“Really? That’s the last of it?” A strange mix of emotions bubbled up in me—excitement, nostalgia, even a touch of disbelief that I had actually done this. I’d given up my apartment and moved in with a minotaur. Six months ago, it would have seemed utterly preposterous.
“Second thoughts?” he asked quietly, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.
I turned to him, surprised. “None at all. Why would you think that?”
“You went quiet,” he said. “And you had that look.”
“What look?”
“The one where your eyebrows scrunch together and you bite your lower lip. It’s your ‘processing complicated feelings’ expression.”
I laughed. “You know me too well.”
“Not possible,” he replied simply.
The house came into view as we rounded the final bend—Rion’s masterpiece, his personal labyrinth transformed into a home. Our home. The evening sun caught the glass and stone of the exterior, making it glow with warmth.
“No second thoughts,” I assured him, reaching over to place my hand on his arm. “Just… marveling at how much my life has changed. In all the best ways.”
He covered my hand with his much larger one, his eyes softening. “Mine too.”
We pulled into the garage—recently expanded to accommodate my modest sedan alongside his truck—and he came around to help me down from the passenger seat, his hands spanning my waist as he lifted me effortlessly.
“Show-off,” I teased, though I secretly loved these casual displays of his strength, especially when they weren’t born of insecurity but of simple affection.
“You like it,” he rumbled, keeping his hands on my waist a moment longer than necessary.
“I do,” I admitted, leaning into him briefly before stepping back. “So, where did you put all those boxes? Please tell me not in the living room. I was hoping to actually see the couch tonight.”
A mysterious smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Actually, I have something to show you first.”
“Oh?” I raised an eyebrow. “Is this why you insisted on picking me up instead of letting me drive myself home?”
“Perhaps.”
He seemed unusually… fidgety. Normally he was as solid and immovable as the stone his house was built from, but tonight he was actually shifting his weight from foot to foot.
“What are you up to?” I asked, curiosity piqued.
“You’ll see.” He took my hand and led me through the door connecting the garage to the kitchen.
The familiar scents of home greeted me—the lemon oil he used on the wooden countertops, the faint sweetness from the flowers I’d arranged in a vase by the window, and the earthy smell of the herbs growing in pots along the windowsill. The kitchen was easily my favorite room in the house, warm, inviting, and designed to accommodate both his height and mine, with clever solutions for our considerable size difference.
He released my hand and moved to the drawer beside the refrigerator, pulling out what appeared to be a ball of red yarn.
“Close your eyes,” he instructed.
I gave him a skeptical look. “Seriously?”
“Humor me.”
With a dramatic sigh, I closed my eyes, feeling slightly ridiculous but also intrigued. I heard him approach, felt the warmth of his body as he stood before me.
“Hold out your hand.”
I did as he asked, and felt him place something in my palm—the end of the yarn ball, I realized.
“Open your eyes.”
