kitty cat

It's been a week now, one week of blissful moments spend with Finnick while recovering from the attack within district 13. After all that had happened you were in need of some peace, and the universe granted it.

On the first day you were still in the hospital wing, an IV dripping steady fluids into your system. You woke up to Finnick sitting next to you, one of his hands holding onto yours while the other was holding up a book. It was one of your favourites, and you had been pestering him about reading it so you could talk about it with him, but he had always brushed you off, saying he'd get around to it eventually. It seems eventually finally came around. You coaxed him into getting in the bed with you, he was hesitant at first, not wanting to hurt you, but he wasn't above your charms either, your eyes pleading with him in a way he couldn't resist. He had settled in behind you, letting you lean against him, ignoring the dirty look the nurse gave you. You had asked him to read to you, and even though you already knew it by heart, his sweet voice added a whole new element to the story so beloved.

The second day was spent trying to convince the nurse to let you leave the hospital room, if only for a few hours, she didn't initially want to agree, but Finnick simply wouldn't drop the subject. So you walked together towards the dinner hall, feeling like little children sneaking out past the curfew.

Supper had already finished, but Finnick was friends with one of the cooks who let him into the kitchens. He told you to sit down on the table in the middle of the room and gave you a quick peck on the lips before moving over to the fridge. It was simple, it wasn't much, but it was perfect. He would let you taste the dish in-between steps, always forgetting one ingredient or another, but you didn't mind reminding him. At some point you could have sworn he was doing it on purpose, but maybe he was just too caught up in having you there with him again. You offered to help with meting the butter, dicing the vegetables, stirring the sauce, but each and every time he would insist you stayed right where you were, accentuated with a quick kiss, his hands on your face smearing flour all over your jaw, not that you minded. He claimed he was the better cook anyway, that you'd only hold him back, now that one you both knew was a lie, but it was a precious one, one that didn't need to be disturbed.

Day three consisted of a slow day back in your room, having been cleared by the doctor and finally being in your own space again. You and Finnick hadn't shared a room in a while now with everything that had gone down, but you had immediately decided to spend your nights together again, not wanting to spend more time apart than necessary. You hadn't fully recovered yet, still needing your rest, but Finnick had set his mind on moving your things back into his room today.

So there you were, sitting crossed legged on his bed absentmindedly sipping on some coffee he had brought you as you watched him bustle about. He was only gone a few minutes at a time, but you never failed to produce a smile when you saw him approaching again, hands full with some of your books, the collection of flowers he had given you over the years that you had dried and pressed in-between the pages were sticking out slightly, but he handled them with care. Even while you weren't together you couldn't find it ins yourself to get rid of them, and you're glad of it now. He goes back and forth for a while, collecting your pillow, your skin care products, your small radio that barely managed to get a reception down here, but you couldn't bare to part with. Each time he'd ask you where you wanted him to put it down, carefully creating a space that consisted of the both of you.

On day four you had finally woken up in his arms again, wondering how you could have ever forgotten this feeling. When he noticed you were awake he had moved to place a delicate kiss on your lips, basking in the simplicity of the fact that he could. He had told you he had a surprise for you today, and you couldn't help how giddy you already got from the mere thought of what it could be. But it was oh so much better than you could have imagined, because today Finnick took you to the surface. How he managed to get you past all the checkpoints was beyond you, and when you asked he had simply said he had friends in all the right places.

It was a bit of a walk to the spot he wanted to take you, but you revelled in the sunlight against your face, needing to squint your eyes to see properly with how bright the sun was but too blissed to care. The high grass rustled against your bare legs as you continued to walk, and the tickling sensation brought back so many fond memories. When you finally made it to the clearing it was a sight from a dream. The tree next to the lake provided a shadow you could both comfortably lay in as the smell of the fresh water blessed your senses once more. The wildflowers adorning the space around you were once you could recall from back home, with a few others you couldn't identify. Finnick had picked a few, placing them behind your ear as he talked about what the flower meant. A myosotis, he had called it, representing true love and dedication. He told you about the myth behind the forget-me-nots, how they had been afraid of being forgotten by the gods, and you had vowed in return to never spend a day without thinking of him again.

