Private You ARE the Reason I am Here

[Shade]

Shade didn't answer immediately.

Cassian had barely finished speaking when she stepped toward him with a slow, deliberate grace—nothing abrupt, nothing rushed. Just a smooth reclamation of space, the same way she moved on missions: precise, intentional, unerring.

She stopped close. Close enough that the heat from the stove no longer mattered. Close enough that his body warmth brushed against hers in a quiet, intimate current. Close enough that her breath slipped across his jaw in a faint, controlled exhale.

Shade leaned in—not touching him, not yet—but bringing her lips to the same ghost-close distance he had held against her shoulder. A mirror of his earlier affection, but honed into something quieter, sharper, undeniably hers.

When she spoke, her voice was low, steady, and cool—but the warm whisper of her breath against his skin betrayed the composure she fought to maintain.

"Control is a discipline," she murmured, the words brushing him as much as the air that carried them. "Not a constant."

Her lips hovered a fraction closer—never quite touching, but close enough that he could feel the promise of it, feel the precision of her restraint, the intimacy of her choosing not to cross that line…yet.

Her gaze lifted to his eyes, unguarded in a way only he ever saw.

"And you are… distracting."

She drew back slowly—an inch, no more—her breath lingering a heartbeat longer before she shifted to place the last dish on the table. The smooth, practiced motion looked effortless, but her pulse had not fully steadied, and he would see that too.

Shade rested her hand lightly atop his as he finished arranging the cutlery, her touch calm, deliberate, grounding.

Then she inclined her head toward the plates he'd set down, echoing his tone with quiet warmth.

"Then let us eat."

She slipped into her seat with composed elegance, but the electricity she'd left in the air—warm breath, nearly-touched lips, the ghost of closeness—hung between them like a silent continuation of the moment that hadn't truly ended.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian watched her approach, the shift in her stride telling him everything before she ever reached him. There was a purpose to her movements, the same precision she carried into every mission, but beneath it now was something else. The faintest tremor of warmth, an undercurrent he could feel in the air before she even stopped.

When she closed the distance, when her breath slipped against his jaw and her voice brushed against his skin, every instinct in him stilled. The way she said control is a discipline, not a constant sank into him with the same deliberate cadence she used for every calculated strike. But this wasn't calculation. This was her, lowering the barriers no one else had ever been allowed to touch.

He didn't breathe for a moment, didn't dare to. The ghost of her lips lingered just close enough to make him forget where the line was supposed to be. Her restraint made it all the more magnetic, and the small, wry smile that tugged at his mouth came as much from awe as from want.

When she whispered you are distracting, he exhaled, quiet, the sound closer to a laugh but stripped of amusement. "I'll take that as a compliment," he murmured, his tone low and softened at the edges.

She drew back, and he didn't chase the space she reclaimed, though every part of him wanted to. Instead, he turned toward the table, following her motion, his eyes tracing the subtle rise and fall of her breathing, the telltale rhythm that told him she wasn't as composed as she appeared. It made him smile again, a real one this time, small but unguarded.

When her hand rested over his, he covered it lightly with his other, letting the warmth of the contact linger. "You're right," he said softly.

He let the silence breathe between them before stepping back just enough to pull out her chair, a simple gesture but one done with quiet care. "Let's eat," he echoed, his voice steady again, though a trace of that earlier energy still hummed beneath it.

Cassian took his seat opposite her, the glow of the kitchen light catching faint reflections in his eyes. The space between them was small, but it felt impossibly full, charged with something that wasn't just desire but understanding, shared gravity, and the kind of calm that came only when he was near her.

As they began to eat, the quiet wasn't empty. Every glance, every faint brush of fingers against utensils, every unspoken breath between words carried the weight of what had just passed, and what neither of them had yet dared to say aloud.

It was good, much more than he wanted to say. He could get used to this, truly. However he didn't say that. As much as he wished this was an every day thing, he knew it couldn't be. He was who he was, and he didn't want to intrude on her life outside of work. Despite what they have already confessed to each other. Perhap it was just his own worries.

"This is great, Shade, thank you."

 

[Shade]

Shade lifted her gaze at his compliment, and though her expression remained composed, something in her eyes shifted—softened, warmed, just enough for him to see it if he was paying attention. And he always was.

She set her fork down with a barely audible click, angled precisely beside her plate. The glow from the kitchen lights caught on the faint silver threads in her braid, turning the subtle tilt of her head into something quiet and intimate.

