The storm outside began to quiet.
“I didn’t mean to create a weather system,” she said, eyes still closed. “I was just thinking about…”
“About?”
You. Always you.
“Things,” she finished lamely.
He made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Powerful thoughts, those things.”
She opened her eyes and found him watching her. Not with the usual exasperation or the careful distance he’d maintained all week. Something else. Something that made her stomach flip and her magic spark and the walls flush the color of a summer sunset.
“Liam—”
“The storm’s passing.” He didn’t let go of her hands. “But you’re still holding a lot. We should…”
“We should?”
The candles flickered. The thunder retreated to a distant rumble. And the space between them felt electric in a way that had nothing to do with weather.
“Wine,” he said finally, releasing her hands like it cost him something. “We should have wine.”
They movedto the living room, because the kitchen still smelled like exploded coffee maker and Luna kept making pointed comments about romantic tension and hairballs.
Cassie had found a bottle of red that was probably too expensive to drink on a random Thursday, but she figured accidentally creating a thunderstorm inside her house counted as a special occasion. Liam had started a fire—an intentionalone, in the fireplace—and the room glowed with warmth that the power outage couldn’t diminish.
“Can I ask you something?” Cassie said, settled on one end of Derek’s ugly brown couch with her wine glass clutched like a security blanket.
Liam was quiet for a moment, staring into the fire. The flames painted shadows across his face, softening his sharp edges.
“Depends on what it is.”
“After everything with Fiona—” She saw him tense slightly at the name. “—how do you know? When something’s real versus when it’s… influenced?”
He was quiet for a long moment. The fire crackled. The storm had fully passed now, leaving behind a soft rain that pattered against the windows.
“I don’t always,” he admitted. “That’s the worst part. Three years divorced and I still catch myself questioning whether I’m angry because I’m actually angry, or because I was conditioned to suppress it for so long.” He took a drink of wine. “Sometimes I feel something strongly and my first instinct is to doubt it. Wonder if it’s really mine.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” He met her eyes, and something shifted in his expression. More open than she’d seen him. “But I’m learning to trust certain things again. The feelings that come with reasons I can trace. The ones that build slowly instead of appearing fully formed.”
“Like what?”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Like being annoyed when you leave dishes in the sink. That one’s definitely real.”
She laughed despite herself. “I do not?—”
“You absolutely do. And the coffee mugs. You collect them like you’re building a ceramic army.”
“This is character assassination.”
“This is observation.” But his eyes were warm now. Warmer than she’d seen them. “I also trust the things I feel when you’re not trying to make me feel them. When you’re just… being yourself. Chaos and all.”
The walls shifted. Deeper rose. Cassie pretended not to notice.
“What kinds of things?” she asked, even though asking felt dangerous.
