They did not see each other for four days.
It was not avoidance. It was calibration.
Althea felt him in the spaces between things—in the pause before answering emails, in the way she lingered longer over silk dresses she had no immediate reason to wear, in the sudden awareness of her own body as something observed even in solitude. Cassian did not flood her phone with messages. He sent exactly enough to remind her that the thread between them remained taut.
I saw something today that made me think of you, he wrote once.
She didn't ask what it was.
He didn't explain.
When they met again, it was evening. A private gallery opening, all hushed voices and curated elegance. The walls glowed with art meant to provoke without explaining itself—bold strokes, dark palettes, beauty that demanded patience.
Cassian found her before she found him.
"You wore silk," he said quietly, standing beside her as if he had always been there.
Althea glanced at him, her pulse betraying her composure. "You sound certain."
"It moves when you breathe," he replied. "Like it's aware of you."
She turned fully then, the air between them charged. Cassian's gaze was not roving. It didn't skim. It stayed. She had the unsettling, delicious sense that if she moved closer, he would not retreat—but neither would he advance. He would wait. Make her decide.
They walked through the gallery together, shoulder to shoulder but never touching. Their conversation unfolded in low tones—art, intention, the difference between beauty that asks for permission and beauty that takes it. Cassian's thoughts were precise, his words measured, yet beneath them ran something darker, warmer.
"You like restraint," she observed.
"I like awareness," he corrected. "Restraint is only meaningful when it's chosen."
They stopped before a painting awash in deep reds and shadowed golds. Althea felt his attention sharpen, not on the canvas, but on her reflection in the glass.
"You're very still," he said.
"I'm listening."
"No," he murmured. "You're considering."
She smiled faintly. "And you?"
"I'm noticing how close you're standing."
The words were not a warning. They were an invitation.
A server passed with glasses of wine. Cassian took one, then another, handing one to Althea without asking. Their fingers brushed—briefly, deliberately. The contact sparked, immediate and contained.
Later, when the crowd thinned and the evening grew softer, they found themselves in a quiet alcove. The hum of conversation faded to a distant murmur. Cassian leaned against the wall, one arm braced beside her, not trapping her—framing her.
"Tell me something," he said. "When was the last time you wanted something you didn't immediately justify?"
The question landed low and slow.
Althea's breath deepened. "I'm not sure I know how to want without explanation."
Cassian's gaze darkened, not with hunger, but with focus. "Then let this be practice."
His hand rose—not to touch her, but to hover near her wrist, close enough that she felt the heat of it. He waited. She turned her hand slightly, granting permission without words. His fingers closed gently, thumb pressing into the delicate pulse there.
"Still," he said softly.
She stilled.
"Breathe."
She did.
The world narrowed—not to urgency, but to awareness. The gallery, the city, the hour—all receded. There was only the steady pressure of his hand, the quiet command in his voice, the way her body responded without panic.
Cassian released her wrist slowly, as if letting go required intention. "You see?" he murmured. "Nothing taken. Everything felt."
When they parted that night, there was no kiss.
Instead, he leaned in close, his mouth near her ear, his voice a velvet promise. "This doesn't need speed," he said. "It needs honesty."
Althea watched him walk away, the echo of his presence settling into her bones.
For the first time in a long while, she did not rush to name what she felt.
She let it linger.
Like silk against skin.