During the fifth day you didn't do much of anything special, but you supposed that depends on your definition of the word. Finnick had made dandelion tea from flowers he had collected yesterday, the familiar taste bringing back a sense of nostalgia for a time that you wouldn't be able to return to. You had once told him your mother used to make it when you were sick, and ever since he would go collect them by the cliffs for you. You had insisted it was too much work that he didn't need to worry himself with, he had countered that he enjoyed the view where they grew anyway, and really, he was going for himself as much as for you. Maybe he had simply been trying to get you to stop fussing over the subject, maybe it had really been true.

You spend the day talking to your friends, reminiscing in regained memories and filling in gaps that you couldn't on your own. As you sat next to Johanna she talked on about the days Finnick spent longing after you, claiming he was alright wirh being just friends, but she was convinced that if any of her friends looked at her the way he looked at you she would have suckerpunched them.

On the sixth day you had begged Finnick train with you, saying how you wanted to get your strength back, how you missed the exercise and the content feeling of aching muscles. He had been reluctant, of course he had been, but once you had managed to drag him onto the training mat he revelled in it. He couldn't deny he had missed sparring with you, the action so effortless with you. He had made fun of how you threw your punches, saying you had to extent your arms further to complete the motion, but he was the one not protection his core properly while fixating on you. It had been good to feel your body in motion again, he was still stronger than you, knocking the breath out of your lungs once be stopped holding back, but you were still faster, getting the drop on him in the split seconds he was distracted. The manner in which your muscle memory still held up, the way in which you still used the same techniques without meaning to, it was good to know there are some things people can't take from you.

The seventh day you picked your routine back up. Waking up to an empty bed but not lonely, his side was still warm as you rolled over. Once you opened your eyes you saw the cup of coffee and the note on the bedside table. Finnick knew you never slept for long after he left, somehow he still knew. He had been given some time off during your recovery, but district 13 didn't stand still and they had needed his help. You weren't expected back yet, but the sense of purpose was one that you were always glad to have. You drank the coffee he left you as you got dressed, smiling as he had made it exactly to your liking, even if he used to complain you couldn't even call it coffee anymore with that much sugar in it. And so you went back to work, moving to scribble a quick message on the back of the note if he came back looking for you, not that he needed it, somehow he would always know where you were.

District Thirteen was no ocean, but you would take it over being hunted by the Capitol.

The last while was a blur, one you only remembered in flashes of pain, white coated attendants pouring water down your throat and jabbing your arms with needles. You had scars circling your limbs, memories that life forced you to relive in jarring bursts. All through it you could only think of him, cling to the silhouette of him in your mind that would want you to hang on. Don’t die, you repeated silently. Don’t die. He doesn’t want you to die.

Now there were different doctors attending to you on the hovercraft carrying you and other prisoners to the district that had supposedly been blown to bits. You weren’t lucid enough to process this new information, only that you were safe. And that your love was on the other side of this figurative tunnel.

As the woman dressed in a grey tunic checked your vitals, making a note whenever you winced or even cried out, you summoned thoughts of Finnick.

Ankle deep in the surf, kissing you and telling you he’d always protect you. Holding you on your bed, his body warm against yours as he whispered that you weren’t crazy and that nobody should say you were. Tucking shells into your pockets that you’d find later, often when he was on a trip to the Capitol.

A stab of pain gnawed at your wrist and you seized, whimpering. The woman merely wrote it down, muttering something to herself. Though this physical portion of your examination was painful, you would choose it over the mental part, which had occurred before this. They asked questions that twisted your mind into bits, forced you to remember things that stung you with tears and dragged you into a realm of cloudiness where you could do nothing but cry and rock back and forth.

You didn’t want to answer any more questions. You wanted to curl up in a ball and weep until you fell into sleep, something you hadn’t been able to get for ages.

“Mental instability,” the woman murmured, and your heart plummeted. I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy.

Folding your arms around yourself, you sniffled, hiding your face in your knees. They already thought you were mad so who cares.

The woman said your name once, then again. She even poked your arm with her pen but you remained still. Finally you heard the click of the door shutting and you let yourself collapse onto your mattress, tears pouring rivers down your cheeks.

There was only one person who could make you feel better and he was still far away. At least he was alive. You tried to console yourself with that.

He’d told you not to watch the games but you couldn’t help it, turning on the television for even just a glimpse of him, or to hear his voice. Seeing him hurt nearly sent you into hysterics, but it was better than knowing nothing.

You were given a cocktail of pills to ensure your sleep, and you swallowed them quickly, hoping the nightmares wouldn’t come.

They did though. It didn’t matter how dreamless they said the pills would be.

