"How would you know the difference?" His accent thickened with frustration. "You've already decided what I feel. You've already decided you're not worth choosing. Nothing I say is going to change that, is it?"
She didn't answer. Couldn't.
"I'm not your ex-husband, Cassie. I'm not going to spend twenty years making you feel small." He ran a hand through his hair, and she could see the tension in his shoulders, the restraint it was taking not to reach for her again. "But I can't prove something you've already decided is impossible. You have to be willing to believe it might be real."
"And if it's not? If the binding breaks and you realize this was all just... proximity and magic and convenience?"
"Then at least I'll know I tried." His voice dropped. "Can you say the same? Or are you going to push away everyone who gets close because your ex-husband was a coward?"
The words landed like a slap.
“I’m too much,” she whispered. “I’ve always been too much.”
“Christ, woman.” His voice cracked. “Don’t you understand? Ilikethat you’re too much. I like the chaos and the weather patterns and the walls that can’t keep a secret. I like that you’re messy and real and you feel everything at full volume.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Too bloody late.”
The silence stretched between them. The rain had stopped outside. The candles flickered lower.
“Liam…”
“No.” He held up a hand. “I’m not going to stand here and convince you I’m telling the truth. Either you believe me or you don’t. Either you think you’re worth choosing or you don’t.” His eyes were bright. Hurt. “But I’m not your ex. I’m not going to make you smaller to make myself comfortable. And I won’t be blamed for his crimes.”
He turned toward the hallway.
“Where are you going?”
“To bed. Alone. Before I say something I regret.”
“Liam—”
The emotion rose in her chest like a wave—guilt and fear and desperate want all tangled together into something that felt like drowning.
The magic surged before she could stop it.
Derek’s ugly brown couch—the one he’d insisted on buying even though she hated it, the one she’d kept out of spite or laziness or some twisted form of self-punishment—burstinto flames.
Not subtle flames. Not a gentle smolder. Full-blownfire, orange and hungry, consuming the cushions like they were made of dried kindling.
“HOLY SHIT—” Cassie grabbed for the throw blanket, beating at the flames while Luna yowled something about smoke damage and poor life choices.
Liam was there instantly, fire extinguisher appearing from somewhere, because of course he knew where it was, because he was annoyingly prepared for everything.
White foam covered the couch. The flames died. The sprinklers—which Cassie didn’t even know she had—chose that moment to kick in, drenching everything and everyone in a sad, unnecessary deluge.
They stood there, soaking wet, surrounded by foam and ash and the ruins of the worst couch in existence.
The walls had gone gray. A defeated sort of gray. Awe’re all too emotionally exhausted for thisgray.
“Well,” Luna said from the kitchen doorway, somehow completely dry, “that was dramatic.”
Cassie looked at Liam. He looked back. Water dripped from his hair, ran down his face, collected in the ridiculous neckline of his too-small shirt.
He looked tired. Hurt. Done.
“I think,” he said quietly, “we should just go to bed now. Separately.”
