Chapter 4 The Dress Still Fits

Cassia didn't know how long she stood there, fingers still curled around the hanger.

She had forgotten about the air, the cold, the scent of her sister's perfume fading from the room. All she could think about was how Dorian had looked at that dress-like it meant more than she wanted it to.

And how it still fit.

She didn't mean to try it on. Not really.

She slipped out of her T-shirt, the fabric soft as breath. The blue dress was cold against her skin at first, silky and tight at the waist. It hugged her in places she usually tried to hide.

She didn't zip the back fully. Didn't have to.

When she turned toward the mirror, something in her chest twisted.

This wasn't dress-up anymore. It wasn't sixteen-year-old Cassia twirling behind a locked door.

She looked like a woman.

And in this room-her sister's room-she looked like something she had no right to be.

The door creaked.

She spun too fast.

Dorian stood there again.

His eyes didn't move. They didn't need to.

"I should've knocked," he said, but his voice betrayed him. Low. Controlled. Strained.

Cassia's fingers twitched near the zipper.

"I was just-" she started.

But she didn't finish.

Because she saw the look in his eyes.

Not pity. Not nostalgia.

Hunger.

Slow. Undeniable. Burning.

He stepped forward.

"Don't," she breathed, though she didn't move.

"Don't what?"

"Don't look at me like that."

"I've always looked at you like that."

Her heart pounded in her chest, in her throat, everywhere.

He stopped in front of her.

Not touching. Not yet.

"You shouldn't have kept it," she said.

"I should've told you."

She nodded once.

Then his hand lifted. Slowly. Cautiously.

He touched her bare shoulder. Just his fingers.

It wasn't innocent.

Cassia didn't stop him.

His hand slid up, grazing her neck, catching a strand of hair. His thumb brushed behind her ear. Her breath caught, shallow.

"I thought I was doing the right thing," he said. "Staying away from you."

"You were married," she whispered.

"I was loyal."

He moved his hand lower. Down her arm.

Then to the zipper at her back.

He didn't pull it.

Just held it.

"I should leave," she whispered again.

He said nothing.

But his breath touched her lips.

And then-

He stepped back.

No kiss. No disaster.

Just heat.

"I'll be in the sunroom," he said. "When you're ready to talk."

And he was gone.

Again.

Cassia sat on the edge of the bed, dress still wrapped around her body like a second skin.

When she finally found him, twenty minutes later, he was barefoot again. Shirt unbuttoned this time. The late afternoon light painted his chest in gold.

She stayed in the doorway.

"I'm not just here because of Kat," she said.

He looked up.

"I thought I was coming to help with paperwork. Say goodbye. But I stayed."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I don't want to go back to a life that doesn't feel like mine anymore."

She stepped forward.

"I wasn't living before this," she added. "Not really."

He nodded, slow. "Then don't pretend anymore."

Their eyes locked.

No more small talk.

Cassia came to him.

He didn't kiss her.

But when he reached out, his hand landed at her waist. The dress was still on.

"I kept it," he said again. "Because it reminded me of you. Who you were. Who you are."

She didn't stop him when he tugged her closer.

Didn't stop him when his other hand brushed her hip.

Didn't stop the shiver when his thumb traced the edge of the fabric.

And yet-

He still didn't kiss her.

"Dorian," she breathed, almost asking.

"I won't take what you're not ready to give," he murmured. "But don't ask me to pretend I don't want it."

Her heart thudded.

She leaned in-just slightly.

Their foreheads touched.

And there it was again.

That line.

One breath away from crossing.