Blue

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

TWENTY-ONE YEARS OLD

· · ·

He comes that night.

I hear the tap and I’m already at the window.

He sees it’s open.

He stands there.

· · ·

Just for a second.

Just long enough.

Like he can’t believe it.

Like he had a whole plan for the latch and now the plan is gone and he’s just —

standing there.

In the dark.

At my window.

The way he has his whole life.

I step back to let him in.

He climbs through.

Lands the way he always lands.

Looks around the room the quick unconscious way —

confirming it’s still the same.

It’s the same.

It’s always the same.

He looks at me.

I look at him.

Thirteen years.

Thirteen years of this face.

These blue eyes.

This specific person who has been the beginning and end of everything that has ever mattered to me.

He looks terrible.

I mean that with everything I have.

He looks like someone who hasn’t slept properly in months.

Thinner.

Something exhausted and ashamed around his eyes.

He opens his mouth.

“Ro —”

“Don’t,” I say.

He closes it.

He nods.

We stand there.

All of it between us.

All thirteen years of it.

“I went to Georgetown,” he says.

“I know.”

“How —”

“Because I know you. And you told my dad who told me. But I’ve always known you. The silence after was the same as always. You saw me and you decided something and you went home.”

Something moves across his face.

“You saw me laughing,” I say.

“Yeah.”

“And you thought I was okay without you.”

“You were,” he says. “Ro, you were so —”

“I wasn’t okay.” My voice is steady. I’ve had three weeks and a very good therapist for this. “I know what you thought. That you were protecting me. That you were the problem and removing yourself was the solution.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“You have spent thirteen years pushing me away because you love me,” I say. “Because you grew up watching love destroy things and you decided you would destroy me. That loving me meant ruining me.”

The crack in his expression is immediate.

“You’re not him,” I say. “You are not your father. You have never been your father. The fact that you’ve spent your entire life terrified of becoming him is the proof.”

“Ro —”

“Every time you left — I thought it was about me. I thought it meant I wasn’t enough.

That I was asking for too much.” I stop.

Breathe. “I put myself in a hospital. Again. I need you to hear that. Not to hurt you with it. Just because it needs to be said out loud by me. I put myself in a hospital and I still thought somehow it was my fault.”

He makes a sound.

Low.

Like something tearing open.

“It wasn’t my fault,” I say quietly. “And it wasn’t yours. Not the way you think. But the silence —” My voice goes soft. “The silence almost killed me. Not you. Not loving you. The absence of you. I need you just as much as you need me.”

He’s crying.

Silently.

The Cassian way.

Like even his grief has learned to take up as little space as possible.

“I didn’t know how else to protect you,” he says.

“I know.”

“Every bad thing that ever happened to you —”

“Cassian.” I step toward him. “Look at me.”

He does.

“I don’t need protecting from you,” I say. “I need you. Those are completely different things. I have been trying to tell you that since I was eight years old and you keep deciding you know better.”

Something in his face breaks completely open.

“I saw you,” he says. “In the quad. You looked like I imagine you did before me. Like you did before any of this.

And I thought —”

“Cassian.”

“I thought if I stayed away long enough you’d go back to that. To who you were before I —”

“Stop.” I close the distance between us. “Stop. Listen to me.”

He goes quiet.

“There is no before you,” I say. “There has never been a before you. You moved in next door when I was eight and that was it. Whatever light you saw in that quad — whatever you thought you were setting free —”

I put my hands on his face.

Both of them.

The way he has always held mine.

“That light is because of you,” I say. “Thirteen years of being loved by you made me. Even the hard ways. Even the broken ways. All of it made me. Cassian. You are the reason I know what light is.”

He stares at me.

Something moving through him that I’ve never seen before.

Relief.

Real, total, finally relief.

Like he’s been holding his breath for so long.

“I’m not okay,” he says.

“I know. And you will be. And I’ll be there.”

“Ro —”

“I’ll be there,” I say again. “Every step. Whatever it costs. I’m not going anywhere.”

He looks at me for a long moment.

“I don’t know how to do this without hurting you,” he says.

“We’ll figure it out.”

“I’m going to be terrible at it.”

“I have genuinely the lowest possible expectations.”

That does it.

The rare smile.

The real one.

Breaking through all of it.

