Chapter 143: Dinner under the stars
The moment I stepped onto the rooftop, I could sense the difference.
The city spread out before me like a promise but, lights twinkling across in the distance, their glints bouncing back up off the smooth black face of the river far away. And above, the sky was wide and velvet, spread out with stars that could shine even behind city light's veil. But the lights stole the wind from my lungs.
Low strings of lights hung from the trellises Caspian had set up months ago—tiny warm bulbs that trembled slightly in the breeze. They lit the table he'd set: candles burning low in clear glasses, two places, and a half-full bottle of red wine across a covered platter. Crumpled linen napkins lay on each plate, and in the center, a small glass vase with three plain peonies—my favorite.
Caspian stepped back from me, fists inside his jeans pockets, shoulders rolled up but not sloping like he had some natural aptitude for. He'd switched to a light blue button-down shirt, rolled above-the-elbow sleeves, collar open enough to have me thudding like my heart was skipping beats. His hair was still damp from when he'd exited the shower, slightly disheveled, and he'd rolled to one side as if he'd caught a whiff of me before I'd made a noise.
"You arranged this," I breathed, the words somewhat stuck in my throat.
He gazed at me, and the small smile that touched the corner of his mouth radiated Radiance. "I wanted to have a moment not colored by anyone else. Just us."
Its nakedness was what made my heart ache.
I stepped on him, the heel snapping against the stone floor, the sound of the silk of my dress sliding along the legs. His gaze fell for an instant, but his eyes were drinking in the sight of me, and when his eyes came back to mine, they didn't falter.
"You are lovely," he whispered.
I. stood. beside. him. and. placed. my. hand. on. the. firm. thump. of. his. chest. "This is. perfection."
"I wasn't sure if it was too much," he breathed, his voice like sandpaper. "Or not enough."
I kissed him, slow and soft, our lips brushing in a touch that said more than thank you. When I stepped back, I looked at him. "You're always enough."
He escorted me to my chair, his hand firm at the small of my back, his pressure polite. I sat, and he filled my glass brimming with wine—my beautiful Pinot—and pulled back the covers from the dishes. My delectable meal. I sliced lemon chicken roasted to golden brown, herbs flavoring potatoes, greens pan-fried. All of them making the room smell of home and coziness.
"I didn't cook," he admitted as he sat in front of me, "but I watched."
I smiled, and he was so thrilled at the noise that I wanted to freeze it forever.
We talked rubbish for a while. A book that I'd read. A silly interview he'd given that morning. The peonies in the garden that had not given up flowering. He'd described how he'd had the lights installed months previously but hadn't managed to switch them on until tonight.
"Why tonight, then?" I asked, sipping my wine.
He did not answer right away. His fingers tracing the edge of his glass, his gaze locked on mine as if considering whether to release the idea or not.
"I think," he spoke slowly, "that I am starting to think it is real."
I gasped. "It is."
He looked at me then—really looked—and something shifted in the space between us. The air grew heavier, intimate in that quiet, charged way that made my skin prickle with awareness.
“I’ve had peace before,” he said. “Briefly. But it always came with terms. With expectations. With consequences.”
I set down my fork. “And this doesn’t?”
His eyes searched mine, steady and unflinching. “Not from you.”
I bent over the table, and he wrapped his fingers around my hand, his rough warmth against mine. "You're allowed to be happy, Caspian."
"I know." His thumb smoothed over the back of my hand. "But every now and then I wait for the cracks. For the silence to shatter. For the storm to come in again."
The genuineness of it struck me somewhere within. He wasn't telling me this out of fear. He was telling me this out of experience. In hurt of having done something previously only to have it disintegrate.
"I guess I used to believe that love had to be grand in order to be," I whispered. "But now? Now I think maybe it's in the silence. The everyday. The way that you notice me like I matter, even when we're not even speaking."
"I notice you like that because you are everything," he replied bluntly.
The candlelight was pinned in his eyes, melting them to golden amber. Heat ran through me—leisurely, consuming—not hunger, not desire. Just want. Want for this moment. This man. This beautiful, serene calm we'd struggled for.
"I was afraid," I breathed. "That we'd burn out too fast. That we'd be overwhelmed by the destruction like we were nearly lost before."
He stood up and strode around the table, pulling me to my feet with his hand. His fingers interlocked through mine and then he was pulling me, tumbled bodies, his scent closing around me—pine and black pepper, fire and cedar.
"You didn't lose me," he whispered in my hair. "You found me."
I rested against my head, and covered his eyes with my hands, and something between us changed once more—thickness, now, but silent. Not desperation. Not chaos. Just need. Just truth.
His hand traced over my back, holding me, and I could feel the beat of his heart against mine. Not racing. Not desperate. Steady.
The kiss I got then was the one that rewrote memories. No shiver, no firestorm. Simply stark knowledge. A whispered promise on lips. He kissed me as if we had eternity. As if he feared nothing anymore. And for the first time in history, I feared nothing too.
When we finally parted, my eyes roamed over his face. "This… this is forever."
He nodded, running his thumb along the curve of my jaw. "That's why it is."
We were standing in the lights, he had me pinned against him, the stars trapped above us. No one yelling. No past jumping up to steal this silence for itself. Just us.
And I did not dread the silence for the first time. I believed in it.
I believed in us.