Page 48 of Something Worth Keeping
Julian took a sip. Perfect temperature, perfect strength, perfect ratio of espresso to milk. “It fascinates me that you memorized my preferences from the coffee I drink at home. When I’m out, I nearlyalways buy black coffee because they usually can’t replicate my favorite brew. The distinction you made, even after our coffee date, suggests you noted what was important to me.”
“Your home is where you felt the safest...until the alley attack two days ago.” Cillian’s expression darkened at the mention of the alley. His shadows coiled tighter around the kitchen.
“Hey.” Julian reached out, catching Cillian’s hand. “I’m here. I’m safe. You made that possible.”
The shadows settled, and Cillian’s fingers curled around Julian’s. “I should have been faster.”
“You were fast enough. They barely touched me.” A lie - Julian’s ribs still ached from the punch, and his wrists bore faint bruises from being grabbed. But compared to what could have happened, it was negligible. “Now, what are you making me for breakfast?”
Cillian’s focus shifted back to the kitchen. “What would you like?”
“Surprise me.”
That earned him a small smile. “Dangerous words.”
Julian sipped his coffee and watched as Cillian assembled ingredients with the same focus he showed in making the coffee. Eggs, bread, butter, and fresh herbs that looked like they’d been delivered that morning. The shadows assisted, chopping vegetables, retrieving pans, and adjusting the heat on the industrial stove.
“You use your shadows for cooking,” Julian said.
“They’re extensions of myself. Using them is no different than using my hands.” Cillian cracked eggs into a bowl with one hand while his shadowswhisked them smoothly. “More efficient this way.”
“That’s what I thought last night. Efficient and very thorough.” Julian set down his mug. “You mentioned last night you read a book at one point to help you know what to say on our coffee date. Which book?”
Cillian’s shoulders tensed slightly as he poured the eggs into a heated pan. “Several, actually. Rook provided recommendations.”
“Rook reads romance novels?”
“Extensively. He claims they’re ‘research for understanding human emotional responses’.” Cillian’s tone suggested he’d heard this explanation multiple times. “But I suspect he just enjoys them.”
Julian filed that information away. “And what did these books teach you about romance?”
“That I’m supposed to use specific phrases at specific moments.” Cillianplated the omelet - perfectly folded, filled with herbs and cheese, garnished with fresh parsley - and set it in front of Julian along with toast that had been cut into triangles. “That claiming you as ‘mine forever’ after intimacy is considered romantic rather than possessive.”
“In paranormal romances, where fated mates are considered normal among beings of various natures, that would be correct. However, in most contemporary romance novels, the hero is human. Or at least, not an actual predator who could consume someone’s corruption.” Julian cut into the omelet. “The possessiveness reads differently when it’s literal.”
Cillian settled into the chair across from him, his shadows curling around the table legs. “Does it bother you?”
Julian took a bite. The eggs were perfect - fluffy, seasoned exactly right, with fresh herbs thatcomplemented the dish rather than overwhelmed it. He chewed thoughtfully before answering.
“No. Because you’re not possessive in the way romance novels portray it - the isolating behavior masked as protection.” Julian met Cillian’s eyes. “You’re possessive because I’m your fated mate, and your instincts categorize me as precious. You’d destroy anything that threatened me, but you wouldn’t restrict my autonomy to prevent potential threats.”
Cillian leaned forward slightly. “How do you know that?”
“Because you brought me here instead of locking me in your quarters. Because you let Thorn and the others meet me even though it exposed me to potential judgment. Because when I insisted on coming to the kitchen instead of staying in bed, you were frustrated because you’dlikely read that feeding a partner in bed was romantic, but you didn’t argue.” Julian took another bite. “This is excellent, by the way.”
“Thank you.” Cillian’s gaze hadn’t left his face. “You see things very clearly.”
“I see what’s there. Most people see what they expect or what they want.” Julian reached for his coffee. “Romance novels create expectations that real relationships can’t meet. The grand gestures, the perfect dialogue, the protagonist who always knows exactly what to say. It’s fiction.”
“But fiction serves a purpose,” Cillian said quietly. “It teaches people what to hope for. What to recognize as valuable.”
Julian paused, his mug halfway to his lips. “You think romance novels are instructional guides for identifying healthy relationships?”
“I think they showed me what courting should look like. That I should take you to dinner instead of just watching through your window. That bringing you stolen books might be appreciated, but also requires explanation.” Cillian’s shadows drifted across the table toward Julian’s hand. “That telling you, ‘you’re mine forever,’ might make you feel valued instead of frightened.”
The shadows brushed against Julian’s knuckles, a whisper-soft touch that sent warmth spreading through his chest.
“The books weren’t wrong,” Julian admitted. “But they weren’t entirely right either. You’re not a romance hero following a script. You’re an ancient being who’s never had a mate before, trying to navigate something completely new.”
