Cassian got out first. Came around. Opened my door.
Again.
My body reacted.
Again.
He lifted both suitcases with easy strength and nodded once toward the front entrance.
“This way.”
Inside the courtyard, the city noise disappeared like it had been swallowed.
A fountain murmured softly at the center. Ivy climbed brick. The air smelled faintly of lemon and wet stone.
I stood still for a moment, taking it in.
It was beautiful. Old. Established. Private.
And so undeniably his.
“You live here,” I said.
“Yes.”
“You own this?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“A while.”
That answer again.
I turned to him. “You’re allergic to specifics.”
“I’m selective,” he corrected.
I studied the ironwork, the polished brass fixtures, the quiet confidence of every surface. My mind did what it always did—assessed, measured, searched for the structure underneath.
Because nothing about this house suggested limitation.
It wasn’t rented. It wasn’t temporary.
I didn’t know where his money came from. I didn’t know the shape of his work beyond the words he offered when pressed—security, useful, embedded.
But it was obvious he had a lot of it.
Not the loud kind that screamed for attention. Not the flashy kind that wanted to be admired.
The quiet kind.
The kind that moved through doors without asking permission.
The kind that bought privacy and control and options.
The kind that didn’t just purchase things—it rearranged the world around it.
