Chapter 146: Morning light
Light crept in slowly, gold and lenient. It fell in thin ribbons over the sheets, snagging the curve of Caspian's shoulder and the line of stubble on his jaw. He slept through it as I woke, his breath even and measured, one arm tossed over me as if he'd anchored himself to me in the night.
I didn't move. I just watched him.
There was something holy in the way the sunlight fell on his skin. This man who so many times strode in such black contrast—steel and control and measured restraint—was utterly human in the stillness of dawn. His mouth was gently open, his forehead relaxed. He didn't look like a billionaire or a tycoon or even the darkened silhouette that the world had learned to fear.
He looked like mine.
I shifted closer, careful not to wake him, and pressed a soft kiss to his collarbone. He stirred slightly but didn’t open his eyes, just mumbled something unintelligible and tightened his hold around me.
I smiled into his skin. “Good morning.”
“No talking before coffee,” he muttered.
“You’re not even awake.”
“I can still hear crimes being committed.”
I laughed, low and soft. He finally opened one eye, and that was all it took—just that single, half-lidded glance and the warmth it poured into me. His gaze traveled slowly across my face like he needed to reacquaint himself with every inch.
“I like waking up to you,” he said.
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m always a little surprised,” he admitted. “That you’re still here. That this is real.”
I touched the line of his jaw with my finger. "It is. I swear."
He stepped forward and kissed me—slow, lazy, like we had no place to be and no need to do anything anytime soon.
We didn't jump out of bed. We didn't need to. Caspian drew me back into the bed after I tried to sit up, his solid warmth against me. We were a tangled mess for a while, neither of us talking, neither of us thinking, just being.
Finally I slipped out of bed and tiptoed barefoot to the kitchen. The apartment was still—only the whir of the refrigerator and the quiet morning air through an open window. I brewed coffee, appreciating the little, domestic ceremony. There was something solid about it—making something for him, knowing he'd drink it the way he liked it, black and too hot.
He came in ten minutes, dressed in a low-slung pair of sweatpants and nothing else, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He was beautiful in the most heartbreaking way—half-wild, completely real.
"Smells like heaven in here," he replied, taking the cup I'd offered him.
"I'm your personal barista now."
"You're everything now," he replied, his face unsmiling, unteasing—simply stating it as fact.
That stopped me in mid-sip. I set my cup aside and turned to him full face. "Caspian…"
He moved closer, his fingers on my wrist. "You don't have to say it back. I just wanted you to know."
"I know," I said, more softly. "But I want to say it."
He looked at me intensely.
"I love you," I panted. "In the morning. At night. When you're quiet. When you're unattainable. I love you in ways I don't yet have words for."
He leaned in and kissed me gently, his forehead pressed against mine afterwards.
We stood like that for a very long time, nothing between us but breathing and silence.
And it was enough.
We sat later at the small kitchen table, our mugs full, breakfast forgotten in favor of just… us.
There wasn't any kind of discomfort between us—it never was. It was like it had been fought for. Survived.
"I disliked mornings," he said suddenly. His tone was lower than usual, reflective.
I looked up. "Because of work?"
"No. Because I'd wake up and it all came flooding back—the weight, the pressure, the expectations. Mornings were just reminders that the world didn't stop turning while I was sleeping."
I crossed the table, took his hand. "And now?"
His eyes met mine. "Now I wake up and recall you're lying next to me. That makes all the difference."
God, how was he still capable of this—killing me with so few words?
My thumb brushed across his knuckles. "You don't have to carry it all on your own anymore."
He looked down, as if he did not believe he was worthy of such mercy. "I don't know how not to."
"Start here," I said. "Start with me."
For a moment, the tension that always simmered beneath his skin faltered, uncertain. Then, with godlike slowness, he flipped over my hand and pressed it to his lips. A touch, as light as breath.
"Okay," he whispered.
The rest of the morning was like in slow motion—mellow background music, Caspian's taking pans out and scrambled eggs as if he was wondering how many YouTube tutorials he had secretly been watching. I bullied him about it; he smiled, but he didn't admit to anything.
We ate across from each other, knees touching under the table, every contact sending warm tingles of recognition coursing through my system. Even so, even here, even in this mundane, the chemistry between us thrummed—tamed, to be sure, by love, but still potent.
Then we stepped outside onto the balcony. The city was beginning to stir beneath us, but we didn't talk much. He stood behind me, arms wrapped around my waist, chin on my shoulder.
"I like this," I said. "This kind of quiet."
"It won't last forever," he whispered.
"I know."
"But I'll fight for it. For you."
"I'll fight too," I said. "We both deserve to be happy."
He swung me into his arms and looked at me like I was the only sense in a sea of madness. "Promise me something?"
"Anything."
"When life becomes jumbled again—and it will—don't shut me out. Don't carry it alone."
"I promise," I whispered, and did.
His lips brushed mine then, not with desperation, but with determination. And somehow that firmness unraveled me more than desperation ever had.