Chapter 237: Warmth

CYAN

“Fortunately no one.” Cassian answered.

“I don’t believe you.”

The coffee sat between us, dark and steaming, but my eyes were busy elsewhere. I don’t just look at a room; I dissect it. I peel back the layers of drywall and paint until I find the intent underneath.

Cassian’s kitchen was a masterclass in silent authority. The countertop wasn’t just stone; it was a specific, honed basalt that didn’t reflect the light… it absorbed it. The hardware on the cabinets was heavy, custom-milled brass that looked like it could survive a nuclear winter.

Most people see a “nice kitchen.” I see a man who refused to let a single square inch of his environment be decided by anyone else.

“You picked everything yourself,” I said, tracing the edge of my cup. It wasn’t a question. “The proportions are too specific for a decorator. A decorator would have made it beautiful. This is correct. There’s a difference.”

Cassian took a slow sip of his coffee. He didn’t confirm it. He didn’t deny it. He just sat there in that heavy, vibrating silence of his, which, in Cassian-speak, is basically a signed confession.

“The plant near the window,” I continued, tilting my head. “That placement. That’s not for the ’vibe.’ That’s where it actually gets the right light to breathe. You researched the photosynthesis requirements of a fiddle-leaf fig, didn’t you?”

Cassian looked at me over the rim of his cup, his blue eyes unblinking. “You’re very strange, Cyan.”

“I know,” I said. I didn’t say it with a pout or a defense. I said it because it’s a fact, like the sky being blue or gin making me want to climb things. I’ve accepted the “strange” part of me a long time ago. It’s the only part that’s actually mine.

A soft scuffle of slippers sounded from the hallway, and then a woman appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was small, gray-haired, and wore the kind of cardigan that looked like it had been knitted with pure kindness.

I knew her name was Mrs. Chen… Cassian had mentioned her once or twice, but this was the first time I’d seen her in the flesh. She looked at Cassian with a mix of maternal worry and deep-seated respect.

“Good morning, Sir,” she said, her voice a gentle rasp. “I’m so sorry for oversleeping. I can prepare breakfast immediately if you’re hungry—”

“It’s okay. You can back to sleep,” Cassian interrupted. He didn’t look up from his coffee, and his tone was flat, but it wasn’t the “flat” he used for people he was about to hurt. It was the “flat” of a command that was actually a gift. “I’ll call you if I need anything.”

Mrs. Chen let out a tiny breath of relief, the tension leaving her shoulders. Then, she noticed me. Her expression shifted, a polite, cautious curiosity. I was a loud, pink-haired variable in her quiet morning.

I didn’t give her time to wonder. I stood up so fast my chair let out a dramatic screech against the floor. I marched over to her and took both of her hands in mine. Her skin felt like parchment, warm and soft.

“You are absolutely wonderful,” I told her, and I meant it with every fiber of my being. I have an internal radar for good souls, and hers was pinging at 100%.

“I can tell just from looking at you. I’m Cyan. I’m very important to him.” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder at Cassian. “He just doesn’t say it because he has the emotional range of a brick.”

Mrs. Chen surprised me by laughing… a small, musical sound. She hadn’t even decided if she liked me yet, and I’d already bypassed her defenses.

“He’s tolerated,” Cassian muttered behind me. “Go rest, Mrs. Chen.”

She bowed slightly, still smiling at me, and retreated back into the house.

“Oh-my-goshhhhh, she’s so adorable. I love her,” I squealed, dropping back into my seat. “Where did you find her? Did you buy her at a ’Perfect Grandmother’ auction?”

Cassian set his cup down, the clink of ceramic against stone sounding loud in the quiet kitchen. “She worked at the estate,” he said. “When I was growing up.”

He said it with that specific, clinical flatness he used for the parts of his past that were buried in the backyard of his mind. The Wolfe estate.

I knew what lived there. I knew about the cold hallways and the father who viewed children as assets and the mother who had mentally checked out long before she actually left.

“She left before I did,” Cassian continued, staring into the dark depths of his coffee. “When I got the villa, I reached out. She accepted.”

He paused, and for a second, he looked like he was deciding whether to finish the thought. “Her daughter was in treatment. Cancer. The bills were becoming an issue.”

He said it like he was describing the weather or a shipping invoice. Just a fact. A logistical problem that had required a solution.

I looked at him… really looked at him. This was the man the city whispered about. The man who could send a lieutenant back to his boss in several different boxes without breaking a sweat. The man who walked into rooms and made the oxygen disappear.

And yet, here he was. He’d tracked down an old woman who had been kind to a lonely, angry boy years ago.

He’d brought her here, gave her a home, and quietly absorbed the crushing medical debt of her daughter without ever asking for a thank you.

He mentioned it like it was nothing because, to him, it was nothing. It was just what you did for the people who mattered.

I didn’t say any of that. If I did, he’d probably kick me out of the house. I just drank my coffee, and for the first time that morning, the warmth of the liquid felt like it was actually reaching my bones.

The warmth lasted exactly ten seconds before my brain remembered the thing it was actually mad about. I set my cup down with a thud, my energy shifting from “thoughtful” to “combustible” in a heartbeat.

“So,” I started, leaning forward until my elbows were on the counter. “A little bird told me something.”

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