Desmond Loupé
The safe house was silent except for the occasional crackling of the fire in the stone hearth. Desmond sat on the edge of the worn leather couch, his fingers threading through his dark hair as he watched Cassandra, who was curled up in the armchair across from him. She looked small, almost delicate, in this moment of quiet contemplation, her copper hair piled in a messy bun atop her head. A large mug of coffee was nestled between her hands, her fingers wrapped around the ceramic as if absorbing its warmth. The sight made him smirk—she looked adorable like this. He’d seen her fierce, stubborn, and unyielding, but this was different. This was her letting him in.
He only hoped that once this conversation was over, she’d still want to move forward, to take that step into a worl
