Chapter 151: Post storm
The villa had grown quiet in the way only night could—quiet and sacred, every breath between us made more intense by the weight of what had just happened. Nathaniel's email still sat unopened on my laptop, but I'd already read it aloud hours ago. We hadn't gotten rid of it. We hadn't answered. We'd just. left it alone.
That was a choice of sorts as well.
Caspian hadn't wandered far from me since. We moved the rest of the evening through the same area, circling each other with small gestures—unspoken reassurance. He didn't try to fix it. He didn't ask me if I was okay every five minutes. He just stayed. Close. Consistent.
And God, how much that mattered.
I rested against the window, arms folded, eyes tracing the edges of city lights below. The world was too big and too small at the same time. I felt him standing behind me, light steps, then the clink of glasses. Before I turned, he already had a glass of wine.
Pinot noir. He hadn't forgotten.
"Thanks," I said softly, taking it from him.
We sat silently on the couch. The silence was not cold—it was intimate. Familiar. We'd learned to know each other's silences by then. This one said: I'm here. We're okay.
I drained the glass slowly before tucking my legs under myself and looking at him. "I know I shouldn't have read it out loud."
Caspian's head rotated slowly, his eyes meeting mine. "I'm glad you did."
"You didn't look glad."
I was angry," he admitted. "But not at you. Never at you."
I searched his face, my heart choking on the honesty there. No one ever let me admit my fears without twisting them around themselves. With Caspian, I did not have to harden myself against condemnation. He never reproached me for vulnerability.
"I hate that he still gets into my head," I breathed.
Caspian extended his hand to mine, entwining our fingers in heat that stung my eyes. "That doesn't make you weak. That makes you human."
Those words slid past my defenses and wound themselves about something hurt inside me.
"Can I say something?" I dared, not having the slightest idea where the thought had originated—only that it was real and insistent.
He nodded. "Anything.".
"I think. I think I needed that email. Not for what it said. But for what it showed me."
He stood there, his gaze on me with that restful intensity that always managed to unravel me.
"I did not spin out," I continued. "I did not freak and shove it under the rug. I did not hide it from you. I read it. I stared at it. And I still made this decision." I swept my hand across the room—at him. "I still chose you."
Something in Caspian's face cracked a little open. Not dramatically—but with a softening, a deeper breath than before.
I selected you too," he said, his tone rasping. "Daily."
The weight fell on me like a caress against my ribs. I leaned into him, resting my forehead on his, our breathing shared in the quiet.
His hand rose to cup my jaw, and his thumb stroked beneath my eye as if following its contours.
"You're the strongest person I've ever met," he said to me.
My heart wasn't racing on adrenaline—it expanded, slow and gradual.
I smiled into him, eyes closed. "You've never witnessed me bawling into a plate of pasta at two a.m."
"I've witnessed worse," he joked, lips against my temple. "You cursing the toaster when it burns your bagel."
"Fair enough," I laughed softly, and the sound caught me off guard.
It felt fine. Like a window opening.
He leaned back just enough to glance at me again. That hard glare, black and unflinching, always left me breathless. But tonight, there was something gentler beneath it—like he was grasping all the rough edges of me and didn't care they were sharp.
I leaned in and kissed him—slow and sure. Not out of desperation or panic, but from the place deep within that had finally started to feel safe again.
He kissed it back with a gentleness that made everything turn to mush.
We kissed like it was a vow.
We didn't speak when we parted, simply sitting, legs tangled, hands still clasped, letting the silence fall between us again.
He later stood up and disappeared into the kitchen. I watched him with a glance, his carefree confidence to do even something ordinary still captivating even when attempting something as boring as making himself a snack. He returned with two bowls of ice cream and a grin.
"You brought me sugar after a spiral episode?" I questioned, raising an eyebrow.
"You didn't spiral," he declared, putting a spoon in my hand. "You met it. Like hell. And you're worth something sweet."
I took the bowl, my chest aching with affection. “You’re infuriating sometimes.”
He grinned. “But charming.”
“Barely.”
We ate on the couch, shoulders pressed together, the glow from the floor lamp softening the room like dusk held between glass.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic.
It was real.
And then the dishes had been done, and we were wrapped up in blankets, and I was sleeping against him, chest to chest, and I realized the ghost in my mailbox didn't mean as much as it used to.
Nathaniel could send a hundred emails. He could try to burrow himself back into the scene with carefully constructed guilt.
But I had closed my ears.
Because this—the heat of Caspian's arms around me, the quiet of being noticed, the relentless pounding of his heartbeat against my skin—this was more.
This was mine. And it was a wonderful feeling to have at that moment. I felt like I had everything I had ever wanted in life. But I kept on having the feeling in my gut that it was too good to be true. I tried pushing the thought to the deepest part of my mind but it kept on springing back up. I decided there and then that I had to try to live in the moment and enjoy all this while it’s happening.