When she spoke, her voice had that low, even cadence he'd come to know—controlled, but carrying something beneath it now, a quiet sincerity meant only for him.

"For you," she said slowly, deliberately, "I do not mind the effort." A pause. Not hesitation—conviction. "Not ever."

The words hung between them, simple, unembellished, but carrying the weight of something far deeper than the phrasing implied. She wasn't one for grand declarations. But he would know exactly what she meant.

Shade picked up her fork again, movements smoother now, more relaxed. The faint rise and fall of her breath had steadied, but the warmth in her eyes lingered, a quiet glow beneath the cool crimson surface.

She watched him for a moment—really watched him—reading the tension in his shoulders, the flicker of doubt behind his calm exterior. She recognized it instantly.

Her voice dropped, softer, but no less certain.

"You never intrude, Cassian."

Her fingers brushed the edge of her plate, an unconscious gesture of grounding before she met his gaze again.

"If I did not want you here…" A slight lean forward. Barely noticeable—but intimate. "…you would not be sitting across from me."

She lifted her glass, took a quiet sip, then set it down with meticulous care.

And then, more quietly still—an invitation layered inside the simplest of words:

"Stay. Eat with me."

The meaning threaded beneath it was unmistakable. Stay with me. Stay right here. Stay tonight.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

His chest tightened, and the faintest of smiles found its way to his lips, the kind that wasn't meant to charm or conceal but to answer something wordless in her. "You have a way," he said quietly, his voice low and almost reverent, "of making even silence feel like something worth staying for."

He leaned back slightly, letting the tension ease from his shoulders, the quiet hum of the kitchen wrapping around them like a breath. Her next words 'You never intrude, Cassian… you would not be sitting across from me' hit with the gentle precision of a strike she didn't need to land. He knew what it took for her to say it, to offer space not out of obligation but choice.

"Then I'll take you at your word," he murmured, the corners of his mouth lifting again, softer this time. "Because there's nowhere else I'd rather be."

He reached for his glass, their movements unconsciously syncing as he mirrored her gesture. The faint clink of glass against the table carried through the stillness as he met her gaze again.

 

[Shade]

Shade held his gaze for a long, steady moment, studying him with the same precision she used in the field—only this time, the scrutiny wasn't to assess threat or motive. It was softer, quieter. Intent without sharpness. Her breath eased out slowly, a measured exhale that loosened something in her posture she rarely allowed to shift.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low, even, threaded with that rare warmth she reserved only for him. "Good." The single word wasn't abrupt. It carried quiet meaning—approval, acceptance, a subtle confession wrapped in simplicity.

She set her glass down, fingers lingering on the stem for a moment before she continued, her tone still calm but shaded with something deeper.

"It is… not common." Another small breath. Not uncertain—reflective. "For someone to make this place feel different." Her eyes flicked briefly around the room—the tidy counters, the soft glow of the lights, the organized precision of a space built for solitude. Then they returned to him, unwavering. "You do." There was no embellishment, no dramatics. Just truth, spoken with the same clarity she used for everything that mattered.

Shade reached for her fork again, but her fingers brushed his wrist first—light, intentional, lingering just a moment longer than formality would ever allow. Her touch was cool at first, then warmed by his skin, her expression unchanged, but her eyes giving her away.

"Eat," she murmured, the faintest fold of softness at the edge of her tone. "Stay as long as you like."

A beat. A breath. Something quieter, meant only for him. "I want you here." The words landed gently as snowfall, but carried weight like gravity.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade
​

Cassian's pulse steadied as he listened, but every word she spoke drew him in deeper. Good. The simplicity of it carried more warmth than an entire speech could have. There was something grounding about the way she said it, calm, sure, entirely hers.

He watched her glance around the room, taking in the careful order of her world, the one she'd built to be impenetrable, predictable, safe. And then she said You do. Just those two words, quiet but deliberate, landing with a weight that settled somewhere between his chest and his throat.

Cassian didn't move for a few seconds. He just let himself feel the moment, her composure softening, the edges of solitude giving way to something living, shared. The lights caught in her eyes again, and for the first time, he saw not calculation but comfort. That she could look at him and choose stillness, even for a breath, meant more than anything else she could've said.

When her fingers brushed his wrist, the contact was light but unmistakably intimate. He turned his hand slightly, enough to let his thumb trace the side of hers in quiet acknowledgment, a gesture small enough to fit within her world, but full enough to say everything he didn't.

