The city learned their rhythm before they did.
It learned it in the way Althea began choosing quieter streets, softer light, places where sound traveled slowly and intention lingered. Cassian appeared in these spaces as if summoned—not abruptly, not predictably—but with the precision of someone who understood timing as an art.
Their next meeting was not planned.
It happened in the late evening, when heat clung to stone and the air carried the faint perfume of night-blooming flowers. Althea had just stepped out of a bookshop, arms full, thoughts loose, when she sensed him behind her. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to feel.
"Still collecting words like armor?" Cassian asked.
His voice was low, unhurried. It did not startle her. It settled her.
She turned. He stood there in dark linen, collar open, the faintest smile curving his mouth like a secret meant only for her. The streetlight caught his eyes, turning them unreadable and warm all at once.
"I prefer to think of them as windows," she replied.
"Then let me look through one."
They walked without destination, the conversation folding in on itself—desire disguised as curiosity, confession softened by wit. Cassian spoke of control, not as dominance, but as awareness: of knowing when to step forward and when to remain still. Althea listened, finding herself drawn not just to his words, but to the cadence of them—the way his voice dipped and lingered, the way it wrapped around meaning.
They stopped beneath a tree heavy with blossoms. The scent was thick, intoxicating.
"This is dangerous," Althea said quietly, not looking at him.
"Only if you mistake intensity for urgency," Cassian replied.
He stepped closer then—just enough to shift the temperature between them. His presence was unmistakable, the kind that invited attention rather than demanded it. When he spoke again, it was softer, his voice finding its way beneath her skin, along her spine.
"Tell me what you're feeling," he said.
Althea swallowed. "Aware."
A pause. "Of?"
"Of myself," she admitted. "Of how quiet everything becomes when you're near."
Cassian lifted his hand slowly, giving her time to retreat. She didn't. His fingers brushed a strand of hair from her shoulder, the contact brief, reverent. The touch echoed, as if her body remembered it longer than it lasted.
"You don't disappear when you want," he murmured. "You sharpen."
The words unraveled something in her. She turned to face him fully, the space between them narrowing to a breath. For a moment, it seemed inevitable—that he would kiss her, that restraint would finally give way.
He didn't.
Instead, he leaned in, his mouth near her ear, his breath warm. "Not yet," he said softly, as if reading her thoughts. "I want you to feel the wanting first. Completely."
Her pulse surged, undeniable. Cassian stepped back then, just enough to remind her that he was choosing this pace as much as she was.
They resumed walking, closer now, shoulders brushing. His hand found the small of her back—not to guide, but to acknowledge. The touch grounded her, sent awareness spiraling outward.
At her door, they stopped.
"This is where we pause," Cassian said.
Althea searched his face, finding no impatience there. Only certainty.
"And if I don't want to?" she asked.
"Then say so," he replied simply. "I'll listen."
She smiled, heart full, body awake. "I want to think about it."
Cassian nodded, approval flickering in his eyes. He leaned in—not for her lips, but for her temple—pressing a kiss so light it felt like intention rather than contact.
"Good," he said. "Anticipation is a language. You're learning it beautifully."
As he walked away, Althea closed the door behind her, leaning into the quiet. Her spine still hummed where his voice had found it.
And she knew—without fear, without doubt—that this was only the beginning.