WHAT REMAINS
DOMINIC
Two weeks after the verdict, I woke up with Cal's elbow digging into my ribs and his leg thrown over mine like he was trying to pin me to the mattress.
Some things hadn't changed. He still slept like he was fighting invisible enemies. Still woke up swinging if I moved too suddenly. Still kept his phone within arm's reach even though the case was closed and Harrow was already behind bars awaiting trial.
Other things had changed completely.
Like the fact that he was here. In my bed. In my quarters at Ravenswood. Not as temporary arrangement or strategic positioning but because he'd been staying here for two weeks and neither of us had mentioned him leaving.
I extracted myself carefully, moved to the bathroom without waking him. Stared at my reflection while I brushed my teeth and tried to figure out how to ask the question that had been building in my chest for days.
Stay. Permanently. Move in properly instead of this half-measured thing we're doing.
The words felt too big. Too vulnerable. Like handing someone a weapon and trusting them not to use it.
When I came back, Cal was awake. Propped against the headboard with his laptop open, frowning at whatever he was reading. His hair was a mess. He had pillow marks on his face. He looked rumpled and distracted and absolutely perfect.
“Morning,” I said.
“Harrow's lawyers are trying for a plea deal.” Cal didn't look up from his screen. “Claiming diminished capacity due to emotional duress from his daughter's illness. Like that excuses systematic corruption and multiple murders.”
“Will it work?”
“No. Adrian's lawyers already filed a response. Essentially told them to fuck off in very polite legal language.” Cal finally glanced at me. “We're still picking up Ethan today, right? They said processing would be complete by noon.”
“Yes. Noah's driving us.” I moved to the dresser, pulled out clothes for the day. “You should eat something before we go. You've been living on coffee and spite for two weeks.”
“Spite is nutritious.”
“Spite is exhausting. And you're still recovering from cracked ribs and a concussion.” I turned to face him. “Eat. Actual food. Or I'll make you.”
Cal's mouth curved. “That a threat or a promise?”
“Both.”
He closed his laptop, set it aside, and stretched with the particular care of someone whose body still remembered being thrown against walls. The bruises had faded to yellow-green. The cuts had scabbed over. But he moved like the memory of pain still lived in his muscles.
“You're staring,” Cal said.
“I'm cataloguing. Making sure you're actually healing instead of just pretending you're fine.”
“I'm fine.”
“You're a terrible liar when it comes to your own wellbeing.” I pulled on my shirt, buttoned it slowly.
“I'm not weak.”
“I didn't say you were. I said you're stubborn.” I pulled him closer, pressed a kiss to his forehead. “And I'm allowed to worry about you. That's what people do when they care about someone.”
Cal's expression shifted. Softened in ways I rarely saw. “Care about me?”
“Yes, you idiot. I love you. Thought that was obvious given the fact that I keep letting you occupy my bed and steal my clothes and generally disrupt every routine I've built.”
“I don't disrupt your routines.”
“You absolutely disrupt my routines. You leave coffee mugs everywhere. You work at three in the morning and wake me up typing. You argue with me about literally everything just because you can.” I smiled despite myself. “It's infuriating. I wouldn't change any of it.”
