Louisiana – Lyra's grandmother's house
The road to Louisiana unwound in long ribbons of moss and sun. Cypress trees lined the gravel path like watchful old friends. The rental car rumbled low as Lyra pointed out turns by instinct, not memory. She hadn't been back in years, but her body remembered the way.
The house still stood.
White paint, chipped in corners. Shutters slightly askew. Porch steps worn smooth from decades of weather and waiting.
Cassian parked without a word. Just looked.
"This is it," she said softly.
The house didn't ask for attention. It held its own kind of silence, solid, unshaken. A place that had outlasted grief and summer storms and long, aching winters. Her grandmother's rose bushes had gone wild. Ivy crept along one post. The wind carried a scent of wet wood and sunbaked soil.
She opened the front door. The air inside held a mix of dust and dried lavender. A quilt still draped over the old couch. A teacup sat on a shelf, right where it had been the last time she was here.
"Lyra," Cassian said behind her, but his voice was quiet, reverent. "This is—"
She shook her head. "It's not much. But it's what we had."
He stepped past her slowly, taking in the photos on the mantle, the cracked tile floor. "It's honest."
They spent the afternoon cleaning dust and opening windows. Sunlight poured in like a forgotten guest.
Later, she showed him her childhood room, still painted a soft green, with a faded poster of stars on the ceiling. She touched the dresser where she used to keep her notebooks. Cassian didn't say much, just followed her steps like every detail mattered.
They sat on the porch swing as the sun dropped behind the tree line. The crickets began their nightly chorus.
"She raised me after the accident," Lyra said. "Strict, yes. But she kept me alive. Fed me. Paid for school. Left me this house."
Cassian listened.
"My sister couldn't stay. She wanted more than rules and quiet towns. She left when I was thirteen. Letters at first. Then silence." Lyra traced a groove in the wooden armrest. "Sometimes I think she's still out there. That she might come back. That I should keep this house just in case."
He nodded once, slow. "She might."
A pause.
"There was someone like that for me. Beth."
Lyra looked at him.
"She was my nanny. Raised me more than my parents did. She made food that tasted like love. Taught me how to breathe through a bad day. My father hated that. Said I was going soft. One day, I came home and she was gone. Fired. No warning."
Lyra's hand slid toward his. Their fingers didn't intertwine. They just rested, side by side, warm and still.
"What did you do?"
"Nothing." His voice was sandpaper. "I didn't know how."
They sat with it.
Just the swing creaking. Crickets. The old rhythm of a house that knew too much.
Lyra shifted, leaning her head against his shoulder. He tilted slightly, so she fit better.
"I think she'd like you," she said after a while.
"She sounds like someone worth impressing."
Lyra chuckled softly. Then stilled.
A tiny flutter moved under her ribs.
Cassian noticed her hand go to her belly. Curious, he let his own hand follow, slow, uncertain.
The moment he touched her, the baby kicked.
It wasn't much. Just a nudge. But it landed like thunder in his chest.
He didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Lyra looked up at him, her mouth parting to say something, but stopped.
Because he wasn't speaking.
He just stared, his palm still against her stomach, like he could feel the future in one tiny heartbeat.
His throat worked. No words came.
He blinked once. Hard.
Then his hand turned slightly, cradling.
Lyra watched him.
Not the CEO.
Not the man wrapped in legacy and silence.
Just a man sitting on an old porch swing, holding something fragile with reverence.
She whispered, "Are you okay?"
His voice cracked on the edge of breath. "I think.. I love you