Like sunlight through something that’s been closed for too long.

“Ro,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“I’m so sorry.” The real one. From the bottom of him. “For all of it. Every morning I was gone. Every time I made you feel like you weren’t enough. For Georgetown. For the hospital. For thirteen years of making you question something you should have never had to question.”

My eyes are burning.

“I know,” I say.

“You deserved better than —”

“I deserved you,” I say. “I’ve always deserved you. The real you. I just had to wait for you to believe that too.”

He pulls me in.

Both arms.

All the way.

Tight enough that I feel his heartbeat.

Tight enough that I can feel him exhaling something he’s been carrying for years.

I hold him back just as hard.

We stand there in the middle of my room.

Where everything has always happened.

And I feel it.

· · ·

The thing that’s been missing from every version of this.

Both of us.

Here.

At the same time.

Neither one running.

He pulls back just enough to look at me.

His face close.

Thirteen years of this face.

Those eyes.

That specific, impossible blue.

“Stay,” I say.

Not a question.

Not a plea.

Just an open window.

The way it’s always been.

He cups my face.

Both hands.

His thumbs moving along my cheekbones the way they have since we were sixteen.

“I’m done leaving,” he says.

Quiet.

Certain.

Like a door finally closing.

Like a window opening on everything else.

He kisses me.

Not desperate.

Not like the bathroom or the grief or any of the almost-times.

Like something that has finally found its way home.

Slow.

His thumbs moving along my cheekbones. His forehead still against mine for one more second before he closes the space between us completely.

This kiss is nothing like the others.

This kiss knows things. It knows every morning he was gone and every night I kept the window open. It knows the rooftop and the fountain and the blue daisy and the hospital. It knows thirteen years of this and it carries all of it, careful and certain, like something being pressed into permanence.

I grab the front of his shirt.

He makes a sound against my mouth. Low. Like I’ve caught him off guard even now.

He walks me back to the bed slowly.

I pull his shirt over his head.

He looks at me. The way he looked in that quad. Except

this time he’s not turning around. This time his eyes don’t move away.

“You have no idea,” he says, his voice low and rough.

“How long I’ve—"

“I know exactly how long,” I tell him. “Same as me.”

· · ·

He cups my face, both hands, thumbs tracing my cheekbones like he’s re-memorizing me. His touch is slow, deliberate, a promise of what’s to come.

“I want to do this right,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Want to take my time with you, Ro. Always.”

“Okay,” I whisper, already breathless.

And he does. He takes his fucking time.

His mouth finds mine, soft at first, then hungry, tongue sliding against mine like he’s relearning my taste. He moves to my throat, my collarbone, biting and sucking like he’s marking me, claiming me.

Every touch is electric. Every kiss stokes a fire low in my belly, a heat that builds and threatens to consume me. Like it always does when it comes to Cassian.

He strips me slowly, one piece at a time, eyes locked on mine as he bares my skin. His hands roam, over every curve and line, every secret place that makes me gasp. He lingers at my chest, thumbs circling my nipples until they’re hard and aching.

“Cassian,” I breathe, desperate.

He grins, slow and wicked. “Not rushing this, Ro. Not this time.”

He dips his head, takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, grazing his teeth over the sensitive peak. I arch into him, a moan tearing from my throat. He doesn’t stop, just moves to the other side, giving it the same attention until I’m shaking.

His hands slide lower, tracing the waistband of my pajama bottoms. He hooks his thumbs in the loops and drags them down, taking my boxers with them. I’m hard and aching, and his eyes darken when he sees me.

“Fuck, Ro,” he breathes, sinking to his knees. “Look at you.”

He wraps his hand around my cock, strokes me slow and firm, just the way he knows I like it. I can’t look away, can’t stop watching him watch me. He leans in, takes me into his mouth, and I swear I see stars again.

He works me slow, tongue and lips and heat, building me higher and higher. Just when I think I can’t take anymore, he pulls back, a wicked glint in his eyes.

“Not yet,” he says, voice raw. “Want to be inside you when you come.”

He strips off his own clothes, quick and efficient, and I drink in the sight of him—every hard line, every muscle, the length of his cock already slick and ready. He grabs a bottle of lube from the nightstand, pours it into his hand, warming it before he touches me.

