Chapter 145: The shape of stillness
We were in the bedroom at noon.
We didn't have to get up. The world could wait.
Caspian was lying next to me, an arm wrapped around my middle, the other behind his head. The sheet had fallen low on his hips, the sun gleaming over every inch of his body. Deep, even breathing was distorting time itself to the ebb and flow of his chest.
It was the silence I hadn't been expecting. Not silent—Caspian was never really quiet, even when he wasn't speaking. There was always a thrum humming just beneath his skin, a tension. But this—this was different.
This was peace.
And it was not fragile.
I rested against him, chin on the muscle of his naked shoulder. "We're actually sleeping in today, aren't we?"
He cracked open one eye, a sleepy smile playing on his lips. "We could be."
"Could be?
“I’m weighing the strategic advantages.”
“Of staying naked?”
“Of staying with you,” he said simply.
I rolled my eyes and kissed his shoulder. “You’re shameless.”
“I’m in love.”
His words still stole my breath, whether he said them repeatedly. They were not used lightly, not with him. Every time Caspian Grey told me that he loved me, the world stopped for its own sake, as if the words sliced space out of the air to be heard.
I rolled over, the sheet slipping from my shoulders, and reached for my robe. Caspian made a protesting sound behind me.
"Where are you going?"
"To brush my teeth," I said, laughing. "Get your possessive juices under control."
He snarled something nonsensical but stayed where he was, eyes locked on me like I'd vanish if he blinked. When I came back, he was still in the position I'd left him, one arm over his head.
"You seem to be memorizing my picture," I said to him.
"I am," he answered.
I waited. "Why?"
"Because I can," he answered. Then, softer: "Because there were nights that I didn't know that I would ever have this. Have you."
That left me gasping. I moved across the room stealthily, crawling onto the bed and sitting on his waist. My fingers ruffled through his hair.
"I'm here," I whispered. "You don't have to memorize me. Just hold me."
He did. He always did.
The hours passed like water between fingers—inexorable, unobstructed.
We showered, a languid, lazy waltz of water and skin. He washed my hair with reverence, his fingers slow, deliberate. I did not move. There were no barriers any longer. Only soft things. Shared breaths, whispered falsehoods, the sensation of my name on his lips like an oath.
Then I sat cross-legged on the bed and he towel-dried my hair, going slowly like he had no place to be. I looked at him in the mirror, surprised again at how gentle he was behind closed doors. This man—who could bring empires to ruin with a single word—was totally serene uncoiling tangles with his fingers.
"This is like a dream," I sighed.
He caught my eye in the mirror. "Then don't wake up."
We finally came down, called by the promise of coffee and Caspian's extremely loud belly.
I rested against the kitchen, perched on the marble counter as he browsed the fridge as though he were signing a corporate agreement. His hair was still wet from his shower, curling up at the ends, and he wore an ancient gray tee that was just a little too tight to be comfortable.
"What do we want?" he asked.
"You make it sound like a boardroom decision."
"It is," he said seriously. "Food is serious business."
"Pasta?"
He spun around, levelling a flat stare at me. "You want me to torch the house."
"I want to have dinner," I said. "You can be sous-chef. Or official taster."
"Taster does sound safer," he said.
I leaped off the counter and approached him, wrapping my arms around his waist from behind. "Just stay with me," I whispered. "I like it when you hang around."
"You're saying loiter with love?"
I snorted, resting my cheek on his back.
"Right on."
We got the meal ready, although I had done most of the work. Caspian chopped things in fake seriousness, tasting the sauce like a wine connoisseur and giving judgments not entirely obvious.
"Too tomato-y," he said at one point.
"It's tomato sauce."
"You've made your point."
I threw a small amount of flour in his direction, and he retaliated by coming up behind me and nuzzling the back of my neck, his arms embracing my waist. The sauce teetered on the edge of being spilled.
We had it all plated at last and sat on the kitchen island, bare feet hanging off the edges. The food was nice—comfort food, something we knew—it was just that the silence between us lingered. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just full.
Caspian's knee bumped into mine at the back of the counter, his eyes fixed on me as if I were his center of gravity.
"This," he whispered. "This is what I want."
"Pasta?"
He stared at me, then shoved his hand across the table and locked our fingers together. "You. Here. This."
I could feel my throat closing. "I want it too."
We didn't speak for a while after that. We didn't need to. There was just as much said in how he held my hand, in the silence he didn't try to break. This man, who had built fences so high even he couldn't climb them, was opening himself to me without a struggle.
It was a miracle.
Then we climbed up onto the couch, hungry and exhausted. Caspian reached it first, and I curled around him, head against his chest, his hand idly stroking my arm.
Outside, the sun edged its way slowly towards the horizon. Outside things continued on—the cars driving by, phones ringing in the distance—but they didn't find us. Not today.
"Do you think it'll be like this?" I whispered.
"What?"
"Like this forever.".
He tilted his head to look at me, blank eyes. "Are you questioning whether I do believe in it?"
I nodded.
"I believe in us," he told me. "I believe in going for you again and again. Even when it is difficult. Especially then."
My heart expanded a little more.
"And you?".
"Forever" frightened me, I admitted. "Because nothing else in my life ever was. But now…" I whispered, looking at him. "Now it doesn't terrify me. Not with you."
He kissed me then, a slow and tender kiss. Like we had forever to remain there, kissing.
And maybe we did.