"This is where you live," I say.
It's not a question.
"This is wherewelive," Cyprian corrects.
I walk slowly into the main living area.
My footsteps echo on the polished floor.
There's a massive sectional sofa—clearly custom-made to accommodate his size—positioned in front of a fireplace that looks like it was carved from a single piece of volcanic rock.
To the left, an open kitchen with state-of-the-art appliances and a breakfast bar made of black marble.
To the right, a hallway that presumably leads to the bedroom.
And everywhere—everywhere—there are small signs that he's been preparing for me.
A soft throw blanket draped over the arm of the sofa.
A pair of slippers—human-sized—sitting neatly by the door.
A bookshelf that's been cleared to make room for my things.
My throat tightens.
"You did all this," I say.
"Yes."
"When?"
"While you were packing."
I turn to look at him.
He's standing in the doorway, his wings folded tight against his back, watching me with an intensity that makes my chest ache.
"I wanted you to feel welcome," he says quietly.
"Cyprian—"
"I know this is a significant change. I know you are accustomed to your independence. But I need you to understand something."
He crosses the room in three strides.
His hands cup my face, his claws retracted, his touch impossibly gentle.
"You are not a guest here," he says. "You are not temporary. This is your home. Permanently. And I will do everything in my power to ensure you are comfortable."
I blink rapidly.
I will not cry.
I have cried enough in the past forty-eight hours.
"You're doing the intense thing again," I say, my voice shaky.
"I am aware."
