Chapter 14
Cece
My eyes drift to the clock on my computer screen again.
I’ve spent the whole day at the office pretending to work, trying to wedge normal tasks between the avalanche of thoughts crashing through me.
It’s a loop of what happened, where I went, and who might be watching now.
The whole thing feels unreal, like I’ve fallen into some warped mash-up of low-budget sci-fi and a horror film that forgot it was supposed to have an ending.
Every time I let myself think about the meaning of it, what’s actually out there beyond everything we think we know, a cold weight settles in my chest. It doesn’t scare me for the reasons it should.
It scares me because of how blind we’ve been.
If this is real . . . then what else is?
And then there’s Luc, and everything his presence implies.
My leg won’t stop bouncing under my desk, and I’m sure I look like I’m falling apart. Maybe I am. I’m desperate to go home, yet knowing he’ll be there sends a fresh wave of unease roiling through my stomach. And excitement.
God, I’m a disaster, caught somewhere between dread and anticipation and every feeling in the messy middle.
I push back from my desk and stand abruptly, grabbing my water bottle just to give my hands something to do.
As the dispenser hums and water fills the bottle, my mind drifts, of course, to whether Luc’s world has oceans.
It’s a ridiculous thing to fixate on, but my mind is a mess right now.
I only saw the briefest glimpse, but it felt ancient and breathtaking and . . . terrifying.
I shake the thought away and twist the cap closed. So much for distracting myself. At least the workday is nearly over.
The key sticks a little in the lock, like it always does, and for half a second, I’m sure something’s off.
But when I push the door open, the apartment is quiet, yet not empty.
I know he’s there before I see him. Luc’s presence isn’t loud.
He doesn’t take up space the way most people do, but the air shifts when he’s near.
Like the atmosphere is paying attention. Or maybe it’s just me who is.
I close the door behind me, the familiar click of it bringing me back into my own world. My body aches from the day. Too much tension held in my shoulders, too little food, and too many racing thoughts.
He’s by the window.
It’s the same place he was that first night, though this time the curtain isn’t hiding him. The last golden edge of daylight spills across his shoulders, casting shadows that look like they belong to another place entirely.
“You’re back,” I say softly, dropping my keys in the bowl by the door, trying my best not to sound like I was desperately hoping for that.
“I said I would be,” he answers, equally quiet.
I slip off my shoes and shrug off my jacket. I don’t ask how he got in. I know he doesn’t need a key. There’s a calm to his presence that tells me if something dangerous had been here, I wouldn’t be standing in the doorway.
Still, I hesitate. “Was everything . . . normal today?”
He studies me for a breath too long. “As normal as it can be. You weren’t followed.”
Relief washes through me. “That’s good.”
“You’re tired.” It isn’t a question. He clearly sees it, and I don’t bother pretending otherwise.
“Work was, well . . . work,” I say, rubbing at the back of my neck.
“I tried to act like I wasn’t constantly wondering if I was being watched or if I’d spontaneously fly into a portal in the middle of a staff meeting.
Success rate, unclear.” I give a slight smile, trying to lighten the mood a bit.
His mouth twitches, like he wants to laugh but doesn’t want to make a joke of it either.
I move into the kitchen, pouring a glass of water with hands that are steadier than they were this morning. Maybe it’s just from seeing him here, knowing I wasn’t imagining all of this. That I’m not alone.
When I turn, he’s watching me.
“How was your side of the day?” I ask, leaning against the counter.
He steps forward, just slightly. “I spoke with Xanther. He’s the one I mentioned I needed to speak with back home.”
“Right. But who is he exactly?”
“A fellow Warper at the stations we use for patrol. He’s my realm’s inner threshold guardian.”
“Sounds fancy.”
“It’s more tedious than it sounds,” he says dryly. “But he’s reliable. He’ll keep watch and keep things in line while I’m here.”
I nod slowly, absorbing that. “So this is real? Like, really real. I keep waiting to wake up and find out I had a fever and dreamed up interdimensional monsters and mysterious men in windows.”
“You’re not dreaming, Cece.”
“I know,” I say, exhaling. “I think I knew that the second you disappeared from the rooftop in the blink of an eye.”
A pause stretches between us, and then I ask what’s been gnawing at me all day.
“Why are you doing this?” I look up, my brows pinching together, confusion making the question come out rougher than I mean it to be.
“Protecting me like this? You could’ve left after the first night.
Hell, even after I saw you. You don’t owe me anything.
And I imagine you have other things to do with your time. ”
He’s quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
“I was supposed to observe. Nothing more.”
I stay where I am by the counter, fingers curling against the cool edge as I watch him, waiting. “And then?”
He exhales, slow and controlled. “And then I felt something. Not in the shadows, but in you. Something waking, perhaps because of what found you.”
My breath hitches. He finally moves, pushing off the wall by the window and crossing the kitchen with deliberate steps. He stops across from me, placing the island between us, as if unsure how close he’s allowed to be.
“I’ve seen mortals touched by power before,” he says, his voice dipping lower. “They usually break. Or disappear.” His eyes search mine. “But you . . . you stood in the middle of it. And you didn’t fall.”
“I was falling,” I whisper. “Still am.”
