Then Aunt Mabel’s voice floated in from the living room, dry as ever.
“Unless you two plan to survive on tension alone, I’ve got a pot roast that’s nearly ready.”
Heat rushed up my neck.
Cassian’s mouth curved slightly, the smallest concession to amusement I’d seen from him. He stepped back first, his hands sliding from my hips with that same unhurried control that made every movement of his feel like a choice.
“Dinner,” he said, as if we hadn’t just been locked in a private war of proximity and will.
I straightened my sweater, smoothing it down as though fabric could restore composure. My breathing caught up slowly. “We should help her.”
He watched me for a beat—long enough that I felt seen, not in a flattering way, but in the way a sharp edge feels you before it cuts.
“Lead the way,” he said.
The dining room hadn’t changed in twenty years.
The same oval oak table with the slight notch on the underside where I used to hook my fingers when I was anxious. The same lace runner my aunt insisted made a meal “proper.” The same framed watercolor of Saratoga in spring hanging slightly crooked above the sideboard.
Aunt Mabel moved between the kitchen and dining room with calm efficiency, like she’d been preparing for this meal longer than the last hour. The table was set—china plates with faded blue rims, silverware polished to a soft gleam, cloth napkins folded with quiet precision.
It should have felt comforting.
Instead, it felt like a stage.
Cassian hung his coat neatly over the back of a chair without being asked, then stood with the easy stillness of a man who never looked for a place to put his hands.
Aunt Mabel glanced at him. “Sit.”
She pointed him toward the chair at the end of the table.
He didn’t argue. He didn’t attempt to take the head of the table. He took the seat she indicated, posture relaxed but attentive, as though he’d been trained to obey orders he respected.
I sat across from him.
Of course, I did.
Aunt Mabel set down the pot roast, steam rising in fragrant spirals, followed by roasted carrots, potatoes glazed in something buttery and golden, and a bowl of green beans tossed with slivers of almond.
“You remember how to carve?” she asked Cassian casually.
Remember.
Like it was a shared memory.
His brow lifted slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”
I shot her a look.
She handed him the knife without elaboration.
Cassian stood, steady and unhurried, and began carving with quiet competence. Clean cuts. Even portions. His hands looked capable doing it—patient, precise. It was absurdly intimate to watch a man handle a knife that way without making it about performance.
My gaze dropped to the scar at his wrist before I could stop myself.
He noticed.
He placed a slice of roast onto my plate first. Then he served Aunt Mabel, then himself.
