My breath caught.
The house around us felt suddenly smaller. Warmer. Charged.
And outside the walls, Charleston moved on—tourists and locals, history and routine, my real life waiting like a lit stage.
Cassian leaned in just slightly, close enough that I could feel the heat of him.
“You brought me here,” he murmured.
“I didn’t,” I said automatically.
His thumb brushed my side again, slow. “You did.”
My pulse hammered.
“And now,” he continued, voice low, “you’ll decide what it means.”
Tomorrow my mother would land with a secret name in her throat.
Tonight Harper would look at me like she could see straight through my skin.
And Cassian?—
Cassian was standing in my city like he’d always belonged there.
I didn’t know if that was the beginning of something or the beginning of the end.
I only knew I wasn’t stepping away.
Not yet.
23
Istood there in the entryway of Cassian's house, the weight of his words hanging between us like the humid Charleston air outside—thick, inescapable, pressing in from all sides.
"You’ll decide what it means." As if it were that simple. As if choosing where to sleep tonight could rewrite the script we'd both stepped into without fully understanding the ending.
The house wrapped around me in its quiet elegance: high ceilings with exposed beams that whispered of history, wide-plank floors polished to a soft sheen, walls painted in shades of muted gray that felt like fog rolling in from the harbor.
It wasn't ostentatious—no crystal chandeliers or gilded frames—but every detail spoke of intention. A leather armchair by a window overlooking the walled garden, a stack of books on a side table that looked well-read, not decorative. It smelled faintly of salt and aged wood, like the city itself had seeped into the bones of the place.
Cassian watched me take it in, his hand still at my waist, warm through my clothes. He didn't rush me. He never did. That was part of what unnerved me—his patience, like he knew the outcome before I did.
"I need to shower," I said finally, my voice steadier than I felt. "If we're meeting Harper and Luca tonight."
He nodded once, his thumb brushing my side in that subtle way that sent a ripple through me. "Upstairs."
I followed him up the curving staircase, my hand trailing the wrought-iron banister. The second floor opened into a hallway lined with doors, each one closed, each one a mystery I wasn't sure I was ready to unpack. He led me to the end, pushing open a door to what had to be the master suite.
The room was vast, with tall windows draped in heavy curtains that filtered the afternoon light into something golden and soft. A king-sized bed dominated one wall, its linens crisp and white, unrumpled like no one had slept there in a while. An en suite bathroom visible through an open archway promised marble and space. It was all so ... him. Restrained luxury, no excess.
Cassian set my suitcase down near a wardrobe and turned to me. "Towels are in the cabinet. Use what you need."
I nodded, but I didn't move toward the bathroom right away. Instead, I stepped closer to him, drawn by that pull that had become as familiar as my own heartbeat. "You're really okay with meeting them? Harper's going to grill you. Luca ... well, he's more laid-back, but he picks up on everything."
Cassian's mouth curved faintly—a rare hint of amusement that softened the edges of his reserve. "I know."
Of course, he did. He'd probably already assessed the risks, the dynamics, the way Harper would circle him like a shark scenting blood. Luca, her husband, was the steady counterpoint—quiet, observant, with a dry humor that cut through tension. I'd known them for years; Harper and I had bonded over shared ideals and late-night rants about the patriarchy, while Luca had won her over in ways that still surprised me. He was good for her, grounding without dimming her fire.