“I know.” His hands brace lightly on the counter, not quite reaching me.
“But not away. You’re falling into something.
Likely something bigger than we both realize.
I don’t know what yet.” His jaw clenches, a flash of anger crossing his face.
“But I’m not going to let anything take you. Not without a fight.”
His words settle over me.
“I splurged and bought Chinese,” I blurt out, breaking the tension, glancing at the takeout bag I’d brought with me and nearly forgotten. His brow lifts, and something in me loosens. “I wasn’t sure if you’d eat any, or what otherworldly diplomats prefer, but . . .”
“I’m not a diplomat,” he murmurs, amused.
“Well, forgive me, but you carry yourself like a man who’s negotiated with at least five ancient kings and one stubborn queen,” I joke, trying to shake off the pull I feel myself slipping under with him.
Luc smiles, and it’s disarming, nearly breathtaking. The kind of smile that feels like a rare event, like it doesn’t visit his face often, so when it does, it’s something to take time to appreciate.
“Thank you,” he says. “For the offer. And the company.”
I reach for two plates, pushing the swirl of thoughts to the back of my mind. “You keep watch; I’ll dish out the dumplings.”
He nods, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Seems like a fair deal.”
We sit across from each other on the floor, takeout containers spread between us like some strange offering.
Dumplings, noodles, and beef with broccoli that’s already gone a little cold, but I don’t mind.
The warmth in the room comes from something else entirely.
Luc eats silently at first, like he’s studying the textures, the flavors, committing the experience to memory.
It’s oddly endearing, watching him try lo mein like it’s something sacred. Which, to be fair, it kind of is.
“This,” he says between bites, “is oddly satisfying.”
I smile into my tea. “Glad my world’s cuisine meets your celestial standards.”
He lifts his gaze to mine, and his eyes, those eyes, striking, endless blue, like twilight over deep water, hold me there. I feel the pull, cool and steady, but something burns just beneath the surface.
Sitting there on my living room floor, his broad frame propped against the side of my worn sofa, he looks strangely less intimidating. The lamp softens the sharp lines of him, casting slow, warm shadows across the hardwood.
I glance around the familiar clutter of my apartment. The half-folded blanket on the couch, the stack of books by the coffee table, the mug I almost never put away, and somehow, with him here, it all feels different. Still mine. Still home.
But now . . . safer. Warmer.
I clear my throat, gently breaking the moment before it draws me in too deep. “So,” I say, aiming for casual, even though my voice betrays me, “what do people eat in your world? Or is our takeout secretly a universal delicacy?” I lift my brows in an exaggerated waggle, trying to break the tension.
Luc leans back, still composed, but then he smiles. Not wide or flashy, but something tender that feels more like a secret than a reaction.
“Less salt,” he says. “Less oil. More memory.”
My eyes widen in surprise. That’s definitely not the answer I expected.
“What does that mean?”
He pauses, as if deciding whether I’ll understand, and then gives me the truth anyway. “In my realm, food isn’t just flavor. It holds time. When you eat something, you relive the moment it came from. Who you were with. What you felt. The memory doesn’t just return; it moves through you. Fully.”
My breath catches a little. “That’s . . . beautiful,” I say softly. “And kind of terrifying.”
He nods, his expression fading to something somber. “It can be. Depends on the memory.”
I tuck my legs under me and lean my head against the couch. I’m watching him before I realize I am, drawn to the edges of him, the way the light moves across his skin, the almost imperceptible tension in his shoulders, like he’s always half braced for something to go wrong.
“Do you miss it? Your world, do you miss being there right now?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away, instead focusing on twirling the lo mein onto his fork. “I miss what it used to be,” he says eventually. “Before it became mine to carry.”
His words are soft, but I feel the heaviness in them. “You never asked for it?” I ask.
“No,” he says simply, his voice deeper than before.
Maybe that’s what we have in common. Neither of us asked for the thing we’re now tangled in. And yet, here we are.
I look at him again, and this time, I don’t look away.
“Lucien . . .”
His gaze meets mine, like he’s been waiting for me to say his name like that.
“I still don’t understand what any of this means,” I continue, my heart beating faster than I’d like. “But I know that when you’re not here, I feel like I’m waiting for something.”
His eyes soften, the blue so vivid it’s almost luminous, and he leans in slowly, as though offering me every chance to move back.
“You’re not imagining that,” he says.
“I don’t know what this is,” I whisper. “What we are.”
“Neither do I,” he replies. “But I know I feel it.”
My breathing falters. “Me too.”
He reaches for my hand, not suddenly or dramatically.
It’s as if he’s done it a hundred times before.
When our fingers touch, it’s like something slots into place that I didn’t realize was missing.
His thumb brushes over my knuckles, and I realize just how long it’s been since someone touched me in this way.
Without wanting something. Without expectation. Just to be near.
“You don’t need to have everything figured out tonight,” he murmurs, his voice deep but gentle. “Let’s just stay here, in this moment.”
So we do.
And that night, when sleep finally finds me, there are no constant thoughts of disaster, no shadows waiting, no burdens pressing down.
Just calm. And in my dreams, it’s not fear that emerges, but the memory of ocean-blue eyes watching over me, and the warmth of hands that feel like safety, even when the world is anything but.