It was such a simple phrase.
But from him, it felt like a vow.
I laced my fingers with his because I couldn’t stop myself.
“And you’re coming into my real life,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Why does it feel like you’re not the one who should be nervous?” I asked.
His mouth curved faintly. “Because I’m not.”
I narrowed my eyes. “That’s arrogant.”
“That’s honest.”
I leaned my head back against the seat, staring at the ceiling for a moment.
Then I turned back to him. “Tell me about your place.”
His thumb brushed once over my knuckles. “In Charleston.”
“Yes.”
“South of Broad,” he said, as if repeating it didn’t change how loaded it was.
“What is it?” I pressed. “A condo. A townhouse. A?—”
“A house,” he said.
Of course it was.
“How big?”
He glanced at me like he was considering whether that mattered. “Big enough.”
I rolled my eyes. “Cassian.”
His mouth twitched. “Three stories. Walled garden. Old place.”
“Old like … historic old?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I swallowed. “And you just … have that?”
“Yes.”
There it was again—wealth as a quiet fact, not a performance.
It made my mind spin in the same circle it had been circling since the lodge, since the upgrades, since the way rooms moved when he entered.
“You’ll stay there,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And you want me to stay with you.”
