Aunt Mabel laughed softly. “Fine. Dry.”
I watched him go into the kitchen, broad shoulders filling the doorway. The sight of him in that space—hands in dishwater, standing in a kitchen that had always belonged to women—did something strange to me.
He looked wrong there.
And somehow, terrifyingly, he also looked right.
I rose and followed, leaning in the doorway.
Aunt Mabel handed him a towel. “Don’t break anything,” she said.
Cassian took it. “No, ma’am.”
He began drying plates, movements economical, careful. Aunt Mabel washed. The two of them moved with a surprising rhythm, like they’d done this before.
And that, more than anything, made my chest tighten.
Aunt Mabel looked at me over her shoulder. “Go sit,” she said.
“I am sitting,” I lied.
“Lia,” she warned.
I sighed and retreated to the living room, where the fireplace crackled softly. The room felt warmer, softer, but my thoughts stayed in the kitchen, following the sound of water and low voices.
When Cassian finally returned, his sleeves rolled up slightly, hair a little messier than before, I felt heat flicker under my skin.
Aunt Mabel followed, drying her hands on a towel.
“All right,” she said. “I’m going to bed early. The two of you can take your tension elsewhere.”
“Mabel,” I protested.
She pointed at me. “Don’t.”
Then she looked at Cassian. “And you,” she added, “don’t ruin her.”
Cassian’s gaze didn’t flinch.
“I won’t,” he said simply.
Aunt Mabel studied him for a long moment, then nodded once, satisfied.
“Goodbye and goodnight,” she said, and disappeared down the hallway. “I’m glad you came.”
The house settled into silence.
Cassian turned to me.
The firelight painted him in warm shadows, making him look even more like the thing I had asked for—danger wrapped in calm.
“You’re quiet again,” he said.
I swallowed.
“I’m listening,” I replied.
“To what?”
