Wanting him became an exercise in discipline.
Althea did not rush to fill the quiet Cassian left behind. She learned instead to live inside it—to let it stretch, to let it hum. Desire, she discovered, did not weaken when unattended. It deepened. It grew articulate.
When he finally called, it was near dusk.
"Come with me," he said. No explanation. No embellishment.
She did.
They drove beyond the city, where architecture gave way to open land and the sky expanded like a held breath finally released. Cassian said little, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting casually on the console between them. Close enough to notice. Far enough to choose.
They stopped at a house perched above water—stone and glass, quiet and deliberate. Inside, everything was light and shadow, cool surfaces softened by linen and wood. The windows were open. The air moved freely.
"This place," Althea said softly, "feels intentional."
Cassian watched her take it in. "So do you."
They shared a meal without ceremony. No music. No distractions. Conversation flowed easily, but beneath it ran something more potent—a growing awareness of proximity, of pauses weighted with meaning. When Cassian poured wine, his fingers brushed hers. He didn't apologize. He didn't linger. The restraint was exquisite.
Afterward, they stepped onto the terrace. Night had settled gently, the water below catching fragments of moonlight. Cassian leaned against the railing, his posture relaxed, his attention entirely on her.
"You've been quiet," he observed.
"I'm listening," she replied. "To what my body is saying."
"And?" he asked.
"That it wants," she said honestly. "But it doesn't feel impatient."
A smile touched his mouth—slow, approving. "Good. Wanting slowly teaches you where your edges are."
He moved closer then, stopping just within her space. Close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, the steadiness. He lifted his hand, knuckles brushing her jaw, tilting her face up. His touch was careful, reverent, as if he were learning the shape of her rather than claiming it.
"Tell me if this is too much," he murmured.
"It's not," she breathed.
He leaned in, his lips hovering near hers—not touching. The restraint was almost unbearable, a delicious ache. His voice, when he spoke, was low and precise.
"This," he said, "is where most people rush."
She nodded, pulse loud in her ears.
"And this," he continued, his thumb tracing a slow arc beneath her lip without crossing it, "is where I want you present."
She closed her eyes—not to retreat, but to feel. The air between them felt alive, charged with intention. When his lips finally met hers, it was unhurried. Exploratory. A kiss that asked rather than took.
Time shifted.
Cassian broke the kiss first, resting his forehead against hers. "You feel everything," he said quietly.
"So do you," she replied.
He exhaled, something like relief threading through it. "Yes."
They stayed like that for a long moment—breathing, grounded, aware. When he pulled back, it was not withdrawal. It was consideration.
"Come inside," he said.
They sat together on the low couch, bodies angled toward each other, knees brushing. Cassian's hand rested on her thigh—still, warm, anchoring. He did not move it further. He did not need to.
"This isn't about denial," he said, as if answering a thought she hadn't spoken. "It's about savoring."
Althea leaned into him, her head resting against his shoulder. "I've never been taught that wanting could be gentle."
Cassian kissed the crown of her head. "Then let me teach you," he said softly. "And let you teach me."
Later, when he drove her home, the night felt altered—richer, slower. At her door, he kissed her again, deeper this time, still unhurried. When he stepped back, his eyes held hers with unmistakable intent.
"Sleep," he said. "Tomorrow, we continue."
As she watched him leave, Althea realized the truth of it with a quiet certainty.
This was not a love that burned quickly.
This was a love that learned her—slowly, deliberately—until wanting became an art.