Chapter 12
CASSIAN
When I wake, the apartment's blue morning light is filtered through a cat's voluptuous body.
Gomez has migrated from the windowsill to my sternum, acting as a furry sandbag against the possibility of escape.
The weight. The heat. The pins and needles in my arm trapped beneath the couch pillow. Those are the first things I register.
The second is the soft, even rhythm of Liza's breathing against my shoulder.
She's curled into my side, one hand splayed across my shirt, her thumb resting unconsciously over my heart.
Her hair is a tangle of brown and red across my chest.
For a moment, I simply lie there and take inventory.
Cat. Woman. Warmth.
The simple satisfaction of surviving another night together.
Then memory cuts through the fog.
Sharp and immediate. Her mouth on mine. My hand in her hair.
The way she'd laughed against my lips before kissing me again.
I should blame it on stress. Or adrenaline.
Or the fact that we've spent the past week being stalked by what may or may not be a Victorian ghost with boundary issues.
Instead, I settle on the truth.
I wanted her. Still do.
With a certainty that feels old and inevitable.
Carefully, I perform a quick dignity check.
Shirt on. Pants on.
No obvious signs of indecorous behavior.
Liza is wrapped in the blanket like a burrito.
My arm is probably numb beyond repair.
Gomez is kneading my chest with the determination of a tiny contractor.
I try to shift him. He glares, and I accept my defeat.
Liza stirs, then stretches.
Lifts her head just enough to squint at me.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
Then she says, "Your heart's going a thousand miles an hour."
I resist the urge to swear.
"Sorry." She snorts. Then yawns so hard her eyes water.
"I'm not. It's nice."
Dangerous territory. Very dangerous territory.
I attempt a tactical retreat. "You okay?"
Her eyes narrow immediately.
"If you're about to apologize for kissing me, I swear to God I'm going to make you do it again."
I stare at her.
"For practice," she adds.
The woman is a menace. A beautiful menace.
I try—and fail—to keep a straight face.
"It was a hell of a night."
"Which part?" she asks. "The unresolved ghostly trauma or the third cup of coffee after ten p.m.?"
"Both." She smiles.
The sight of it lands somewhere directly beneath my ribs.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
Neither of us moves away.
Then Gomez climbs directly onto my face.
The moment dies a swift and furry death.
Liza laughs so hard she nearly falls off the couch.
An hour later, we're both in the kitchen pretending to be normal people.
Neither of us is particularly convincing.
Liza leans against the counter clutching a carton of oat milk like an emotional support beverage.
I'm making coffee because it gives me something to do besides stare at her.
The silence isn't awkward. Not exactly. Just new. Different.
The kind that comes after something changes.
"The thing about hauntings," Liza says eventually, "is that everyone wants a dramatic story. Most of the time it's just leftovers."
I glance up.
"Leftovers?"
She nods. "Stuff people couldn't let go of."
Her gaze drifts toward the blue tulip. The evidence bags. The coins. The collection of impossible things spread across her table.
"I think Teddy just wants to be remembered."
The nickname still makes me irrationally annoyed.
Not because it's wrong. Because she sounds fond of him. Which is ridiculous. I'm not jealous of a dead Victorian. Probably.
I slide her coffee across the counter.
"You've gotten awfully comfortable with our ghost."
"I've gotten comfortable with the idea that he isn't trying to hurt me."
Fair. Still annoying.
She wraps both hands around her mug.
The morning light catches in her hair.
I look away before I do something stupid. Or smart.
It's becoming harder to tell the difference.
"Listen," I say.
She looks up.
"If you want me to go back to being the guy who watches your windows, I can."
The words taste wrong the second they leave my mouth.
Because I already know I don't want that.
Her smile softens. "I'd actually like you to keep watching my windows."
Hope flares. Bright and dangerous.
"And?" I ask.
She blushes. Just a little.
"And maybe more."
The breath leaves my lungs.
"Okay." Her smile widens.
"Okay?"
"Yeah."
I hold her gaze. "Deal."
The knock at the door arrives at exactly the wrong moment.
Three quick raps. One long.
I close my eyes.
Liza groans.
"Margo."
