Rion served the food with surprising delicacy, his large hands capable of remarkable precision. We carried our plates to the dining room, where he’d set the table with candles and actual cloth napkins. My heart gave a little flip at the effort he’d put in.
“This is lovely,” I said as we sat. The table was custom-built, like everything in his home, perfectly proportioned for him yet not making me feel dwarfed.
“I don’t entertain often.” His eyes met mine. “Almost never, actually.”
The admission settled warmly in my chest. “I’m honored to be the exception.”
We ate and talked, the conversation flowing more easily with each glass of wine. Rion was reserved by nature, but I’d discovered that asking about his work unlocked him. Hespoke about architecture with passion, his deep voice growing animated as he described a current project.
“The challenge is creating something that will last centuries while still being relevant now,” he explained. “The Greeks and Romans understood this. They built for eternity.”
“Is that what you want?” I asked. “To build something eternal?”
Something vulnerable flickered across his face. “When you’re… like me… you think about legacy differently. What I create may be the only proof I existed at all.”
The sadness underlying his words made my throat tight. I reached across the table and placed my hand over his much larger one.
“I see you, Rion. You’re not invisible.”
His fingers curled around mine, careful but strong. The touch sent a shiver up my arm.
After dinner, we moved to his living room with our wine glasses and the container of brownies. The space was dominated by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the forest and a fireplace large enough that I could have stood inside it. Rion lit the fire with practiced movements, the flames casting his silhouette into sharp relief.
I sank into the corner of his sofa, which was sized for him but plush enough that I didn’t feel swallowed by it. He sat beside me, leaving a respectful distance that somehow felt both considerate and frustrating.
“These are good,” he said after taking a bite of brownie. “You made them?”
“From scratch.” I nodded. “My mom’s recipe. Extra chocolate chips and a dash of espresso powder.”
“The secret ingredient.” His lips curved into a rare smile.
“Exactly.” I took a sip of wine, liquid courage warming my veins. “Thank you for dinner. It was perfect.”
“It wasn’t much.”
“It was to me.” I set my glass down and shifted closer to him. “You’re always doing things for me—fixing the ladder, helping at the library. I want to do things for you too.”
His eyes, those warm brown depths, locked onto mine. “You already do.”
“What do I do?”
“You see me.” His voice dropped lower. “Not what I am. Who I am.”
The simplicity of it broke my heart a little. How lonely he must have been, how isolated, to value being truly seen so deeply. I reached up, my hand hovering near his face, asking silent permission.
He nodded almost imperceptibly, and I touched his cheek, feeling the softness of his fur against my palm. He closed his eyes briefly at the contact.
“Rion,” I whispered, and he opened his eyes again. “I meant what I said yesterday. You’re the one I want.”
Something shifted in his gaze, a restraint giving way to hunger. He leaned forward, and I met him halfway, our lips connecting in a kiss that started gentle but quickly deepened. His mouth waswarm, and I could taste the wine and chocolate on his tongue as it slid against mine.
My hands moved to his shoulders, feeling the impressive breadth of them beneath his shirt. He was so solid, so real under my touch. One of his large hands came to rest at my waist, the other cupping my face with exquisite gentleness.
When we broke apart, we were both breathing harder. His eyes had darkened, pupils dilated.
“Clara,” he murmured, my name a question and a plea all at once.
In answer, I slid onto his lap, the position bringing us eye to eye. His hands settled at my hips, steadying but not restraining.
