Page 23 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Twenty

Malerick

We watch Delilah’s headlights shrink until her taillights vanish past the curve in the road—out of sight, but not out of mind.

Unfortunately, she didn’t want to stay overnight as I suggested.

For one, she wants Cass and me to fix our shit first. This is a second chance for us and she won’t be facilitating it or becoming the glue what holds us together.

She won’t start opening up more until the silence between us stops doing all the talking.

Also, her mom would know something is up. She’s already going to ask questions which she’ll be able to dodge easily since it’s nine o’clock. According to Lilah, after that time, it’d be challenging to get Rosalinda off our case.

And Rosalinda doesn’t let things go, and once she finds out about us, she’ll make sure every soul in town knows, too.

“Is it fucked up that we’re more scared of Rosalinda than the fucking Hollow Syndicate?”

Cassian doesn’t laugh. He just nods his head like it’s a legitimate concern. “The woman is terrifying. Regal as hell, but fucking terrifying.”

He pulls out his phone, tapping the screen with purpose. “I’ll track her. Just to make sure she gets home safe.”

“How?” I ask, side-eyeing him. “You planted a chip in her purse or something?”

“That’s not a bad idea.” He smirks, as if that might be the first thing he’ll do tomorrow morning. “We’ve got CCTVs all over town. I’ll tap into the feed. I’m assuming you have some along the perimeter?”

I nod. There’s plenty of stuff around to ensure no one finds this place and if they do, I could track them easily.

“I didn’t check on my way here,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. Like surveilling my property should be part of the visit.

“So . . .” I scrub a hand over my face. “We’re really doing this?”

Cassian glances over at me. “You don’t want to?”

The question hits harder than it should. Not because I don’t want it. But because I didn’t expect him to ask like that. As if my opinion matters, which brings me to . . . “You’ve never asked before.”

He exhales, slow, thoughtful. “Maybe we should’ve started there.

With the asking and making sure it was what we both wanted rather than assuming.

But it felt . . . right. Like this thing between us just unfolded, and maybe I didn’t want to break the momentum by asking a question I wasn’t ready to hear the answer to.

” He shifts, jaw clenched, eyes unreadable.

“Have you been in a poly relationship before?” His voice drops, quieter now.

“After us? Or . . . with another man? Or a woman?”

I shake my head. “No relationships,” I respond almost immediately. “I slept around. With whoever was convenient at the time.”

His jaw twitches, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“After us,” I continue, voice low, steadying myself on the truth, “I realized I was attracted to men and women. But I didn’t act on it. Not for a long time.”

I glance at him, then at my shoes, because I haven’t talked about this with many people—not even with myself.

“I was still trying to glue together whatever was left of me after you left. No Cassian. No Rachel. Just this . . . ache that didn’t know where to land.” I pause, swallowing the knot that’s forming.

“Eventually, I stopped overthinking it. I stopped asking questions—not even the ones I should’ve asked myself. I just went with whatever felt good at the moment. No labels. No expectations. Just . . . fucking. Something to fill the space and time when I wasn’t busy.”

A pause stretches between us.

“I’ve been trying like hell not to fall for Delilah. I mean, how the fuck do you not fall for her? She’s sunlight and wildfire. She walks in and everything shifts, and you’re just supposed to act like you’re unaffected?”

I exhale through my nose, the tension knotting somewhere deep in my chest.

“But it’s bad timing. All of this—her, us—it’s beautiful and fucking impossible. It’s too much, too soon, and still not enough. And I don’t want her to get hurt just because she’s here . . . and I finally stopped pretending I didn’t need someone to stay.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.

So I say it—the thing that’s been bleeding through the edges of every thought since we kissed her. Since I saw how she looked at both of us—like she wanted everything but didn’t know if it was safe to take it.

“I don’t want her to be in danger, Cass. Not because of us. Not because I’m too fucking selfish to walk away when I should.”

The silence that follows strikes deeper than any argument ever could.

Because we both know the truth. The Hollow Syndicate could use her to get to us. And if that happens . . . I wouldn’t forgive myself.

I stare at the road longer than I should, hoping—stupidly, desperately—that her headlights will reappear. That she’ll turn around, claim she forgot her phone, and maybe even make a sarcastic comment to cut through the tension before it swallows us whole.

But she doesn’t.

And what if we fuck this up? What if tomorrow we’re sitting in the wreckage saying, Sorry. It’s over. We couldn’t even get it right before it started.

Cassian moves first. Barely noticeable. Just a shift in balance, as if he’s trying to keep himself upright, as if staying on his feet might prevent him from falling into whatever this is about to become.

I walk to the counter, grab the glass Delilah didn’t finish, and dump what’s left of the wine into mine. Petty? Sure. But right now, I need to hold something that isn’t shaking with everything I haven’t said.

“You’re quiet,” he says, voice low, almost too careful.

“You’re still here,” I answer.

His mouth twitches, then flattens. “So we’re doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Throwing barbs like we’re still in the field.”

I drain the wine. It burns, not in the way that numbs—just enough to remind me I’m still here. “You want a heart-to-heart, Harlan?” I set the glass down harder than necessary. “Fine. Let’s start with the part where you fucking left.”

His breath catches.

Good.

Since I hadn’t taken a breath since that Monday when I walked into the Bureau, where they told me I had a new partner because you were gone. Just gone. No warning. No goodbye. Just an email. One line saying he’d found a company where he could help more—his way.

“You think that was easy?” he says.

“You made it look pretty fucking simple.”

Cassian crosses his arms and leans against the table, like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “I did it for you,” he says. “But maybe also for me. I wasn’t going to stay just to watch us bleed each other out. That’s how my parents’ marriage ended.”

