TWO
Levi
I push open the door to my apartment, shoulder brushing Cece’s as she steps in ahead of me, her carry-on bumping against the frame. The familiar click of her boots echoes off the marble tiles, then disappears into the living room. Her steps almost hurried.
She doesn’t say much. Hasn’t, really, since we left the airport. Just the occasional nod and murmured “Mmhm,” while she hummed with the songs I’d played.
I toe off my shoes, tossing my keys into the bowl near the door. “So,” I say, stretching the word like it might help loosen whatever stiffness has taken over her. “Still alive after five days in the flat-lands?”
Cece drops her bag near the couch and finally looks up. A barely there snort escaping her. “I guess. I did miss the mountains here, but Toronto has a… magic feel to it.”
“How dare you insult my city?” I grin and follow her toward the kitchen. I quickly catch her small, shy smile with my lips. “Did you at least get some good sushi?”
She nods as she pulls off her blazer and drapes it neatly on the back of a stool. “Oh, by the way! I drew up a preliminary risk profile for that Miller-Moore firm. Should be in your inbox. They look… promising.”
My hands pause on her arm mid-stroke. “You—what?”
Her brows twitch faintly. “The numbers were in front of me. And I had time during my flight. It was an easy lift.”
That’s not an easy lift. It’s something my entire team of analysts would need a week to deliver.
But I don’t say that. Instead, I scratch the back of my neck, forcing a shrug. “Right. Well. I’ll take a look, baby.”
She nods, then turns away like it is nothing. Like she didn’t just casually do what three Deloitte guys would charge two hundred grand for.
I grab two glasses and pour us some water while she moves easily around my space. “How was the flight? Found your favorite commercial flight coffee yet?” I try again, voice lighter this time.
“Not yet. The coffee was a good 6.5.” She puts her phone face-down on the counter, smiling. “Though the guy next to me snored the whole time. Maybe I could’ve pinched his nose closed.” She says it in such a serious tone that it earns a small laugh out of me.
I lean against the counter, watching her as she opens a cabinet, rummages for something, then pulls a small brown bag out of her carry-on. She doesn’t say anything—just quietly, slides it onto the shelf in one of my cabinets.
Then she perches on the edge of the stool, tucking her legs up. “So. Tell me everything I missed.”
I smile and sit across from her. “Well, my mother’s still convinced you’re ‘uncouth’ for liking your hair short, so that’s fun.” My use of air quotes brings a brilliant smile to her face.
“Sounds like I need a wig for our next event.” She mutters, her frame stiffening. But then she giggles a little.
“Only if you want, baby,” I say, rubbing my hand on her back. “Oh, and I almost died this afternoon, but only emotionally. This detective shit is absolutely not my thing.”
She tilts her head, still watching me like she’s trying to figure out how much of that was a joke. The edge softens, just a bit.
Her shoulders drop. “Wait… did your uncle Gareth mention the Coquitlam complex again? He’s not giving it up, is he?”
“Nope. He and my dad are constantly saying shit that barely makes sense,” I chuckle as I watch a deadpan look fall over her beautiful face.
Soon, we fall into something that resembles our easy rhythm. But it’s more… practiced now. Ever since I said the three dreaded words to her two months ago, she seems to be pulling back.
Or maybe it’s all in my head.
Still, I take it. I reluctantly take whatever pieces she’ll give me. Even if she doesn’t say those words first, even if she hasn’t initiated a kiss since she got back this afternoon—she created that damn risk profile.
And maybe that says more than I think? Does it? I don’t fucking know anymore.
Later, Cece leans her cheek against her knuckles, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “Technically,” she murmurs, “I hated being away from Vancouver for a whole week.”
Technically. Away from Vancouver, not me.
It’s such a Cece phrase. Precise. But only if you peel it back just right, there’s always more.
I move to refill my glass and feel the lightest tug at the hem of my shirt. It’s instinctual, the way I turn—arms already moving.
I gather her in my arms. Her legs curl tighter on the stool, arms sliding around my waist, face pressing against my chest like she’s tucking herself into me.
I rest my chin on the crown of her head. “I missed you, baby. Vancouver missed you, too.”
She doesn’t say anything. Not with words. But her fingers tighten around the back of my shirt.
My arms flex a little, pulling her closer, and I risk those words again—my chest tight. “I love you.”
That gets her to lean back slightly, just enough to look up at me. Her face is unreadable, but a flicker crosses her eyes for a second. Then she smiles, a small, measured thing. “I love you, Levi.” Her voice is so soft, even honest with the way it wavers just slightly.
But still, it’s always after. Always a response. Always returned. Never offered. And I don’t know why that gnaws at me like it does.
Maybe it’s the way she can make a risk profile in her sleep, or remember my schedule like it’s ingrained in her, but never volunteers those three words unless I say them first.
Maybe it’s the way she clings to me like I’m a tether, and yet when I look too closely, it’s like I’m staring at a mirror that might crack.
Maybe it’s because I’ve wondered—more than once—if she’s only here because someone asked her to be. Because her parents told her it was time to ‘secure the alliance,’ to use her mother’s crass phrasing. The Astors and Wentworths, joining forces like a goddamn archaic pact.
But I think I’m fooling myself. Thinking we’ve gone beyond a stupid pact. That the late-night dinners and bookshop weekends actually mean something. That she has actually chosen me back.
And now, holding her, all I can feel is the question wedging itself deeper into my ribs. Does she actually… love me? She never says it first. Or is she just fulfilling a duty? Like I’m supposed to be grateful for.
My arms stay around her. I kiss her temple and breathe her in. But something in me goes quiet.
Still, I can’t help it. I feel the smallest edge of something bitter take root. And that’s when I make the first mistake.
The next night when I get home, I tuck the ring I got custom-made for her in the bottom drawer of the second nightstand instead of the primary one. The nightstand where cables and old chargers go, only to be forgotten.
And that’s exactly what happened.