No tension. No humiliation. No need to watch the door and wonder whether another woman would call and take him away.
By the time I got home, the rain had softened to a light drizzle. Water still clung to the hedges and ran in thin streams along the front steps.
It was late.
When I stepped inside, Cassian was sitting in the front room with one arm stretched along the back of the sofa, his posture rigid.
He looked up the moment he heard the door.
“Why are you back so late?”
I did not answer.
I set my bag down, slipped off my damp heels, and washed my hands at the sink near the entryway. My shoulders ached. My coat smelled faintly of rain and smoke. All I wanted was a shower and a locked door between us.
But when I turned toward the hallway, Cassian got to his feet and stepped in front of me.
“Elara,” he said, voice hardening. “What exactly is this supposed to mean?”
I lifted my eyes to his.
There had been a time when looking at him was enough to make something soften inside me. Once, a single glance from him could steady my whole day.
Now I felt nothing.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
His expression darkened. “You refused to pick us up, then you come home at this hour. What are you trying to prove?”