On so many levels.
Learning to differentiate between the halves of who I am.
Learning to call upon whichever nature serves me best in any given moment.
Learning to be hybrid in ways that complement rather than conflict.
"If you need someone to admire you, I could have done that last night."
The voice comes from behind me—familiar, low, carrying the particular warmth that Cassius reserves for moments when we're alone.
I roll my eyes at his observation.
But I'm smiling as I do it.
I look up from the mirror, meeting his gaze in the reflection before turning to find him leaning against the doorframe with the particular casualness that defines his presence when he's not actively protecting me from threats.
He's wearing his suit uniform.
Blazer tailored to his frame with precision that speaks to craftsmanship beyond ordinary manufacturing, fabric carrying the same shimmer of enchantment that mine possesses. The darkness of his clothes complements the shadows that always seem to cling to his edges, void-black energy present but controlled, power contained but visible.
He gives that little smirk.
The expression transforms his features into something that makes my stomach flutter despite three years of exposure to his particular brand of attractive intensity.
He moves toward me.
His hand reaches out to touch a strand of my hair—silver locks that are beginning to turn golden the longer I keep the flame burning in my grasp. The color shift fascinates him, apparently, because his attention tracks the transformation withthe particular focus of someone witnessing something they find beautiful.
"Well," I respond to his earlier comment, "you were busy flipping me silly like it was a damn competition between you and Nikolai."
The memory of last night surfaces with heat that has nothing to do with the flame still burning in my palm.
"Like jeez," I continue, allowing exasperation to color my words. "You guys weren't competitive like that in the sheets in first year."
His chuckle is low, intimate, carrying implications that make my cheeks warm despite my best efforts to maintain composure.
He leans in.
Close enough that his breath mingles with mine, close enough that I can feel the particular warmth that his presence always generates, close enough that kissing becomes inevitable rather than simply possible.
His lips find mine with the particular softness that I've learned to expect from him when we're not in the middle of life-threatening circumstances—gentleness that contradicts the intensity he displays in every other aspect of his existence.
The kiss is brief but thorough.
A claiming that doesn't need aggression to communicate possession.
A reminder that whatever challenges await, whatever the day brings, I'm his and he's mine in ways that transcend simple partnership.
"Well," he murmurs against my lips, "it worked out now, than it did in the first year."
His voice drops to registers that make my pulse accelerate.
"Because we actually hadtime."
The emphasis lands with weight that we both feel—recognition of circumstances that have fundamentally changed,acknowledgment of reality that finally permits the relationship development that constant survival previously prevented.
"And let's be real," he adds, pulling back just enough to meet my gaze with eyes that carry knowing amusement. "You had the appetite for it."
