Chapter 69

Cecilia

Morning light filtered through the curtains in soft, and I became aware of warmth before anything else—the solid weight of an arm around my waist, the steady rhythm of breathing against my hair.

I blinked, disoriented. The events came back in fragments: Margaret's library, the shower, Arthur's voice saying something I couldn't quite make out before the darkness took me.

Oh god. I passed out on him. Again.

I shifted experimentally, and his arm tightened immediately, pulling me back against his chest.

"Nine-thirty," Arthur said, his voice rough with sleep. "Sunday. No rush."

I hadn't even asked yet. I turned my head to find him already awake, lying on his side, watching me with an expression soft it made my chest ache.

"How long have you been staring at me?" I asked, my voice coming out scratchy.

"A while." His thumb traced a slow circle on my hip. "You're more interesting than sleeping."

"That's a low bar."

"Mm." He reached up and brushed a strand of hair off my forehead, his touch unhurried, like we had all the time in the world. "How are you feeling?"

I thought about it. My body was pleasantly sore, my mind still fuzzy at the edges.

"Tired," I admitted. "But good." I paused. "Did I really pass out in the shower?"

"You did." His lips curved. "Carried you to bed. You didn't even stir."

"That's mortifying."

"I thought it was endearing." He pressed a kiss to my temple. "You were exhausted."

I groaned and pulled the covers over my face. He laughed—that low, genuine sound I'd been collecting like evidence—and tugged the blanket back down.

"Don't hide. I like your face."

"You're insufferable in the morning."

"You love it."

I didn't argue, because he wasn't wrong.

We made it to breakfast eventually. Arthur commandeered my kitchen with the same quiet authority he brought to everything, and I sat on the counter watching him move, still in his shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

"We should do something normal today," he said, not looking up from the eggs he was scrambling. "We've been dealing with one crisis after another for weeks. I want one day where nothing explodes."

"Define normal."

"Movie. Lunch. Walking around without anyone trying to destroy us." He slid a plate toward me. "There's that new one everyone's been talking about. Supposed to be a great love story."

I raised an eyebrow. "You want to see a love story."

"I want to sit in a dark theater with you" He poured coffee and handed it to me. "Is that so strange?"

When he put it that way, it sounded like the best idea anyone had ever had.

We looked ridiculous, and I loved it.

Arthur in a black t-shirt and dark jeans, no suit, no cufflinks, no armor. Me in my favorite worn-in jeans and an oversized sweatshirt.

We walked to the theater hand in hand, and the October air smelled like coffee from the shop on the corner and something sweet from the bakery two doors down.

"This feels weird," I said.

"Good weird or bad weird?"

"Good weird. Like we're regular people."

He squeezed my hand. "We are regular people."

"Arthur. You own a private helicopter."

"Lots of regular people own helicopters."

"They really don't."

He smiled, and I felt it in my chest—that particular warmth that came from watching him be easy, unguarded, just Arthur without the weight of everything else pressing down on him.

"This is nice," I said quietly. "Just us. No agenda."

"Yeah." He lifted our joined hands and pressed his lips to my knuckles. "It really is."

However, I quickly got a bad feeling.

The movie was terrible.

I realized it approximately eighteen minutes in, when the male lead delivered a speech so overwrought I actually winced.

The pacing was glacial. The dialogue was the kind of thing that sounded like someone had fed a hundred romance novels into an AI and asked it to generate something "emotionally resonant."

I lasted another ten minutes before my eyes started to drift.

The last thing I registered was Arthur's shoulder, solid and warm, and then I lost consciousness again.

I woke up to the credits rolling and the house lights coming up, my cheek pressed against Arthur's arm, a small puddle of drool threatening my dignity.

I sat up fast, wiping my mouth. "I wasn't asleep."

"You were absolutely asleep." Arthur's voice was entirely too composed. "You snored a little."

"I do not snore."

"Just once. It was very small and very cute."

I turned to look at him. He was watching me with that expression—the one that made me feel like I was the only thing in the room worth looking at—and something about it made me suspicious.

"Did you watch the movie?" I asked.

"Of course."

"What happened in the second act?"

A pause. Barely perceptible, but I caught it.

"There was a... significant emotional development," he said carefully.

"Arthur."

"The cinematography was excellent."

"Oh my god." I shoved his shoulder. "You didn't watch it either."

"I watched you." He caught my hand before I could shove him again, his fingers wrapping around mine. "Which was considerably more interesting."

"That's such a line."

"It's the truth." He stood, pulling me up with him. "Come on. Let's get out of here before you demand a refund."

"I'm absolutely demanding a refund."

"The movie was critically acclaimed—"

"The movie was a crime against cinema and you know it." I pointed at him as we filed out with the rest of the audience. "You owe me two hours of my life back."

"I'll make it up to you."

"How?"

He held the door open for me, and when I walked through, he caught my wrist and spun me back toward him, right there on the sidewalk, and kissed me—quick and warm and laughing against my mouth.

"Like that," he said.

I pushed him away, but I was grinning. "That doesn't even come close to compensating—"

"Ceci." He grabbed my hand and started walking, pulling me along. "I watched you sleep for an hour and forty minutes and I'd do it again. That movie was the best two hours I've had in weeks."

"You're deranged."

"Completely." He laced our fingers together.

---

We’ve reached the entrance of the apartment when I saw it.

A package on the front step. Brown cardboard, standard shipping label—but the return address made my stomach drop straight through the pavement.