Cassidy #5
I repeat the order to myself twice as I reach my door, trying to make it feel like a plan rather than a thin thread I’m clinging to with both hands.
My office first.
Tea second.
Then—I stop dead in the doorway.
There’s a box on my desk. Not a file box or one of the usual courier packages.
This one is beautiful.
A deep cream card with a matte finish. My name is embossed in pale green. Tied with a green ribbon so dark it’s almost black in the low morning light, the bow is arranged with the sort of careful precision that makes my fingers itch to touch it.
Evander.
Of course, he’s back to delivering the presents.
He’s the only person ridiculous enough to send a gift to my office on the morning the entire fashion floor is apparently collapsing around us.
The thought should make me roll my eyes. Instead, warmth unfurls in my chest, soft and immediate, and I hate myself a little for how badly I want to see what’s inside.
I close my office door behind me, shutting out as much of the chaos as I can, then set my bag down carefully.
My fingers tremble slightly as I undo the ribbon. The silk slides loose beneath my touch.
I lift the lid, and go completely still. This gift… it’s not like any of the others.
All I can do is stare.
It’s a blanket.
One that looks soft and comfortable, coated in scents I can’t quite place but immediately want to surround myself with, like my body recognises comfort before my brain does.
He’s got me a blanket, one that will be perfect for my nest.
The perfect foundation for a new nest. For a special one.
For—shit, Cassie, calm down.
Without even realising it, I’ve been rubbing the blanket against my face, saturating it with my scent in response to the ones on it.
It has familiar notes to it—coffee, dark chocolate, and others that I have never smelt, but are just as comforting—and I can’t hold back the purrs I’m letting out.
I spread the blanket out and realise it’s more than just soft and pretty.
But it’s a gorgeous, handmade patchwork blanket.
My brain only registers colour and texture—soft creams, blush pink, pale gold, a deeper green threaded through like shadow beneath leaves.
Then I see the panels properly.
Silk.
Cashmere.
Fine jersey.
A sheer layer so delicate it catches the light like mist.
My breath catches painfully. I know these fabrics.
I chose them. I touched them, I scented them, I… fell in love with them, all those weeks ago in the fabric room.
The silk panel is the one I ran my fingertips over twice in the fabric library because I liked how cool it felt before it warmed beneath my skin.
The cashmere is the one I pressed between my thumb and forefinger for too long because it reminded me of winter mornings under too many blankets.
The jersey is the one I’d laughed at quietly because it looked ordinary until I touched it and realised how soft it was.
And the sheer layer… my throat closes. He noticed all of this. Evander noticed.
He knew which ones I selected, not for work, but because I wanted them.
My knees feel weak, and I sink into my chair before I can make a disaster of myself.
It’s heavier than I expect, not thick but weighted in a way that feels deliberate. I can already imagine cuddling under this when my anxiety is spiking, letting the grounding weight of it comfort me.
There’s another card tucked beneath it, and I reach for it. I pull it free with fingers that don’t feel entirely steady.
For your nest.
That’s it. That’s all he’s written.
My fingers curl into the blanket, the panels shifting beneath my grip, each texture distinct and perfect.
A laugh catches in my throat, but it breaks halfway into something dangerously close to a sob.
Today is already too much.
Visaro.
Frankie.
Harlan.
The shoot.
The stolen campaign.
And yet, Evander knew, and he gave me this. It doesn’t feel like one of his gifts, but I don’t know who else would do something like this for me.
He listened. Somehow, he understood exactly what I wanted.
He made this beautiful, impossible thing for me… and it’s the most perfect fabric I’ve ever owned.
A knock sounds somewhere down the corridor, followed by raised voices from the floor, and reality crashes back in.
I flinch, clutching the blanket instinctively before I can stop myself, gathering it closer against my chest.
Then I force myself to breathe.
Office first.
Tea second.
Visaro third.
Blanket… blanket later.
I look down at it again, fingers still tangled in the silk panel.
Blanket later.
Carefully, I fold it back into the box, though not as neatly as it was before. I tuck the little card beneath the top layer and hate the desperate edge pressing down on my chest.
The urge to nest, to hide from all of this, is so hard to ignore.
But I have no choice.
There is a stolen campaign to examine, tea to make, and Harlan waiting for me to prove that I can think instead of panic.
But as I leave my office again, the words sit warm and impossible against my chest.
For your nest.
And for the first time all morning, the thing making it hardest to breathe has nothing to do with Visaro at all.