He smiled, a soft, unguarded curve that reached his eyes. "You know," he said after a pause, his voice low, warm, threaded with that same quiet reverence she'd shown him, "you make it very easy to want to stay."

He picked up his fork again, falling into the rhythm she'd set. The air between them had changed, no longer tense, no longer charged, but balanced, full. He took a bite, then looked back at her, his tone carrying that faint, familiar undercurrent of teasing affection. "You do realize," he said, "If you keep feeding me like this, I might never leave."

 

[Shade]

Shade paused in the act of lifting her fork. Not abruptly—she never moved abruptly—but with a subtle stilling of breath, a focus that turned entirely toward him. His words hung in the warm air between them, soft but carrying the kind of sincerity she had never been taught to expect from anyone, let alone someone who knew her as he did.

He might not have noticed the slight shift in her posture, the faint straightening of her spine, the way her eyes softened around the edges. But he'd spent enough time watching her to read the signs that others missed.

Her hand lowered slightly, fingertips grazing the edge of her plate. She considered him for a moment—calm, unhurried, but with a depth that made the entire room feel quieter.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low, steady, and threaded with a warmth she rarely allowed to surface.

"If you asked," she said, each word deliberate, "I would make dinner for you every night." Her gaze held his, unflinching. "Not out of obligation. Not out of routine." A soft breath. "But because we are better when we share the same space."

There was no dramatic emphasis, no attempt to make the moment more than it was. Shade didn't deal in theatrics. She dealt in truth.

Her hand shifted across the table, the faint brush of her fingers against his wrist a quiet anchor.

"Whenever you want this," she added, voice dropping to something almost gentle, "you tell me." She lifted her fork again, but her eyes lingered on him with a rare, unguarded clarity. "I'll feed you as often as you let me."

Not a joke. Not flirtation. Just a quiet, low, spoken the way Shade gave all of her promises—soft, certain, and absolute.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian set his fork down slowly, the faint clink of metal against ceramic breaking the quiet in the smallest, gentlest way. Shade's words lingered in the air between them, steady and unadorned, but they hit him with a force that settled deep, like warmth spreading through cold stone.

He met her gaze, really met it, and for a heartbeat he forgot how to breathe. There were no barriers in her tone, no armor in her expression, just the truth, spoken with the precision that made everything she said feel deliberate. It disarmed him more completely than any enemy ever had.

A slow smile touched his mouth, warm, unguarded, touched by something rare. "You don't realize," he said quietly, the edges of his voice low and rough, "How happy I am when I am with you." He paused, the words catching for a moment before he let them come, honest and unfiltered. "And how utterly terrified I am of you."

He gave a soft, breathless laugh at his own admission, shaking his head slightly as if surprised by how easily it had come out. "Not because of who you are," he added quickly, his tone deepening, "But because of what you do to me. The way you make me forget the edges I've spent my whole life building."

 

[Shade]

For a moment—just one—Shade forgot to mask her expression. It happened the instant his words landed, the truth of them resonating in a place she kept buried deeper than instinct, deeper than training. Happy when I'm with you. Terrified because of what you do to me. It wasn't fear he was speaking of—it was vulnerability. The kind she knew too well. The kind she had spent her life surviving. And for the first time since he'd stepped into her home, the Chiss restraint slipped. Her lips softened into a genuine smile—small, rare, but unmistakably warm. An understanding smile. One that lived for only a heartbeat before she reined it back in, composure settling over her features like a soft cloak. But he had seen it. And she had let him.

Shade reached across the table, her movements unhurried, deliberate. She placed her hand over his—then added her second hand atop it, enclosing his completely in a gesture that carried more weight than any words she'd ever spoken.

Her thumb brushed once along the bone of his wrist, but instead of withdrawing, she let the motion linger—slow, deliberate, tracing the faint ridge of tendon with a touch that was neither casual nor accidental. It was grounding, steadying, the kind of contact she offered only with intention. Her fingertips shifted slightly, smoothing over his pulse in a way that felt almost like memorization—learning the shape of him, the rhythm of him, the truth of him beneath her hands.

She lifted her gaze to his, letting the silence stretch until the air between them felt warm and full.

"I know the feeling."

The words came softly, but they carried weight—an anchor thrown between them, firm and unshaken. Her expression didn't tremble, didn't waver, but the truth behind her tone vibrated through the quiet like a chord struck just once and left to resonate.

She drew in a slow breath, one that seemed to work its way through the tension in her shoulders and soften it by degrees. Her hands remained on his, steady, sure, a rare tether formed by choice rather than necessity.