Everything felt so clean here, stark and white and too bright. Being so close to Finnick but not being able to see him was driving you up the wall, and it caused your struggle when the doctors were moving you from the hovercraft.

They walked you around a crowded area filled with people in near identical uniforms. The precision was nearly maddening. “We need to run more tests,” a male doctor said sharply, brushing you off like you were a bug on his arm.

You shook your head, tugging at the sleeves of the people practically dragging you down the hallway. “Please. Please let me. I’ve been waiting-“

Your name was shouted from a distance. Freezing in place, you turned your head frantically, trying to see him. Was it in your head? Did you miss him so badly you were hearing him without his actual presence?

Then he rocketed into your line of sight. Your tan, golden-haired knight in shining armor, pushing away men in white jackets and calling for you, reaching his arms out. It was a special place he reserved just for you.

“Finnick!” you called frantically, finally breaking free and running as fast as your feet would carry you. “Finnick!”

When you finally crashed into his chest you were already crying, but it wasn’t out of frustration or anger like it had been for the past few months. You were so relieved you could have fainted, and your knees indeed went weak when you felt his arms wrap around you.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he whispered into your hair, nearly breathing you in. “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”

“Finnick,” you couldn’t stop saying, a sob hijacking your words. “Finnick.”

“I’m here. I’m here, baby,” he breathed. Someone said something and he replied, “I’ve got her. I can take her.” His hold tightened on you when a jagged response was given. “If it’s anything like what I had to do I know you’ve done enough. It can wait.”

When Finnick was upset he became authoritative, and it was in anyone’s best interest to stay out of his way. It was no surprise then that he was able to help you down the length of the hallway without struggle.

You gripped his hand like it was going to disappear. He didn’t object, opening the door with one hand and ushering you inside. The room was as minimalist and clean as the rest of what you’d seen so far, but you could see the touches of him in it. A small shell laid on the bedside and there was a length of rope knotted into a bowline tossed on the mattress.

Finnick guided you to sit down, brushing the rope aside and kicking off his shoes, kneeling beside you. He was looking over your face, checking. For what, you weren’t sure.

Finally he spoke again, his voice reminding you of what you might hear pressing a conch to your ear. “I missed you.”

You launched forward, throwing your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. Finnick clasped you tight, not seeming to mind when you began to cry again. A drop landed on your cheek and you realized why. He shook his head once, smoothing your hair as his chest stuttered. “When I found out they’d taken you I…I…” he swallowed audibly. “When the games ended I tried to make them go back for you-“

You pulled back, your fingers finding his hair and stroking it gently. His eyes were fixed on you, oceans roaring within them. “My baby…what did they do to you?”

You sniffled, trying to breathe in and out. “It h-hurt.”

“Yeah,” he whispered, cupping your cheek in his palm. Nodding, Finnick encouraged you to go on.

“It hurt,” you repeated, trying to scrounge up more and becoming frustrated when you couldn’t. Here was the one person you wanted to tell and you were speaking like a child.

It was almost like he could sense it. Finnick nodded once more, shifting so he was lying down and pressing gently on your back so you would too. You settled with your head on his chest, your ear over his heart. The steady thump of it quieted all the noise in your head so quickly that it was like flicking a light off.

One heavy hand stroked up and down your back, soothing you just as you needed. That was Finnick. He always knew what would make you feel better.

Slowly, as he comforted you, more began to pour out about your time at the Capitol. How you’d been wracked with pain for days at a time, injected with substances you didn’t know of. The things they told you.

You made it to your time on the hovercraft after they’d rescued you, muttering about your new diagnosis. Finnick froze at that, his arms tightening around you. “They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

You sniffled, flattening your palm on his chest. “They r-ran tests-“

“Hey.” You lifted your head at his whisper, finding his eyes aglow, melting for you. “You just need a little help, that’s all. But it’s not forever. I’m gonna be here for you and we’re gonna get through this together.”

When you nodded, he pressed his lips to your forehead, holding them there for a long beat. Your eyes grew heavy, and he stroked your hair until you closed them. You were sleepy, and for the first time in a while, you didn’t fear falling headfirst into your dreams.

Your nails were knives, practically ripping at your skin. You cried out but nobody could hear you, and the voices closed in, crowding you into a corner.

“No. Stop it,” one jutted in, a hand yanking at your palms. “Enough.” The faint whine of a medical tool grated at your skull, and your hands trembled.

“No, no, no,” you sobbed, shivering and shoving your knees to your chest. “No.”

