NOAH
The television was a low, melodic murmur in the background, a cacophony of Spanish strings and dramatic gasps that usually would have held my rapt attention.
I was mid-sentence, gesturing with one hand while the other was pinned beneath the duvet, explaining exactly why the protagonist's sister was making a catastrophic mistake by trusting the mysterious gardener.
"And see, that's the thing about Alejandro," I said, leaning toward Cassian. "He's too handsome to be just a gardener. Nobody with cheekbones like that spends eight hours a day pruning roses for a living. It's a classic misdirection. You agree, right?"
Silence.
I frowned, turning my head. Cassian's head was tilted back against the pillows, his eyes closed. His breathing had transitioned from the sharp, controlled rhythm of our conversation into something deep, even, and heavy.
"Cassian?" I whispered.
Nothing. Not even a twitch of an eyelid.
