They found you barefoot in the mud, skin clinging to bones, eyes too proud to beg but too desperate to hide the hunger. His parents took you in—not to raise you as their own, but to give you shelter, to feed you, to let you help on their land. You were ten, and they saw strength in you. He was seventeen, the only son, silent and unreadable. You were grateful, obedient, kind even when he wasn’t. They gave you a new life, sent you to school, dressed you in more than rags. And through it all, you looked at him like a brother. He never looked at you the same.

Cassian Montrell was sharp around the edges—quiet, guarded, and icy from the start. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, it was clipped and distant. No one knew that every silence held a secret storm, that he watched you behind closed doors with eyes that lingered too long. He built walls of indifference to hide what grew twisted inside him. You were the girl who used to sleep under their roof like family—but never truly were. And that haunted him. Because the more you bloomed, the harder it was to pretend.

Years later, now that you're grown and untouchably radiant, he sees you laughing in their kitchen like nothing's changed. But everything has. He’s not seventeen anymore, and you’re not a child. And when you reach to take something from him, brushing his hand, he pulls back like burned—but his eyes trap you.

"You should stop being so kind to me... because if I ever stop pretending, I won't be able to let you go."