“You told her,” he said.
“It was unavoidable,” I replied.
His gaze held mine. “And your mother.”
“She’s coming tomorrow,” I said again, like saying it twice would make it less surreal.
Cassian nodded once. “You’ll see her.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll help her,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” I admitted. “Because she asked.”
“Because you want to,” he corrected.
I opened my mouth to argue.
And then I didn’t.
Because I did.
Because there was something painfully human about my mother wanting what she wanted—even this late, even after years of caution.
And because I understood it now in a way I didn’t before.
Cassian crossed the space between us, slow, deliberate.
He stopped close enough that my body recognized him before my brain did.
His hand came to my waist, warm and strong.
“You’re tense,” he said.
“I’m processing,” I replied.
His thumb brushed lightly, once, against my side. “You’re afraid.”
I inhaled sharply. “No.”
His gaze didn’t flinch. “Yes.”
I hated that he could see it.
And I hated more that he didn’t use it.
“Of what?” I asked.
“Of them seeing you,” he said.
Harper. My mother. My life.
Of Cassian standing in the middle of all of it.
I swallowed.
