He drew attention without trying.
It wasn’t just how he looked.
It was how he existed.
Grounded. Certain. Unmoved by things that would have shifted other people.
My gaze lingered longer than I meant it to.
And my thoughts followed.
What was he like in the softer parts?
Not just this moment—this quiet, unguarded version of him—but deeper than that. When he let himself care. When he let something matter enough to affect him beyond control and intention.
Did that version of him exist?
Or was this—this measured, deliberate way of moving through the world—as far as he ever went?
The question unsettled me more than I expected.
Because it led somewhere else.
Had there been other women here?
In this bed.
In this room.
Had someone else woken up beside him like this, watched him the same way, wondered the same things?
Or—
Was I something different?
I didn’t know. I wanted to know.
And I felt the absence of that knowledge in a way that wasn’t just curiosity.
Cassian shifted slightly, his brow tightening just enough to signal the transition from sleep to awareness. His eyes opened a second later—and just like that, everything changed.
The softness disappeared.
Not completely. Not harshly. But replaced by that same quiet, controlled presence that defined him.
His gaze found mine immediately.
“You’re staring,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.
I didn’t look away. “You were asleep.”
His mouth curved faintly. “I’m aware.”
“That’s new.”
“It’s not.”
“It is for me.”