"Yep."
"She's psychic."
"No. Worse."
I move toward the door.
Behind me, Liza bolts for the bathroom. The traitor. I open the door.
Margo takes one look at me. Then the couch. Then the blankets. Then the tulip. Then me again. The smile that spreads across her face is pure evil.
"Morning, Chief."
I immediately regret opening the door. Margo doesn't even wait to be invited inside. She sidesteps me and marches straight into the apartment.
"Good morning, Liza!" she calls.
From the bathroom comes a muffled:
"Go away."
Margo beams. "No."
I shut the door and prepare for the worst.
Margo takes one look around the apartment. Then she looks directly at me.
"Oh my God."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Margo.”
"Oh my God."
"Margo.”
Her grin widens. "You kissed her."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
Liza emerges from the bathroom looking suspiciously well-rested.
Margo points at her. "You kissed him."
Liza immediately betrays me.
"Twice."
I close my eyes.
Traitor.
Margo makes a sound usually associated with lottery winners.
"I have waited years for this."
"Years?" Liza asks.
"Everyone has."
I groan. "Please stop."
Neither woman listens.
Naturally.
The next few days settle into something unexpectedly easy.
Not normal.
Blackthorn Bay gave up on normal decades ago.
But easy.
Liza stops pretending she doesn't want me around.
I stop pretending I'm here strictly because of the investigation.
Somewhere in the middle, we become something that feels suspiciously like a couple.
The town notices immediately.
Of course it does.
Zadok spots us leaving the coffee shop together and nearly walks into a parking meter.
Clover takes one look at us and says, "Finally."
Enoch doesn't comment.
Which somehow feels worse.
Alaric calls three separate times.
I ignore him all three.
Liza laughs every single time.
The haunting continues.
Only now it feels less like stalking and more like having an extremely considerate roommate.
The squeaky bathroom hinge gets fixed.
A loose shelf stops wobbling.
The dead battery in Liza's wall clock mysteriously gets replaced.
I spend twenty minutes trying to figure out how.
Liza spends twenty minutes laughing at me.
"It's sweet," she says.
"It's evidence."
"It's sweet evidence."
I hate that she's winning this argument.
Again.
Three days after the kiss, I find myself standing in her kitchen making dinner.
Or attempting to.
Liza sits on the counter swinging one foot while offering entirely unhelpful commentary.
"You're overcooking it."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm not."
She steals a piece directly from the pan. Then has the audacity to look pleased with herself.
I catch her wrist before she can grab another. The kitchen suddenly feels very small. Her smile fades.
Not completely. Just enough.
My thumb brushes her pulse. Her breath catches. Mine does too.
"You do that on purpose."
Her voice is quiet. "What?"
"Look at me like that." I step closer.
"You mean accurately?"
The laugh that escapes her is nervous. Good. Because I'm nervous too. Which seems unfair.
I kissed her. Twice. And somehow she's still capable of reducing my IQ by half.
Liza's gaze drops briefly to my mouth. Then returns to my eyes.
There it is again.
That pull.
That certainty.
Like gravity.
I kiss her before I can talk myself out of it. Her fingers curl into my shirt. The kiss is slower this time.Less surprise and more intention.
When we finally separate, she rests her forehead against mine. "Definitely worth the practice."
I laugh. The sound surprises both of us.
Later that night, after Liza falls asleep and Gomez claims the center of the bed like a tiny dictator, I make one final pass through the apartment.
Old habit.
The investigation isn't over. The mystery is still here.
I stop in the kitchen. Something catches my eye.
A blue flower.
Not on the counter. Not in the living room. On the pantry shelf. Tucked between two cookbooks.
I pick it up carefully. The stem is slightly bent. Handmade. Imperfect.
A keepsake. Not a warning. Not a threat. Just another gift.
For a moment, I stare at it.
Then I set it beside the first flower.
The pair looks ridiculous together. And somehow right.
Behind me, Liza laughs in her sleep.
Soft and happy.
My chest tightens. The ghost is still a mystery. The investigation isn't over. But for the first time in weeks, I'm not thinking about either of those things. I'm thinking about her.
And how badly I want to kiss her again.