Page 22 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Nineteen

Delilah

What the fuck am I doing here?

This was supposed to be casual. But watching them unravel and rebuild each other? I think I walked into something much bigger. I don’t want to be the plus one, but by saying yes, I need to give more than what I was willing at the beginning—or ever.

I wish I knew what to do, but my brain is foggy, and my lips still hum with the imprint of Malerick’s kiss when I turn to Cassian.

He hasn’t moved. Not even an inch.

He’s there—standing in that infuriatingly still way he does when his mind is moving too fast for his body to catch up.

His eyes are locked on us, but not with jealousy or distance.

No, this is something else entirely. He’s looking like he’s trying to memorize a moment he thinks he doesn’t deserve.

As if getting too close might cause it to fracture.

Like he’s convinced that whatever this is .

. . he’s the one who might ruin it just by reaching out.

I don’t want space. Not from him.

Not from either of them.

I step forward—not just to close the distance, but to say what my mouth won’t risk voicing.

Are you still here with us, Cassian? With me?

Because I need him present—not drifting to that place he goes when his feelings get too loud.

I need him here in the now, not hiding behind whatever shields he’s built to survive everything before tonight.

My hand lifts before my doubts can catch up. There’s a brief beat—just long enough for me to wonder if I’ve misread the moment—then his hand meets mine.

He doesn’t hesitate.

His fingers close around mine as though they’ve been waiting too long to be allowed this.

His skin feels warmer than I expected, and there’s tension there—just beneath the surface.

A tremble, subtle yet undeniable, betrays how hard he’s working to hold it together.

He’s not untouched by this. I can sense it in the way his hand clings to mine as if we both stand on uneven ground, and neither of us wants to fall first.

He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t press his mouth to mine.

But his thumb begins to move.

It glides across my knuckles in slow, tender strokes, pausing like each inch of skin has meaning. Like I’m a map he’s tracing back to somewhere he lost a long time ago. There’s no urgency to it—just intent. Careful. Quiet. And yet it hits deeper than any kiss could have at this moment.

He’s touching me as if he’s afraid this is the only version of me he’ll get. Like he wants to memorize every inch before the spell breaks.

His gaze doesn’t waver.

There’s hunger there, yes. But it’s wrapped in restraint, tied with the ache of wanting and not letting himself fall.

And maybe that’s what wrecks me most—how hard he’s working not to want too much.

How badly he’s trying to pretend he hasn’t already crossed a line just by being here, by looking at me like I’m more than just a night he can survive without.

I don’t speak.

Neither does he.

But there’s something in the silence that crackles—unresolved tension that’s more honest than words. I feel it in the way his thumb slows but doesn’t stop, and in the way he keeps watching me like I’m both the question and the answer to something he’s never let himself ask.

And I wonder if he knows.

If he feels it too.

This pull. This quiet, consuming thing that doesn’t care how careful we try to be.

Because I’m tired of careful. I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to be touched like a secret worth keeping.

And right now, I want his hands to stop being polite.

I want him to stop memorizing and start claiming.

We don’t need to rush this.

We’re already here.

I glance at Malerick. “You okay?”

His nod is barely there.

“Cute,” he says, voice rough like he’s trying too hard to sound unaffected. “You check on people after kissing them?”

Cassian laughs under his breath, a jagged sound that makes my chest tighten—not with fear, but with want.

“I think she checks on people she cares about,” Cassian says, his tone lighter, but his eyes still on me like he’s not done feeling that kiss. “Endearing. I wonder what she’ll do once we fuck.”

My face flushes, but I don’t look away.

“I hope one of you is still planning to feed me,” I say instead, because I need to breathe, to move, to not melt into the floor from the heat simmering between us. “I came here thinking I’d either be fighting or . . . whatever this is. Either way, I was hoping there’d be some sustenance.”

Malerick lifts a brow, unimpressed. “You walked into my house while I was cooking.” He heads back into the kitchen.

“I noticed. That’s half the reason I didn’t turn around and run.”

Cassian smirks. “You’re seriously pausing sexual tension for pasta?”

“Correction: pasta, and I hope there’s some garlic bread,” I reply, heading toward the kitchen before I do something reckless like climb one of them like a tree. “I have priorities.”

“I’d kiss you again just for that,” Cassian murmurs, voice warm enough to undo me all over again.

“You did kiss me again,” I call over my shoulder, opening a drawer like I’ve lived here half my life. “But sure—if dinner’s as good as it smells, maybe Malerick will earn one too.”

Malerick glances over his shoulder from the stove, face unreadable. “I’m not bribing you with garlic bread.”

“You say that now,” I mutter, smirking as I pull out three mismatched plates and set them on the counter.

Behind me, I hear Cassian shift—footsteps across the floor, a soft exhale. He doesn’t say anything, just moves to stand beside me, close enough that the heat from his body hums along my skin. Not touching. Not yet.

Malerick stirs the sauce again, a flick of motion that looks casual, but I can feel the air around us stretching—like something’s rearranged and none of us are in a rush to put it back. Maybe we’ll just learn to be happy with whatever this becomes.