When I did, I found him watching me with an intensity that made my breath catch. “What’s this about?”
“It’s a guide,” he said. “Follow it. Don’t let go.”
“A guide to…?”
“You’ll see.” He gestured for me to start following the yarn, which I now noticed extended out of the kitchen and into the hallway beyond.
“You’re being very mysterious,” I observed, but began following the red thread nonetheless.
“It’s part of my charm.”
I snorted but continued walking, letting the yarn lead me through the house. It wound through the hallway, past the living room with its oversized furniture built to Rion’s scale, and towards the eastern wing of the house—an area that had been largely unused when I first visited. We’d discussed potential uses for the space, but hadn’t settled on anything concrete before I moved in.
The yarn led to a door I didn’t recognize. A new door by the look of it, made of rich, dark wood with intricate carvings along the frame.Architectural designs,I realized as I looked closer. Labyrinths within labyrinths, spiraling patterns that drew the eye inward.
“When did you…?” I began, running my fingers over the carvings.
“Open it,” he urged, his voice low and slightly rough with emotion.
I turned the handle and pushed the door open, the yarn continuing inside.
What I saw made me gasp.
The room beyond was a perfect blend of library and study, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covering three walls. But not ordinary bookshelves. These had been crafted with loving attention to detail, with delicate carvings similar to those on the door running along the edges. Rolling ladders—sturdy ones, I noted with amusement—were attached to rails that ran the length of each wall, allowing access to even the highest shelves.
The fourth wall was almost entirely windows, flooding the space with the golden light of sunset and offering a view of the woods beyond. A window seat ran beneath them, wide and cushioned, the perfect spot for reading on rainy days.
In the center of the room stood a large desk, its surface clear except for a small stack of books—my favorite classics, I realized—and a slender vase containing a single red rose. Beside the desk was a comfortable-looking chair, scaled perfectly to my height.
The yarn led me further into the room, around the desk, and towards the windows, where it ended tied around the stem of another rose placed on the window seat.
I turned back to Rion, who stood in the doorway watching me with an expression that made my heart squeeze.
“You built this,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “For me.”
He nodded, stepping into the room. “You needed a space of your own. Somewhere that fits you, not just me.”
Tears pricked at my eyes as I looked around again, taking in all the thoughtful details. The lower shelves already held my books, arranged by the same system I’d used in my apartment. The desk had drawers with labels in my handwriting—he must have salvaged them from my old desk. Even the cushions on the window seat were covered in fabric that matched my favorite reading throw.
“When did you do all this?” I asked, moving towards him. “I was just here yesterday and this room was empty.”
A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “I may have enlisted some help. Brenda kept you busy at the library while my contractor friends worked through the night.”
“Brenda was in on this?” That explained her knowing smile this morning when I’d complained about the extra cataloging work she’d assigned me.
“She was very enthusiastic about the conspiracy,” he confirmed, taking another step closer. “She also helped me rescue your organization system. Apparently I had shelved Austen under romance instead of literature, which she assured me was a crime against literary classification.”
A laugh bubbled up through my tears. “It absolutely is.”
“I’ve been appropriately educated on the matter.” Another step, bringing him within arm’s reach. “Do you like it?”
“Like it?” I shook my head, overwhelmed. “Rion, I love it. It’s the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.”
Relief softened his features. “Good. Because there’s one more thing.”
Before I could ask what he meant, he lowered himself to one knee before me—a position that, given our height difference, still left him nearly at eye level. My heart began to race as he took my hands in his.
“Clara,” he began, his deep voice resonating with emotion. “Before you, my life was a labyrinth with no center—complex but empty. I built walls to keep others out, convinced that solitude was safer than connection.”
