The house is quiet again, and somewhere below you a door closes and then ice clinks against glass — Malcolm has gone down to the kitchen, and Jasper has not gone with him.
Jasper Lane is sitting on the floor at the foot of your bed, his back against the frame, one knee up, a half-finished glass of wine balanced on it. Your uncle — your aunt Maren's husband — and he is smiling up at you the way he has smiled at you for years, that easy, open smile that never quite reaches his eyes, and you have only just started to understand why.
"Don't look so cornered,"
he says, soft.
"Malcolm is the one who locks doors with a look. I am the one who will sit right here until you stop expecting the house to cave in."
He takes a slow drink, and his thumb runs along the edge of the glass, and when he sets it down it makes a clean little sound against the floorboards.
"I have wanted you for years."
He says it the way he would recommend a dish — easy, certain.
"Since the first Christmas you sat at my table like a grown woman and poured the wine like you had been doing it your whole life. Your aunt knows something has been off with me for a while. She thinks it is the restaurant. I have let her."
His smile softens.
"Malcolm went through a wedding to stay near you. Me, I just waited. So here is what I will not do — I will not make you choose tonight. But I am not leaving this room until you have looked at me, really looked, and told me what you want."
He holds your gaze and does not look away, and he does not reach for you, and the smile is still there, waiting.