Page 138 of A Sinful Gravity

I sat nearby, passed water, wiped sweat, counted reps.

"Five more sets." Therapist said.

He gritted teeth, kept going. Finished one, turned. "How many left?"

"Four."

Deep breath, on. Done, he slumped, panting. I toweled him. He closed eyes, lips curved.

"Tired?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Do it tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

I smiled.

Afternoons, best sun, I'd wheel him to the garden.

"Luna, I could try standing." He gripped armrests, like a boy proving himself.

"Shut it, Cassian. Doctor says rest." I knelt, tucked his blanket.

He reached, tucked hair behind my ear, eyes scorching, skipping my heartbeat. "Luna."

"Yeah?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. Just checking you're real."

Sometimes Chloe brought Laila.

Laila'd sprawl beside him, spilling recent adventures. Brought drawings or flowers.

That week brimmed with tender bits.

Once, I dozed at bedside. Woke to his good hand tracing circles in my palm.

I stirred; he didn't pull back, laced fingers tight.

"I used to think locking you in the King family made you mine." He kissed my knuckles, making me shiver. "Now I get it. As long as hearts connect, distance doesn't scare me."

This whole week, no fights, no contracts—just breaths mingling warm.

On the departure day, I arrived early. Cassian sat up, breakfast untouched, eyes on the door.

"Morning," I said.

"Morning." He watched me, reluctance hidden.

I fixed his food. Poured milk, jammed bread, peeled egg. He ate slowly.

"Packed?" he asked.

"Yeah. Chloe's driving to airport."

"When's the flight?"