27. Warmth Without Armor

Cassian's POV

Her building always smelled faintly of coffee grounds and sun-warmed carpet. He carried the bag in one hand, orange chicken, dumplings, spring rolls. And knocked gently.

Lyra opened the door barefoot. Her sweater was oversized. Her smile was small, but real.

"You're early."

"You sound surprised."

"I'm never ready for company until five minutes after they arrive."

"I'm not company."

That earned a quiet laugh.

Cassian stepped inside, set the food down. Alexa padded past him with all the suspicion of a cat who'd seen too much. He nodded once. "She's still judging me."

"She'll get over it. Eventually."

They sat on the floor again, surrounded by low lamplight and soft cushions. No music. No wine. Just warmth shared in silence.

Halfway through the dumplings, she asked, "Did you always want to work at Virelux?"

"No."

"What did you want?"

He took his time chewing. "To stay in one place. For things to feel… safe."

Lyra looked at him sideways. "You don't strike me as someone who's ever felt unsafe."

"Not physically." He folded a napkin, careful. "But home wasn't peace. It was pressure."

Her expression didn't change, but her body leaned a little closer.

"My parents divorced when I was thirteen. My father turned the house into a strategy board. My mother fell in love with someone else. She died the next winter. I don't remember the funeral. Just that I wore shoes that didn't fit."

Lyra nodded slowly. "That's when you stopped trusting softness."

His eyes met hers.

And for the first time, he didn't look away.

---

Lyra's POV – Later

She poured them ginger tea.

They sat on the couch this time. She'd offered. He'd hesitated. Then joined her with the quiet gravity that he always carried.

"You said something last time," she said. "About cookbooks."

"Mm."

"Did you keep any?"

He smiled faintly. "One. It's worn thin. Pages stained. I hide it in my office drawer."

"That's very you."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Secrets. Structure. Starch."

He laughed. Low. Soft.

She tucked her legs under her. "When I was nine, I wanted to be an architect. I used to draw crooked houses with trapdoors and secret gardens."

"You would've been a good one."

"I was bad at math."

"Then you'd have made an expensive one."

She smiled. Then, quieter: "My sister wanted to be a dancer. Left when she was nineteen. Never came back."

His head tilted. "Do you still look for her?"

"Sometimes." She traced the mug's rim. "The house in Louisiana is still there. Just in case."

He didn't ask more. Just reached for her hand. Held it gently.

---

Theo's POV – Executive Office,

Monday Morning

Cassian walked in before the first meeting. Tie loose. Jacket slung over his chair like it belonged there.

Not stormy. Not brooding.

Still.

Still in the way that meant something had shifted.

Theo noticed the earpiece left on the desk. The undone top button.

He checked the scent filters. Nothing alarming.

But different.

There was less distance in the man's movements. Less sharp edge.

He logged it quietly.

Balance was tipping.

---

Lyra's POV – Strategic Wing

Her summary presentation went through without a hitch. Michael nodded. Tim grunted. The new advisor from Sales asked for a copy.

She didn't smile outwardly.

But when she stepped back from the projection screen, she caught sight of a message waiting on her phone.

> C: Don't forget lunch. You tend to disappear when your brain's on fire.

She replied.

> L: I made a sandwich. Alexa stole half the turkey.

> C: Remind me to bribe her again.

> L: It's working. She no longer hisses when you speak.

> C: Progress.

She stared at the screen a moment longer, then closed it.

And smiled.

---

Cassian's POV

He didn't always text her first.

Sometimes she beat him to it.

> L: The baby kicked today. Or maybe that was gas. Either way. Felt like something.

> C: Wish I'd seen it.

> L: You will.

He stared at that message longer than he needed to.

Then typed:

> C: Tell me what else you felt.

> L: Like I'm not alone.

> C: You're not.

—

Lyra's POV – Admin Floor, Breakroom

Talia leaned on the counter, watching Lyra finish a second cup of actual coffee.

"You're glowing," she said. "Scary efficient. Like you took a nap inside a power grid."

Lyra laughed softly. "That's very specific."

"You used to flinch when someone mentioned lunch. Now you're wiping out snack drawers like they owe you money."

"The prescription's helping," Lyra admitted. "No more nausea. Energy's back."

Talia's eyes narrowed. "That's not all, though."

Lyra hesitated, then nodded. "I feel… safe. Like someone has my back."

"Someone with a tailored suit and CEO-level stubbornness?"

She didn't answer. She didn't have to.

Talia's smirk softened. "Good. You deserve it. Even if it terrifies me."

---

Lyra's Apartment

The lamp was warm. Her feet were tucked under a blanket. She felt settled in a way that made no logical sense. Rooted, like something had stopped running inside her.

Then her phone buzzed.

She picked it up. Read the message twice.

> From: Letizia Dorne

You are invited to a private dinner.

Friday, 7 PM. Suite 39A.

Dress optional. Candor not.

Talia, emerging from the kitchen with tea, caught the look on her face and peered over her shoulder.

"Is that the Letizia?"

Lyra's voice was barely above a whisper. "Cassian's aunt."

Talia blinked. "Oh no. That's not a dinner. That's a test."

Lyra didn't respond. Her thumb hovered above the screen.

And just like that, their private peace cracked. Just a hairline fracture.

The world was knocking.