The day didn't end when the office lights dimmed.
For Juliette, it only began to weigh heavier.
By mid-afternoon, the initial energy of her return had faded into something quieter, more demanding. Emails stacked up. Measurements needed revisiting. Notes from the soirée required and follow-ups. Her hands moved on instinct, muscle memory carrying her through tasks she'd done a thousand times before.
But her body hadn't forgotten.
The ache crept in subtly a dull pressure behind her eyes, a heaviness in her shoulders that deepened the longer she stayed upright. She ignored it at first. She always did.
She sipped water.
She slowed her breathing.
She told herself she was fine.
Yet the room felt warmer than it should have.
The lights harsher.
Sounds sharper.
By the time she stood from her desk to retrieve a fabric sample, the floor tilted slightly beneath her.
Just for a second.
Juliette stilled.
Not enough to fall.
Not enough to draw attention.
Enough to scare her.
She closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself, fingers curling around the edge of the table until the world righted itself again.
Don't stress yourself today. You're still recovering.
His words surfaced uninvited.
Cassian.
She exhaled slowly.
I'm okay, she told herself. Just tired.
But this time, instead of pushing through blindly, she listened really listened to her body.
And chose herself.
The decision to leave early felt heavier than it should have.
Juliette gathered her things quietly, offering polite explanations to her supervisors, who waved her off with understanding that bordered on protectiveness.
"Go home," one of them said gently. "Rest. We'll catch up tomorrow."
Zina squeezed her hand before she left. "Text us when you get in, okay?"
"I will," Juliette promised.
She walked toward the elevator slower than she had that morning, each step measured. The car ride home would be short, uneventful.
Safe.
Still something twisted in her chest as she pulled out her phone.
Cassian's name sat at the top of her messages.
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
She hesitated.
Because this was new.
Because telling him she was leaving early felt like an admission.
Like asking for care.
Like opening a door she wasn't sure she could close again.
She typed.
Paused.
Deleted.
Typed again.
I'm leaving a bit early.
Her finger froze.
That felt… loaded.
She added quickly:
I'm okay just tired.
She stared at the words for a long moment before sending them.
Then she slipped the phone back into her bag and stepped into the elevator, heart beating faster than it should have.
Cassian read the message once.
Then again.
Then a third time.
The world around him went very still.
Just tired.
His jaw tightened.
He was already on his feet before he realized it, pacing the length of his office, phone clutched in his hand like something fragile.
Just tired could mean nothing.
Or it could mean everything.
His mind betrayed him instantly.
Her pale face.
The way she'd swayed slightly that morning before correcting herself.
The memory of her unconscious in a hospital bed tubes, machines, her pulse a line he'd watched far too closely.
He swallowed.
Control. He needed control.
He typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Thank you for telling me.
Too neutral.
I'll have tea ready.
Too domestic? No grounding.
He added nothing else.
Sent it.
And immediately regretted how calm it sounded.
Because his heart was anything but calm.
He checked the time.
Did the math.
If she'd left early, she should be on the road now.
He didn't wait.
Cassian grabbed his coat and keys and left the office without explanation, the elevator ride feeling interminable. Every red light felt personal. Every delay scraped against his nerves.
He arrived home before she could.
And waited.
⸻
Juliette noticed the lights first.
Warm.
Low.
Inviting.
The house felt different when she stepped inside quieter than usual, but not empty. There was a faint scent of chamomile in the air, music playing softly somewhere beyond the living room.
Cassian stood near the window.
He turned the moment he heard the door.
And the relief that crossed his face was immediate unguarded before he could stop it.
"You're home," he said.
"Yes."
She set her bag down carefully, suddenly aware of how tired she really was.
His eyes scanned her quickly posture, face, hands as if checking for damage she might not admit to.
"Does your head hurt?" he asked.
"A little," she said honestly.
"Did you eat?"
"Earlier."
A pause.
"Sit," he said gently, already moving toward the kitchen.
She watched him pour tea, the simple act grounding her more than any words could have.
They sat together on the sofa, close enough that she could feel his warmth, but not touching. The silence between them wasn't awkward.
It was cautious.
Protective.
"I didn't want to worry you," she said quietly.
Cassian looked at her then really looked.
"I worry anyway," he replied. "I just don't want you to feel like you have to carry it alone."
Something in her softened.
She leaned back slightly, exhaustion finally winning.
Without thinking, he reached out just enough to steady her when she shifted.
Their hands brushed.
Neither pulled away.
The moment stretched.
Fragile.
Charged.
Unspoken.
Later, as she rested, Cassian stood alone in the dim kitchen, replaying her message in his mind.
Just tired.
The words haunted him.
Because he just wanted to be sure she is truly ok and not pretending to be strong
Because he knew now truly knew that love didn't arrive loudly.
It crept in quietly.
In panic masked as restraint.
In the urge to protect without owning.
In fear that lived just beneath calm words.
And he was terrified.
Not of losing her.
But of how much it would destroy him if he did.
When Juliette finally drifted toward sleep, the house held them gently.
No silence sharpened by distance.
No walls built from neglect.
Just two people learning, slowly, where the soft places were.
And how carefully they needed to tread.