“Shh,” a different voice softened your mind. “It’s alright. Just keep breathing for me. In and out.” You tried opening your eyes, and there he was, blurry but there. His lips curved upwards when he saw you. “There’s my angel. There you are.” A hand slid under your back, encouraging you to sit up. “Right there. Atta girl.”

You swayed, leaning against him. He sheltered you close, seeming to hide you away. “You’re here with me. You’re safe.”

Nodding, you began to let go of yourself, the marks from your nails leaving blood trickling in their wake. Your lower lip began to tremble upon seeing it but he soothed that away too. “We can fix it. It’s okay.”

You slowly began to relax, breathing in and out trying to calm. Finnick kissed your forehead, then your nose. “There we go. You’re doing so good.” Something touched your lips and you sipped the liquid that rushed forth, your throat relaxing.

Silence became your comfort, and you reveled in it. No questions, no reprimanding for all you should have done. Just you and Finnick in this world.

He had been the only thing holding you up in this rigorous place of demand for answers you didn’t have. You wanted to run away from it all back to your ocean with him. He knew it as well as you did. The sea was healing for you as much as it was him. Here you had to make do with the white walls and endless hallways.

“Wanna go home,” you breathed, sniffling into his chest.

“I know,” he whispered back. “I know. I do too.”

You fisted his shirt, taking in a deep breath. “Will we ever get to?” There was no right answer. No real certainty. It made your heart heavy.

Still, he muttered, “Yes.” And you loved him for it.

Propping you up to sit across his lap, Finnick laid a kiss in your hair. “Someday we’re gonna go back to District Four and we’re gonna get married and live right by the ocean. And we’ll be together forever, just you and me.”

“Yeah,” you mumbled, and he kissed your forehead. “We’re gonna be okay.”

“That’s right.” There was a hint of pride in his voice that nearly brought you to tears.

“Finnick?” you breathed, looking up at him shyly. “I’m s-sorry. That you have to do this. I know they need you for more important things and I feel like you do everything for me and I don’t do anything for you.”

He looked at you thoughtfully, allowing the tiniest head shake. “Nothing is more important than you.” Finnick grasped a strand of your hair, flipping it playfully behind your shoulder. “You do more for me than you realize, baby. Haven’t had a single nightmare since you started sleeping next to me again.”

You reached up, wiping one eye with your wrist. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, cupping your cheeks. Finnick kissed between your eyebrows. “I was a mess without you. Ask anybody.”

When you were quiet, he exhaled through his nose, cupping your cheek so you’d stay looking at him. “I had half of everyone in charge avoiding me in the hallway because they knew I was gonna ask when they were going to bring you back. At mealtimes and training and whatever I was no fun to be around cause I was pining so much for you and it made me angry that we knew where you were and nobody was doing anything about it.” Finnick stroked your cheekbone. “You’re all I’ve got. I don’t care about anybody else.”

The earnestness in his eyes sent you reaching for him again, and he wrapped you up in his arms, breathing easy. You whispered into his chest. “When they were hurting me, all I could think of was you. How you would want me to hang on.”

“I’m proud of you,” Finnick said, leaning back so you could lay down. He gathered your hair to rest behind your back. “You’re stronger than you think, sweetheart. Stronger than any of us.”

You hid your face in his chest. He let you lay there, keeping your mind quiet the way it only seemed to when you were with him.

Maybe the roaring oceans of District Four were a thing of the past, but you had your own version in him. Finnick flowed and crashed and soothed the same way as the sea, enveloping you in his embrace and smoothing everything over.

You would dive under for the rest of time, so you could breathe.

You stumbled to a halt, chest rising and falling as the world tilted beneath your feet. The blood was warm, sticky, too real. And it wasn’t yours.

“No,” you whispered, your voice trembling as the trees around you pressed in too close. “No, no, no—”

What the hell had you done? What had you done that was so bad you couldn't remember it?

Your legs gave out beneath you, knees slamming into the mossy forest floor as you stared at your stained hands. You didn’t remember what happened — and that was the worst part. Because in the arena, if you couldn’t remember, it meant you lost control. And losing control meant someone else had died.

A sob left your lips. Your breaths became more frantic, shorter, and not relieving at all. You felt like you couldn't get a single molecule of oxygen into your lungs.

“Finnick,” you choked, your voice breaking on his name.

The jabberjays heard it.

They swarmed.

Suddenly, the trees were echoing with his voice — agonized, screaming in pain. Your name on his lips. Begging. Crying. Screaming like his soul was being ripped out.