"You unsettle me." There was no accusation in it—only acceptance. "You break every pattern I rely on."

Her thumb traced back across the inside of his wrist, slower this time, more deliberate, the heat of her skin sinking into his. It was the closest she would ever come to confessing fear without using the word.

"You make me…feel."

The last word left her on a breath softer than the rest, almost fragile in its honesty. For a heartbeat, her eyes lowered—not in shame, but in reflection—before she met his gaze again with unwavering clarity.

It wasn't danger she saw in him. And it wasn't weakness she found in herself. It was something new. Something neither of them had expected. Another faint breath left her, steadier now, as if she had settled fully into the truth she was speaking.

"It is not something to fear."

Her fingers tightened gently around his, enclosing his hand in both of hers with quiet certainty—an answer to his confession, a promise placed directly in his grasp. Her touch held no tremor, no hesitation—only conviction.

"It is simply part of us."

Us. A word she rarely allowed herself to think, let alone say.

Her grip softened, not loosening but warming, her thumbs brushing over his hands once more in a slow, deliberate sweep that echoed everything she could not articulate.

Then, quieter—softer than the rest, a truth spoken only for him: "And I would not change it."

The final words settled between them like a vow, quiet but indelible, as she held his hands in hers as though anchoring them both in a moment neither wanted to end.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian's breath caught somewhere between her words and her touch. The way her fingers traced his wrist, slow, deliberate, memorizing him, made time itself seem to hesitate. He saw her then, completely. Not the shadowed operative, not the unshakable Chiss who commanded silence with her presence, but the woman before him, the one who had just laid bare a truth more intimate than any secret she'd ever shared.

'You make me feel.'

It echoed through him, steady and fragile all at once, and something inside him gave way. The walls he'd carried, the instinct to measure, to guard, to stand at a distance, all of it softened under the weight of her honesty.

He looked at her hands holding his, the contrast of her cool skin against the warmth of his own. Her control was still there, but beneath it he felt the quiet pulse of vulnerability, and it undid him in the gentlest way possible.

When he lifted his gaze, his eyes met hers without hesitation, without defense. In that moment, Cassian saw everything he had ever searched for and everything he never believed he'd find, the steadiness of her strength, the sharp mind that could cut through any silence, the rare, soft truth that she had chosen to give him.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice barely a whisper but carrying every ounce of meaning he had left. "Come here."

The words were simple, but the way he said them stripped away every layer between them. It wasn't a command, it was a plea, quiet and reverent, spoken from somewhere deep and unguarded.

He didn't pull her toward him. He just waited, hands still resting beneath hers, thumbs brushing lightly over her fingers in a rhythm that matched his heartbeat. The air between them felt thick with something electric yet peaceful, the kind of tension that existed only between two people who had finally stopped hiding from what they already knew.

"Please," he added softly, almost to himself this time. "Just come here."

His tone carried everything else, love, certainty, the raw and quiet need to hold her not because she was fragile, but because she wasn't. Because she was Shade. Because she was his, just as much as he was hers.

 

[Shade]

Shade did not hesitate. Not when it came to him.

The moment the word "Come here" left his lips—quiet, reverent, something like raw truth threaded through the sound—her chair slid back with a soft scrape against the floor. Not abrupt. Not frantic. Just decisive.

She rose smoothly to her feet, the faint warmth of the kitchen light brushing her face as she circled the table. For anyone else, Shade moved like a shadow—quiet, efficient, unreadable. But Cassian would see the difference immediately: the soft shift in her breathing, the slightest tremor of anticipation in her hands, the way her steps were not cautious but certain.

She stopped beside him, close enough that the heat of his body bled into hers.

For a heartbeat, she looked at him—really looked—taking in the openness of his expression, the way he waited for her with a patience he never afforded himself. Her fingers brushed his shoulder first, a careful, grounding touch, as though marking the moment before she leaned down toward him.

Her breath ghosted across his cheek—warm, steady, unmistakably intimate. "I am here." Her voice was quieter than before, but deeper too, carrying something she no longer tried to hold back.

Shade's hand slipped from his shoulder to his jaw, her thumb tracing the stubble there with a delicacy that belied the precision in her every movement. She tilted closer until her forehead touched his—soft contact, deliberate, an anchor for both of them.

"I came because you asked." A whisper, but one that held the full weight of truth.

Her other hand found his, fingers threading through his with an ease that contradicted how rarely she touched anyone. She could feel his pulse beneath her fingertips—steady, warm, grounding—and her breath unspooled in a slow exhale against his skin.

