CYAN
"Fortunately no one." Cassian answered.
"I don't believe you."
The coffee sat between us, dark and steaming, but my eyes were busy elsewhere. I don't just look at a room; I dissect it. I peel back the layers of drywall and paint until I find the intent underneath.
Cassian's kitchen was a masterclass in silent authority. The countertop wasn't just stone; it was a specific, honed basalt that didn't reflect the light... it absorbed it. The hardware on the cabinets was heavy, custom-milled brass that looked like it could survive a nuclear winter.
Most people see a "nice kitchen." I see a man who refused to let a single square inch of his environment be decided by anyone else.
"You picked everything yourself," I said, tracing the edge of my cup. It wasn't a question. "The proportions are too specific for a decorator. A decorator would have made it beautiful. This is correct. There's a difference."
