The simplicity of that caught me off guard.
“She’s going to have opinions about you,” I warned.
“I expect that.”
“And she won’t be subtle.”
“Neither are you.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I’m invested.”
His gaze flicked to mine. “And she won’t be?”
I hesitated.
“She’ll be protective.”
“Good.”
That word again.
I leaned back slightly, watching the road ahead, feeling something shift—not just between us, but around us.
This wasn’t contained anymore.
It wasn’t just a moment, or a place, or a controlled experience.
It was moving.
Following me home.
21
The SUV cut through the last stretch of upstate roads, the landscape still winter-bleached, the trees bare and black against a pale sky. My coat was zipped to my chin, coffee warming my hands, my suitcase tucked behind my seat like an afterthought.
I kept trying to read him in the small movements—how often he checked mirrors, how he watched exits, how he never quite relaxed even when everything was normal.
Normal.
I’d used that word in my head once and almost laughed.
There was nothing normal about him coming with me.
There was nothing normal about me letting him.
The airport appeared ahead, all glass and signage and lanes that funneled people into their next selves. Cassian veered toward the executive parking entrance, the gate lifting without hesitation as he pulled through.
Of course.
He parked with the same efficiency he did everything else—no wasted movement, no second guessing—then cut the engineand stepped out, already scanning the area before I had even reached for my door.
By the time I opened it, he was there.
He didn’t wait for me to struggle with anything.
