He turns to leave. I study this man who has become so important to me, noting the way his shoulders carry tension, the careful way he moves as if he’s afraid of taking up too much space. My hand goes to my hip almost automatically, and before I can second-guess myself, I reach out to catch his hand.
“Ezra.” I say his name softly, infusing it with all the warmth I feel for him.
He looks back at me, then down to where my hand is wrapped around his. His fingers tense beneath mine, the struggle obvious. His eyes don’t leave the point where we’re joined, but his body shifts from foot to foot as if he doesn’t know what to do with the physical connection, with the invitation it represents.
“You’re not interrupting anything,” I tell him, my voice gentle but certain. “You never interrupt anything that matters to me.”
Something shifts in his expression, a softening around his eyes, and he looks up at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
“You can stay here tonight,” I continue, the words coming easier than I expected. “You’re dead on your feet, I can see it in every line of your body. I can’t let you walk back to your place like this. I would worry all night, imagining you collapsing from exhaustion. I would rather you sleep beside me and ease my concern.”
He hesitates for a long moment, and I can practically see him weighing propriety against exhaustion, against whatever it is he’s been holding back. Then he nods, the movement small but decisive. “Very well.”
I release his hand and take his coat, hanging it carefully on one of the hooks by the door before turning back toward him.
“Come on,” I say, taking his hand again and marveling at how perfectly it fits in mine, pulling him gently toward the stairs. “We’re going to bed.”
He blinks once, as if stunned by my directness, and my stomach flips at his reaction. This shy, brilliant, sweet-as-hell Wizard who can analyze magical theory for hours but gets flustered by simple human connection.
“Keisha—” he starts, but I can hear the uncertainty in his voice.
“No arguments,” I cut in, glancing back at him with a small smile that I hope conveys reassurance. “You can sleep on top of the covers if it makes you feel better, but you’re not leaving. Not tonight.”
Something almost like amusement flickers across his face as he follows me upstairs, and I catch a glimpse of those kissable lips quirking up at the corners, transforming his usual serious expression into something breathtakingly beautiful.
When we step back into my bedroom, the warm lamplight welcomes us, and I notice that Sir has made himself completely scarce. Probably off doing whatever mysterious cat business he conducts at night.
Ezra pauses just inside the doorway, his gaze moving slowly across the space, taking in the carved wood details, the high coffered ceilings, the quiet weight of history that sits in every corner like accumulated wisdom.
“This place,” he says softly, almost to himself, his voice filled with genuine awe. “It is absolutely remarkable.”
I gather the scattered grimoires into a careful stack and set them aside on the nightstand before moving toward the bed.
“It’s a lot,” I agree, turning down the covers to give my hands something to do.
“It responds to you,” he continues, stepping further inside with the careful steps of someone who recognizes he’s in the presence of something significant. “The structure itself, the magic woven into every beam and board. It is attuned to your presence in a way that is not entirely typical. Well, typical for a sentient structure, that is. The architectural plans for this place alone must represent decades of planning and magical integration?—”
“Ezra.” I call his name as I glance over my shoulder, noting the way his eyes have lit up with academic fascination. “You’re doing the thing.”
He blinks, pushing his glasses up on his nose, his hands clasping in front of him as he straightens from his careful observation of the intricate wallpaper patterns. “What thing?”
“The thing,” I reply with a fond chuckle at the genuinely confused look on his face. “The rambling academic thing where you start analyzing everything like it’s a research project,” I clarify, climbing onto the bed and pulling the covers back invitingly. “It’s incredibly endearing, believe me, but right now I need sleep more than I need a dissertation on magical architecture.”
That earns me another one of those rare, transformative smiles that make my heart skip.
He moves toward the bed, slower this time, more deliberate, clearly thinking through every action. With careful precision, he begins removing his light blue button-down shirt, revealing the white t-shirt underneath that clings to his lean frame in ways that make my mouth go dry. He pauses for a moment, clearly debating something, then decides boldly to remove his pants as well, giving me an impressive and entirely appreciated view of his strong thighs and the way his black boxers hug his hips.
I settle back against the pillows, watching him with undisguised interest as he sits on the edge of the bed, clearly still deciding where the boundaries are, how far he’s allowed to step into this moment with me. I mean, he got undressed, which definitely earns him points for boldness. He might as well take the next logical step.
“You’re overthinking it,” I say gently, recognizing the telltale signs of his mind working overtime.
“I am attempting to be respectful,” he says, looking over his shoulder at me with those serious dark eyes that seem to hold entire galaxies.
“I invited you,” I remind him, patting the bed beside me with deliberate invitation. “That counts for something significant.”
He exhales quietly, taking off his glasses, then moves with that same careful precision he brings to everything, sliding under the covers beside me with movements that speak to his awareness of every inch of space between us, every possible implication of this choice.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence isn’t awkward, it’s charged, full of possibility and unspoken understanding. I lean over and turn off the lamp beside me, plunging the room into the gentle darkness of night.