Then, softer still, meant only for him: "And because I wanted to."

Shade stayed like that, poised between restraint and surrender, her presence enveloping him in quiet certainty, every line of her body saying what she rarely let herself speak:

She chose him. She trusted him. And she wasn't leaving.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian didn't think, he simply moved. The moment her forehead touched his, the air between them shifted, heavy with everything unspoken. He felt her breath against his skin, the soft brush of her thumb at his jaw, the warmth of her fingers intertwined with his. Every small motion, every deliberate, graceful choice she made, was unraveling him, thread by thread.

His hand lifted, tracing lightly along her waist, the contact gentle at first, reverent, as though he were still making sure this was real. When she didn't pull away, when her breath caught and stayed close to his, he exhaled, low and steady, and let his other arm circle around her.

He drew her closer, slowly, carefully, guiding her until she settled across his lap. The movement wasn't hurried; it was grounding, inevitable. His hands rested at her hips, steadying her, his thumbs brushing faint arcs along her sides. For a moment, they just looked at each other, the quiet flicker of light catching her eyes, the pulse of warmth shared between them, the silence that felt sacred.

Then Cassian leaned in.

The kiss began softly, but the restraint dissolved almost instantly, replaced by something deeper, something that lived in the space between a sigh and a confession. His hand slid up her back, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of her shirt, the other staying at her waist as if to anchor them both. The world outside the kitchen fell away, the faint hum of the stove, the city beyond, even the steady beat of time itself.

There was only her. Her warmth. Her breath. The taste of quiet surrender shared between two people who had both forgotten how to be unguarded until now.

Cassian deepened the kiss, not with urgency, but with meaning, with the kind of passion that came from everything they hadn't said, everything they had been holding back for far too long. His thumb brushed the side of her face as he drew back just enough to breathe, his forehead still resting against hers, his voice a low whisper between them.

"This," he murmured, he smiled and leaned his forehead against hers, "..feels perfect."

He didn't let her go. He couldn't. His arms remained around her, the quiet rhythm of her breathing syncing with his, the warmth of the moment cocooning them both.

And for Cassian Abrantes, a man who had lived his life in discipline, duty, and restraint, it felt like eternity had finally stopped long enough for him to simply exist.

With her.

 

[Shade]

Shade didn't resist when he drew her into his lap—she went with him in one smooth, unbroken movement, her body aligning against his as though it had always known the space was made for her. The shift of her weight over him was deliberate, controlled, but the moment his arms tightened around her, something in her breath faltered—small, sharp, silent, the kind of reaction no one else would have noticed but him.

Her hands rose immediately.

One slid to his jaw, fingers tracing the faint line of stubble with slow, memorized care.
The other slipped into his hair, fingertips brushing the short strands at the nape of his neck before easing upward, holding him—not forcefully, but with an anchor's certainty—as she leaned in to meet his kiss.

And when their mouths touched—Her control shifted—not broken—but softened.

Shade kissed him back with a precision that was unmistakably hers—measured at first, exploring him, learning him, syncing to the rhythm of his breath, the tension in his shoulders, the way he drew her closer with a hunger he didn't bother to hide.

Then his hand slid up her back. His lips deepened the kiss. And everything in her that was guarded, restrained, disciplined—Melted.

She drew him in with a quiet, undeniable need, fingers sliding deeper into his hair as if guiding him into the moment with her. Her other hand stayed firm at his jaw, thumb brushing slowly, grounding arcs against his skin. Her heartbeat—usually an unshakable metronome—now thrummed fast and sharp against his chest, betraying the storm beneath her composure.

When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, whispering against her lips—

This feels perfect.

—She didn't pull away.

Her eyes opened slowly, heavy-lidded and warm, her forehead still pressed to his, her breath mingling with his in steady, measured exhalations that didn't quite hide their tremble. She let herself settle against him then, letting her weight rest entirely in his hold, the line of her body molding into his with rare, quiet surrender.

One hand drifted from his hair to the back of his neck, holding him close. The other remained at his cheek, thumb stroking once in a slow, tender line.

She answered him not with distance, not with caution, but with truth spoken in a voice soft and steady as her heartbeat against him.

"It is." A breath. Soft. Certain. "Perfect."

Then she shifted just enough to meet his gaze, crimson eyes still glowing faintly in the warm kitchen light, her pulse still racing beneath the veneer of Chiss discipline that she no longer bothered to hide from him.

