Chapter 85

Cecilia

I woke to the smell of coffee and something sweet—pastries, maybe, or fresh bread. The kind of breakfast that came from somewhere expensive and definitely not our kitchen.

Arthur was already up, moving around the apartment with that quiet efficiency he had in the mornings. I watched him through half-closed eyes as he set up plates on the coffee table, arranging everything with the same care he brought to everything else.

"You're awake," he said without turning around, and I smiled because of course he'd noticed.

"You didn't cook," I observed, pushing myself up carefully. My wrist was still in the cast, my leg still wrapped, but I was getting better at moving without jarring anything.

"I didn't." He came over to help me up, his hands gentle on my arms. "I had something delivered instead."

"From where?"

"That French place you like. The one with the croissants that make you forget how to speak English."

I laughed despite myself. "Those are good croissants."

"They are." He settled me on the couch, propping pillows behind my back and making sure my leg was elevated before stepping back to survey his work. "Comfortable?"

"Very." I looked at the spread he'd arranged. "This is fancy for a Wednesday morning."

"Well." Something flickered across his face, something that looked almost nervous. "I have a surprise for you. After breakfast."

My heart did a little flip. "A surprise?"

"A surprise." He sat down beside me, handing me a plate. "But you have to eat first."

"Arthur—"

"Eat, Ceci." His voice was firm but warm. "Then surprise."

I ate, though my attention kept drifting to him, trying to read what he was planning in the set of his shoulders, the slight curve of his mouth. He caught me staring more than once and just smiled, infuriatingly pleased with himself.

The croissants were as good as I remembered—buttery and flaky and probably terrible for my cholesterol but absolutely worth it.

Arthur cleared the dishes without a word, moving them to the kitchen with that same quiet efficiency. Then he disappeared down the hallway toward the bedroom.

"Arthur?" I called after him. "What are you doing?"

"Getting your surprise," he called back.

I heard something large being moved, the scrape of wood on hardwood, and then Arthur reappeared, carefully maneuvering something through the doorway.

My breath caught.

It was a record player. Not just any record player—the record player. The massive vintage one with the brass horn and the hand-crank mechanism, the one Arthur had given me when I was sixteen and going through my "I only listen to vinyl" phase.

I'd left it at Black Peak Estate when I was sent away. I'd assumed it was still there, collecting dust in one of the storage rooms.

"You went to Black Peak," I said, my voice coming out smaller than I intended.

"This morning." He set the player down carefully, adjusting its position until it was just right. "I wanted to get it for you. Your things should be with you, not sitting in storage."

I felt tears prick at my eyes.

"Of course I did." He looked up at me, and his expression was so tender it made my chest ache. "It's yours. I wasn't going to leave it there."

He moved to the shelf where we kept our small collection of records—mostly his, a few mine that I'd bought since coming back—and selected one. Something classical, judging by the ornate script on the sleeve.

"I can't dance," I said, gesturing at my cast, my bandaged leg. "Arthur, I'm literally broken right now."

"I know." He set the record on the turntable, his movements practiced and sure. "But I can."

The music started—something slow and sweeping that made me think of old ballrooms and couples in formal dress.

Arthur crossed the room and bent down, his arms sliding under my knees and behind my back with the kind of care that suggested he'd thought about exactly how to do this without hurting me.

"What are you doing?" I asked, though I already knew.

"Dancing with my fiancée." He lifted me easily, settling my weight against his chest. "Since you can't come to the dance floor, I'm bringing the dance floor to you."

He started to move, slow and careful, his steps matching the rhythm of the music. My good arm came up to wrap around his neck, and I let my head rest against his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my cheek.

The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, casting soft golden light across the room. Our shadows moved together on the wall, swaying in time with the music, and I watched them dance—two silhouettes merged into one, turning slowly in the gentle light.

"This is perfect," I whispered.

"Yeah?" His voice rumbled through his chest, warm and low.

"Yeah." I lifted my head to look at him, and the expression on his face made my breath catch—so much love, so much tenderness, like I was something precious he couldn't quite believe he got to hold. "You're perfect."

"I'm really not." But he was smiling, that real smile that transformed his whole face. "But I'm trying."

"You're succeeding."

He spun us slowly, careful not to jostle my injuries, and I laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it—me in my pajamas with a cast and bandages, him in sweatpants and a t-shirt, dancing in our living room like we were at some grand ball.

But it didn't feel ridiculous. It felt right.

The song changed to something even slower, more intimate, and Arthur adjusted his hold, pulling me closer. His cheek pressed against my hair, and I felt him take a deep breath, like he was trying to memorize this moment.

When the song ended, Arthur didn't put me down. He just stood there, holding me, both of us swaying slightly even though the music had stopped.

"Thank you," I said quietly. "For this. For the record player, for the dance, for—" I gestured vaguely at everything. "For being you."

"Thank you for letting me love you," he said, and his voice was so sincere it made my throat tight.

The next song started—something faster, more playful—and Arthur grinned. "Want to go again?"

"Absolutely."

He spun us in a circle, and I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in weeks. My injuries didn't matter. The cast and the bandages didn't matter. Nothing mattered except this—Arthur's arms around me, the music filling our apartment.

Finally Arthur carefully set me back on the couch, propping pillows and adjusting blankets until I was comfortable again.

"This was the best surprise." I squeezed his fingers.

Something in his expression softened. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." I pulled him down for a kiss.

He settled beside me on the couch, pulling me carefully against his side, and we sat there in comfortable silence as the record player continued to spin, filling our apartment with music and light.