I want to argue, tell him he’s wrong—but the truth is, I don’t know what twenty-four-year-old me would’ve done.

I only knew how to fight. Physically. Viciously.

I knew how to throw a punch when someone pissed me off.

But love? Conflict about something that mattered? That version of me had no goddamn idea.

“I waited,” I admit, and, fuck, it scrapes on the way out. “I thought maybe you’d come back. That you’d knock on my door and say something—anything—that made me feel like I hadn’t imagined the whole thing.”

He doesn’t speak.

Just watches me like he’s seeing damage he didn’t know he caused.

“You didn’t even say goodbye.”

“I didn’t know how,” he says quietly.

I laugh. It’s bitter. Hollow. “Bullshit. You knew how to leave. You just didn’t want to deal with the wreckage you left behind.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” I round on him. “You left both of us. Me. Rachel. We had this . . . thing . . .we never figured out how to define. And instead of trying, you bailed.”

He scrapes a hand over his face like he's trying to erase the conversation. “I fucking recognize that, okay? But you didn’t make it easy either. You didn’t want to talk about anything. You kept me at arm’s length so no one would think we were together.”

“I—” I start, then falter. Because he’s not wrong.

“I wasn’t even sure who I was back then,” I admit, quieter now. “How was I supposed to deal with the bigots? The stares? The sideways comments? It was easier to shut everything down before it got complicated.”

He snorts. “That’s what Delilah meant when she said she didn’t want bullshit. Maybe she could already smell how rotten it was.”

That makes me pause.

Because she probably did.

Cassian steps closer, voice soft but edged with challenge. “What now? Would you care if people found out you were with me?”

I don’t answer right away.

Because the truth is—yes, I would’ve cared. A year ago, definitely. Even six months ago. I was still wired for self-preservation. Still trained to scan the room before I reached for anything I actually wanted.

But now?

I think about the way Delilah looked at us—like she saw through both of us and still wanted in.

I think about the fear in Cassian’s eyes. Not of being seen. Of being left.

“I don’t know if I care anymore,” I say, and it’s not a performance. It’s real. “But I care about you.”

He stills.

“You know what scared me the most?” I ask.

“What?”

“That I never told you.”

“Told me what?”

“That I loved you.”

His eyes snap to mine.

“I said it to her,” I continue. “Because she needed to hear it. Because I thought it might make her stay. But I never said it to you. And that’s the part that won’t let me sleep. That I let you walk out the door without knowing.”

Cassian’s face caves in—just for a second. Then he locks it down. Like if he lets the emotion rise, it’ll swallow him whole.

“What now?” I ask, because I don’t know. Because the part of me that learned how to survive by staying detached is unraveling under the pressure of being this fucking exposed. “I need the truth. Not the version you gave Delilah so she’d stay.”

“I want us to try,” he says, voice breaking around the edges. “You. Me. Lilah.”

“After everything that happened between us?”

He nods. “Especially after everything.”

He crosses the room slowly, like he’s waiting for permission he shouldn’t need. Like he knows this is delicate, and he doesn’t want to break it before it can be real.

He’s close enough that I feel him before he touches me—the warmth of his body radiates off him as if knows mine has been cold for too long.

“I didn’t come to fix the past,” he says, his voice low and guttural, as if he’s forcing the words through a throat thick with everything he hasn’t said. “But now that I’m here . . . maybe we can figure out if there’s a future worth wrecking everything else for.”

I don’t answer.

My chest rises, but no sound comes out. No words. Just a heartbeat that won’t settle.

But my hand—this traitorous fucking hand—twitches.

Just slightly. Just enough.

His pinky brushes mine. On purpose.

And I feel his touch. Not just on my skin, but everywhere.

It feels as if my body has been waiting for this single point of contact to remember what it’s like to want.

He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t hesitate.

His hand slides into mine, fingers threading through like they’ve been there before, as if they’re returning home to something they never should’ve left. And I don’t stop him. I grip back. Harder than I should. Like I need something to hold me together before I fall apart.

Then he steps in.

Chest nearly flush to mine. Close enough that the air shifts—close enough that I feel the sound of his breath, warm and ragged, as it ghosts over my lips.

My eyes meet his.

There’s no question in them.

Only hunger. And regret. And something that looks a hell of a lot like love, scraped raw by time and distance and everything we never said. His hand comes up, rough fingers skimming the side of my jaw. He drags his thumb down, slow, until it presses lightly against my lower lip.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re still?—”

He doesn’t finish.

Because I tilt my head forward just enough to answer for him.

His mouth crashes into mine—not desperate, but decisive. This is what he’s been trying not to do for years and he finally gave up resisting.

His lips are warm, parted, tasting like wine and punishment. The kiss is unhurried but hungry. A slow grind of mouths that says I missed you and I still want every inch of you all in the same breath.

I kiss him back.

I give in.

Fingers in his shirt. Chest against chest. My mouth opening for him without thinking. Without pausing. There’s nothing polite about it now. There’s grit and heat and knowing—the kind of knowing that only comes from loving someone long enough to also resent them.

His hand is on my hip, pulling me closer, grounding me in a way that makes me feel like I might come apart. Our bodies press together, and it’s not careful—it’s urgent. Not rushed, but necessary. The slow kind of desperation simmers before it burns down the room.

He groans into my mouth like the taste of me is doing damage.

Good.

Because he’s been doing damage for years.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathless. Mouths red. Chests rising like we’ve just surfaced from underwater.

He presses his forehead to mine, his thumb still on my lips.

“You still taste like everything I tried to forget.”

And I can’t tell if I want to kiss him again or punch him.

Perhaps both, and we should stop, but am I capable of doing so?