And in a tone meant for him alone—quiet, intimate, and unshakably devoted—"And I am not going anywhere either."

She stayed there, settled into him, her arms around him, her breath against his skin, her body finally allowed to be unguarded with him.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian held her as if the world depended on it. His arms wrapped fully around her, one hand at the small of her back, the other resting just below her shoulders, fingers tracing slow, unconscious circles against the fabric of her shirt. Every steady breath she took against his chest reverberated through him, grounding him more deeply than anything else ever had.

He didn't know how long they sat like that, seconds, minutes, maybe more. Time didn't seem to apply here. The galaxy outside could have been burning, the Agency could have been calling his name, and he wouldn't have moved. Not when she was here. Not when the steady rhythm of her heart pressed against his made everything else seem impossibly small.

The thought crossed him, if he let go, the galaxy might just fall apart. Because in this moment, it felt like he was holding the only piece of it that truly mattered.

Cassian leaned forward slightly, the motion instinctive, reverent. He pressed a soft kiss against her forehead, lingering there long enough for his breath to catch in her hair, his eyes closing for a single heartbeat of peace. The warmth of her skin, the faint scent of spice still clinging to her from dinner, it all grounded him, reminded him that for once, he was allowed to stop fighting the current.

When he finally pulled back enough to look at her, his voice came low and rough-edged, the quiet rasp of a man torn between reason and the ache to stay exactly where he was. "We should probably clean up…" he said, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at his mouth. Then his thumb brushed along her spine, his tone softening into something tender. "Or…"

He let the word hang there, his gaze flicking down to meet hers again, steady and warm. "We could stay like this for a while longer."

Cassian's hand moved gently to the back of her neck, his fingers threading through the base of her braid as he added, quieter still, "Or maybe… move somewhere more comfortable."

The offer wasn't a suggestion. It was a shared choice, unspoken, unhurried, but heavy with meaning. His eyes softened, the faint light reflecting in them as he smiled, small and genuine. "Your call," he murmured, his forehead resting against hers again. "I'm not going anywhere."

 

[Shade]

Shade didn't move at first. She stayed exactly where he held her, her body settled against his with the kind of natural alignment that felt discovered rather than chosen, as if the space had always been waiting for her. His arms around her, the warmth of his breath in her hair, the slow circles his fingers traced at the base of her spine—none of it urged her to pull away. If anything, it lulled her deeper into the moment, quieting instincts she had spent a lifetime sharpening.

It wasn't until his voice broke the silence, soft and steady in her ear, that something shifted inside her. We should probably clean up… or we could stay like this… or move somewhere more comfortable. The options, spoken gently and without expectation, carried a logic she hadn't been holding onto. She realized then—with a flicker of something almost amused—that for once he was the one grounding them, thinking ahead, bringing them back into the rhythm of reality while she had been perfectly willing to remain suspended in the warmth of his arms.

The awareness warmed her in a way that surprised her. She lifted her head just enough to look at him fully, her hands still at the sides of his neck, fingers brushing the short hair at his nape. Her gaze had regained its clarity, but the soft background heat of their kiss still lingered there, unhidden and unashamed.

"You are right."

The words were quiet, but not hesitant; they carried the rare weight of an admission she did not give lightly. Her lips curved by the faintest margin—not quite a smile, but the closest one ever came to forming without breaking her composure.

"And I suspect this is the first time I have said that to you."

Her thumb drifted once along his jaw, tracing the warmth beneath his skin, not to draw him back into another kiss but simply because she wanted to feel him, to linger in the closeness they had created. When she finally eased off his lap, it was with a fluid, natural motion, her hand sliding down his arm as she stood, her fingers brushing his for one last, silent second before she let him go.

She didn't put distance between them—just enough space to shift them into the next moment.

"We should clean up."

Her tone was calm again, steady and composed, but it held a softness that hadn't been there an hour ago, a warmth shaped by everything they had just shared. She glanced toward the table, then back to him, the memory of Bastion flickering gently behind her eyes.

"And talk." A breath slipped out—controlled, even, but not cold. "Like that night on Bastion."

She stepped toward the sink, and when he rose to follow, she met his eyes over her shoulder with a quiet, understated fondness that belonged to him alone.

"Come on, Cassian," she murmured, loosening the last thread of tension in the room. "Before the food turns to stone."

The heat between them settled into something warm and steady, the kind of intimacy that didn't require touch to hold its shape—only proximity, shared breath, and the promise of a long conversation waiting to unfold.

Cassian Abrantes