the garden, a long dining table had been set—seasonal seafood glistening on platters, vegetables grilled in olive oil, cheeses arrayed like edible sculptures, and a carafe of oak-rich red wine casting deep shadows beneath the lights.
Celeste's parents, Georges and Marcel, greeted the four guests with their signature poise—smiling as though they had known them all their lives, yet holding a reverent distance, as if welcoming strangers from a dream.
Georges wore a deep navy linen shirt, a folded handkerchief tucked precisely into his pocket.
Marcel, in a silk blouse the color of sky, had chosen pearl earrings that caught the candlelight.
They looked like a painting—a moment captured from a long, kind marriage that had softened even time itself.
"My dear," Marcel turned to Jinwoo with a smile.
"How's the wine?"
"Oh—it's wonderful," Jinwoo answered gently, raising his glass.
"Smooth on the palate…"
"Isn't it?" Georges chuckled, topping off his glass.
"We chose it ourselves last month in Napa. These days, it lingers better than the Chardonnay."
Marcel reached across the table, lightly taking Celeste's hand.
"Your hands feel thinner, darling. Have you been eating properly?"
Celeste gave a small, embarrassed laugh and nodded.
The platinum ring on her finger shimmered under the soft glow of the table light.
Marcel's eyes paused on it.
"…And this?"
Georges turned, his gaze gentle, but weighted with intent.
Celeste answered a beat too late.
"Ah… Jinwoo gave it to me. It's not…It doesn't carry too much meaning."
Her voice was quiet, but the slightest tremble ran through her fingertips.
Jinwoo, as if prepared for this moment, lifted his glass and spoke.
"It wasn't a proposal," he said evenly.
"I just… wanted to show her what's in my heart."
His voice was low and composed, but in his eyes, uncertainty and resolve swirled in delicate tension.
Georges nodded with a soft smile.
"Sometimes, rings speak truer than words. Whether it's a promise or a feeling, truth always leaves a trace."
Facing her parents' warm expressions, Celeste offered a hesitant smile. Her gaze drifted between the flickering candlelight and the sea stretched beyond the terrace.
Beside her, Noah said nothing—but his eyes brushed against the back of her hand with a silence that lingered.
"You seem tired lately, Celeste,"
Marcel said gently, watching her face.
"There must've been a lot to prepare."
"I'm fine," she replied with a calm smile.
"Maybe just a little nervous still."
As she lifted her glass, only Daniel noticed the slight shake in her hand.
Quietly, as he broke a piece of bread, Daniel added,
"Tomorrow's schedule is tight. But she always handles everything beautifully."
Georges tilted his head.
"And you, Daniel? You look far too thin. Haven't been overworking, have you?"
Daniel raised a brow, smiling faintly.
"I'm alright, Uncle. You know me. Sometimes work's just too interesting to remember meals."
"And that's the problem," Marcel murmured, almost to himself.
"Work that excites you never knows how to stop."
"But," Daniel continued,
"Celeste is by my side. That's enough to keep me steady."
At those words, Celeste looked up. Daniel didn't look her way, but the weight of his voice hung in the space between them.
Just then, a breeze drifted in through the open glass doors of the courtyard.
The candlelight wavered faintly, and in its flicker, the faces around the table came into sharper focus.
Marcel glanced toward Noah, who had been quietly cutting into his steak.
"You know," he said softly, with a curve to his lips,
"I never imagined we'd see you again like this."
His voice carried both wonder and wistfulness.
"To think," Georges added, raising his glass,
"you're now working with Celeste at Langley—part of the family, truly. It means a lot to us."
"And we're grateful,"
Marcel continued, lifting his own glass with elegant ease.
"Let's build something lasting—together."
Noah lowered his eyes for a moment, then smiled faintly.
"Thank you," he said.
"I'll do my best to be of help. To her. Always."
In that moment, though the four sat in separate chairs, the truths they hid beneath their words spread quietly to the very edge of the table.
And the ones who noticed first—were Georges and Marcel.
Marcel gently swirled the wine in her glass and murmured,
"Nights like this… tend to awaken feelings we thought we'd long put to rest."
Georges nodded, slowly.
Without a word, the others raised their glasses with him.
And together, they drank—into the heart of the California night.