His fingers find me, circling slowly, pressing in one at a time. This time he takes his time, stretching me, opening me up, eyes locked on mine the whole time. It’s intimate, raw, a connection I’ve only ever had with him.

“Ready?” he asks, voice barely steady.

I nod, breathless. “Yeah. Fuck, yeah, please.”

He pushes in slowly, filling me inch by inch. His forehead drops to mine, both of us breathing hard, eyes locked. He starts to move, a steady rhythm that hits every spot so hard I’m dizzy.

“Cassian,” I gasp, hands clutching at his back, his shoulders, anything to hold onto.

He groans, low and wrecked. “Ro. Fuck, Ro, you feel so good.”

He moves harder, faster, both of us chasing it now. His hand wraps around my cock again, stroking me in time with his thrusts. I’m close, so close, the heat building and building until it’s all I can feel, all I can think.

“Come for me, Ro,” he growls, voice low and commanding. “Want to feel you come around me.”

And I do. I fall apart in his arms, his name on my lips, every part of me shattering. He follows, his hips jerking, my name on his lips over and over again.

After, he doesn’t move. He pulls me in, wraps around me from behind, his arm across my chest, his face against the back of my head. I press my hand over his, our fingers entwined, both of us breathing hard, coming down together.

· · ·

I press my hand over his. Neither of us speak for a long time.

We lay the way we’ve lain in the dark together since we were kids and didn’t know what love was yet.

The window open. For real. Forever.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Into my hair. Quiet.

“Not just for tonight. For all of it. Every single time. I need to get help.”

“I know, I’ll help you find someone.”

“And I need to deal with my dad.”

“I’ll be there with you. Every step.”

Silence, comfortable silence.

“Hey.” I say into the dark.

“Mmm.”

“I never told you something.”

He turns his head slightly. Waiting.

“My favorite color. Blue.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know why though.”

Silence.

“Why,” he asks.

I smile at the ceiling.

“You moved in next door,” I say. “And you had these beautiful eyes. And I didn’t have a word for what I felt, so I just—started telling everyone my favorite color was blue.”

I pause. The room is very quiet.

“Ro.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re telling me,” he says slowly. “That for as long as I’ve known you, your favorite color was blue.”

“Yes.”

“Because of my eyes.”

“Yes.”

“Since you were eight.”

“Yes.”

Another silence.

“You are so —”

“Don’t.”

“Unbelievably —”

“Cassian —”

“Perfect,” he says.

But his voice is wrecked when he says it.

Completely, totally wrecked.

He pulls me in tighter. His face pressed into my hair.

And I feel it —

the way his whole body is shaking.

Laughing.

Silently.

The way he always laughs when something catches him completely off guard.

“Thirteen years,” he says. Into my hair. “Thirteen years and you never —”

“I was eight.”

“But then we were sixteen.”

“I was embarrassed.”

“You were twenty —”

“Cassian.”

He’s still shaking.

I’m smiling so hard it hurts.

“Okay,” he says finally.

Settling.

Still light with it.

“Okay.”

His thumb moves slow across my hand.

A pause.

“Can I tell you something,” he says.

“Yeah.”

· · ·

“The first blue daisy I ever left you.”

His voice quiet now.

Different.

“I didn’t pick it.”

I turn my head.

“What.”

“Your mom gave it to me,” he says. “I was maybe nine or eight. I was leaving one afternoon and she came out to the garden and cut one and just — handed it to me. Didn’t explain. Just said —”

He stops.

Something thick in his voice.

“Give this to Ro,” he says softly.

The room is very quiet.

“She knew,” I say.

“She knew everything,” he says. “She always knew everything.”

I stare at the ceiling.

We were kids.

My mom in her garden.

Cutting a blue daisy.

Pressing it into the hands of the broken boy next door.

· · ·

Already seeing it.

Before either of us had a word for it.

“She never said anything to me,” I say.

“She didn’t have to,” he says softly. “She just kept planting them. And I started giving them to you on my own.”

His hand tightens around mine.

Outside —

her garden moves in the dark.

All those daisies.

Still going.

Still hers.

Still ours.

I close my eyes.

Think of her.

Mom.

I know, baby.

Both of you will be okay.

Together.

Yeah.

I know.

I love you.

I miss you.

The window is open.

It stays open.