Morning did not soften what the night had begun.
Althea woke with the city's light pressing gently through linen curtains, the taste of Cassian's voice still lingering at the back of her mind. It surprised her how present he felt without being there—how the memory of him had weight. She moved through her apartment slowly, as if haste might break something newly formed.
He didn't text immediately.
That, too, felt deliberate.
By noon, when her thoughts had begun to circle back on themselves, her phone vibrated with a single message.
Coffee. Not to impress you. To continue the conversation we didn't finish.
No signature. No flourish.
She smiled despite herself.
They met at a place tucked away from noise and spectacle, where the air carried the scent of cardamom and roasted beans. Cassian was already there, seated near a window, sunlight cutting clean lines across his jaw. He rose when he saw her—not hurried, not performative. Just attentive.
"You came," he said.
"I was curious," Althea replied, removing her coat. "That's not the same thing."
"It's enough," he answered, and the way he said it made curiosity feel like an invitation rather than a defense.
They spoke of work, of cities they loved for irrational reasons, of silence—how some people feared it, and others curated it carefully. Cassian listened with an intensity that unsettled her, not because it felt invasive, but because it felt rare. When she paused, he didn't rush to fill the space. He waited. Let her finish her thoughts at her own pace.
At one point, she noticed his gaze resting on her hands as she spoke, the way her fingers moved unconsciously to punctuate her words.
"You do that when you're excited," he said softly.
"Do what?"
"Gesture as if you're shaping the thought in the air first."
Her breath caught. "How would you know what that means?"
"Because," he replied, meeting her eyes, "you do it only when you care about being understood."
Something warm unfurled beneath her ribs. It was not flattery. It was attention.
When their cups were empty, neither moved to stand. Cassian leaned back slightly, studying her with that same patient focus, as if time were something he controlled rather than endured.
"Tell me what unsettles you," he said.
"That's an abrupt request."
"No," he said gently. "It's a precise one."
Althea hesitated. Then, because something about his stillness felt like safety rather than pressure, she answered. She spoke of being desired for the wrong reasons. Of being mistaken for softness when she was strength. Of loving deeply—and learning to hide it.
Cassian listened without interruption. When she finished, he didn't reassure her. He didn't correct her.
He said, "I don't look away from things that matter."
The words settled between them, dense with implication.
Outside, the afternoon deepened. When they finally stood, he offered his arm—not as a claim, but as an option. She took it, feeling the quiet electricity of proximity, the promise humming just beneath the surface.
As they walked, a passerby brushed too close. Cassian's hand came to her back, firm and brief, guiding her forward. The touch was restrained, but it lingered in its absence, leaving her acutely aware of the space between them.
At the corner, they stopped.
"I won't rush this," he said, his voice low. "But I won't pretend I don't want you."
Althea met his gaze, heart steady, pulse not. "I don't want to be pursued like a prize."
"Good," he replied. "I don't chase what I intend to stand beside."
When he leaned in, it wasn't for a kiss. It was for something subtler—his forehead brushing hers, breath warm, close enough to blur the edges of the world.
"Until next time," he murmured.
And as he stepped away, leaving her with the echo of his presence, Althea realized something with startling clarity.
This was not a man who would disappear when things became complicated.
This was a man who stayed—eyes open, hands steady—inviting her to do the same.