I need to prove to him that we can be good together. Hell, that we havealwaysbeen good together, even when we were just students, years ago, before the distance stretched between us.
Sitting here in the warm, rowdy glow of the tavern, watching the way the lantern light catches the brown depths of his eyes, a sudden, terrifyingly clear realization hits me like a physical blow. It isn’t just a crush. It isn’t just a lingering childhood attachment, and I’m sure as hell not entertaining a fleeting summer whim.
I look at the soft curve of his mouth, the way his shoulders ease just from being near me, and my heart aches with a fierce, possessive warmth that scares me as much as it anchors me.
Goddess above, I am completely, entirely in love with Sy.
I have been for years, and being near him again is like finally breathing air after drowning. Once my brain snags on that truth, there’s no turning back. It’s an absolute certainty settling deep into my bones. Sylar Novari is mine. He’s my home. He just doesn’t realize it yet.
Chapter five
Sylar
Theheavyoakdoorclicks shut behind us, cutting off the distant thrum of the festival music and cheering crowd. Instantly, the suffocating heat of the afternoon drops away, replaced by the cool, shaded quiet of the interior.
I step across the threshold and freeze, my breath catching in my throat.
I don’t know what I expected when Raylen told me he secured a temporary, two-week rental for the duration of the Everend Market. A sterile, sparse room at a high-end inn, perhaps. Or maybe a drafty, pristine stone chamber rented out by one of the merchant guilds.
Instead, I feel like I have just stepped directly into a daydream.
The space is the very definition of a rustic countryside cottage, entirely stripped of distracting enchantments or expensive trinkets. There’re no blinding lights, no glowing crystal chandeliers. The exterior might be made of heavy fieldstone and aged wood, but the interior elements are what make my heart skip a beat. It looks so devastatingly similar to my private cottage on the edge of town that it feels almost intentional.
Bundles of dried lavender and wild chamomile hang from the exposed wooden ceiling beams, filling the air with a sweet, herbal haze. A low stone hearth sits cold for the summer, its mantel cluttered with mismatched clay mugs, a stack of heavily creased parchments, and a stray bird’s feather. Sunlight streams through small glass windows, illuminating a worn rocking chair with a faded blue cushion and a rough-hewn oak table. Trailing ivy spills over open wooden shelves, its green vines winding past tins of loose tea and jars of wild honey.
I blink, a sudden wave of confusion washing over me. This is atwo-weekrental. Nobody takes the time to cultivate this level of grounded, cozy intimacy for a fortnight.
“Do you like it?” Raylen asks, his voice dropping to a softer, lower register now that we are behind closed doors. He tosses his silk archer’s cloak onto a wooden peg by the door, revealing the broad, sun-kissed lines of his shoulders. “It’s not exactly the grand library, but it’s quiet.”
I run a fingertip along the edge of the handmade wooden table, catching a faint trace of fresh beeswax. “Raylen, how much of this was actually here when you arrived?”
He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck, a faint, boyish flush creeping up his collar. “The furniture came with the place,” he admits, gesturing to the table and the low cot layered with hand-woven patch quilts in shades of moss and cream. “But… well, the rental was a bit bare when I first unlocked the door. A little cold.”
My chest tightens, a warmth behind my ribs that has absolutely nothing to do with the summer sun.
He did all of this. In less than forty-eight hours, he gathered the wildflower bouquets stuffed into old milk jugs. He went to the market stalls to buy the tins of loose tea and the specific herbs hanging from the rafters. He brought the clutter, the warmth, the exact sensory details that he knows anchor a racing mind. He built my freaking dream home out of a stranger’s house.
“Youdiddecorate the place,” I whisper, looking from a ceramic bowl of apples back to his bright lilac eyes.
“I know how crowds make you anxious, Sy,” Raylen says softly, taking a single, deliberate step toward me. He stops just outside my personal space, giving me room to breathe, though the sudden proximity still makes my pulse quicken. It’s something he’s been careful to do all day. “I wanted to make sure that if the festival got to be too much, you had a place to come back to that felt… safe. That felt like home.”
The sheer weight of his thoughtfulness hangs in the quiet air between us, thicker and more intoxicating than the scent of the lavender drying above our heads. But what the hell did he mean when he wanted me to have a place to feel safe? How did he know I would even be here in the first place?
I think back to the supposed room my mother booked at The Three Cats, the knowing looks everyone exchanged. Did Raylen really plan on taking me here? My heart pounds with the thrill of it. Was I wrong when I thought I might be completely out of Raylen’s league? Because suddenly, everything seems to be tinged with romance. No one has ever done anything like this for me before.
I turn the corner and enter the only door I see. The domestic space suddenly vanishes as my eyes track past the charming rustic nightstand and wildflower bouquets.
I freeze. My heart, which had just been thawing to a puddle of warm affection, hits a jagged stone wall and starts to pound frantically against my ribs.
There is a beautiful oak wardrobe. And in the corner, nestled beneath a low, sloped ceiling, sits a single, deeply cushioned bed layered with dozens of throw pillows and pastel patch quilts.
One. Bed.
I spin on my heel, the romantic haze evaporating instantly as my academic brain demands immediate logical answers.
“Wait,” I choke out, my voice cracking slightly as I point a stiff, accusing finger toward the corner. “One bed? Onefreakingbed, Raylen? You explicitly told me at the tavern that there were plenty of rooms!”
Raylen doesn’t even flinch. Instead, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his pretty face. He leans back against the wooden doorframe, crossing his broad arms over his chest with the casual ease of a rogue.