Your hands flew to your ears. “No! Stop it! It’s not real!”

But it was real, wasn’t it? You’d blacked out. You’d been covered in blood. You’d heard nothing from him since you'd come back to. You'd heard nothing from the one that was usually always by your side.

You curled up, sobs wracking from your body, until you felt it. The acidic feeling in your stomach, crawling up your throat. Leaning over, vomit sprayed from your lips. You choked and coughed as the jabberjays continued to wail, your husband screaming in despair.

Blood smeared onto your clothes and onto the ground as you tried to brace yourself. The smell of the blood unearthed another wave of vomit.

You collapsed forward on your hands, shaking so violently it felt like your bones might crack under the weight of your grief. The jabberjays were merciless. They repeated his voice like a broken record —twisting it, warping it. "Please! Don’t — Name — please don’t leave me!" His cry pierced the air like a knife through flesh. "It’s me! I love you!"

And you believed it. You believed every damn word.

Because why else would the blood be there? Why else would you be alone?

Your mind was spiraling, slipping into that abyss you hadn’t touched since your own Games. Since you’d thought survival meant severing yourself from humanity. But Finnick had stitched something soft into your heart again. Something real.

Now it was tearing apart.

You retched again — dry this time, your throat raw and lips trembling. You didn’t know how long you stayed like that. Minutes? Hours?

You looked up to the sky, a scream tearing through your throat. Hot tears flowed down your face.

You didn't even register the strong arms wrapping around your frame. The familiar scent. The quieting of the jabberjays as you were hauled off somewhere else.

You didn’t fight the arms pulling you in — maybe because part of you thought you were finally dying, and it was death cradling you. Maybe because it didn’t matter anymore.

But then — a voice. Not the high-pitched mimicry of the jabberjays. Not a hallucination.

A real voice.

“Hey. Hey, hey — breathe. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Finnick.

You blinked, your vision swimming, unable to believe it until his thumb brushed under your eye, wiping away tears and blood and dirt like he was afraid you’d shatter.

"I hurt you—" You sobbed frantically, looking down at your hands. "Blood, there's blood—"

“Honey, no, no, hey — look at me.” Finnick cupped your face in both hands, gently but firmly pulling your gaze back to his. His eyes —those sea glass eyes — were wide, desperate, but whole. “You didn’t hurt me. Not a scratch, okay? This isn’t my blood.”

You shook your head, breath hitching, but he didn’t let you slip away again.

“I swear it,” he said, his voice trembling now, cracking like a wave against rocks. “You blacked out for maybe two minutes. You bolted into the trees. I ran after you. I never stopped.”

Your hands hovered uselessly between your bodies, stained and trembling. “Then whose blood is it?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “There were mutts in the area. Could be one of them. Could be one of the other tributes who didn’t make it out in time. But it’s not yours, and it’s not mine.”

“I thought I killed you,” you whispered, eyes welling again. “And the birds — they used your voice. They knew what it would do to me.”

Finnick’s expression crumpled for a brief, unbearable moment before he pulled you in, arms wrapping tight like he could protect you from everything if he just held hard enough.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I should’ve gotten to you sooner.”

Your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his shirt, still trembling, still unsure if any of this was real. But he was solid. He was warm. His heartbeat thrummed steadily against your ear, proof of life.

“I couldn’t hear you,” you whispered, voice wrecked and thin. “I kept calling, but I couldn’t find you. I thought — God, Finnick, I thought—”

“I know,” he said, breaking a little with every word. “I know. I was calling for you too.”

You felt his hand slide up your back, anchoring you, grounding you. He didn’t try to rush you or pull away. He just held you, like he was trying to hold your broken pieces together.

The jabberjays were gone now. The screams had faded. All that was left was the humid quiet of the jungle and your ragged breathing as you clung to him.

You began to cry again. To sob. You didn't know why. Fear. Relief. You clutched the material of Finnick's suit.

"Shh, baby. I've got you." He cooed, pulling you impossibly closer.

He rocked you gently, as if you were something fragile — and maybe you were. Maybe the Games had finally cracked you down the center, and only Finnick’s arms were keeping you from breaking apart completely.

“It’s okay,” he whispered into your hair, over and over. “You’re okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You wept into his shoulder until your throat burned and your fingers ached from how tightly you were holding on. It was primal, wordless. A grief too big for language, a terror too deep for sense. But Finnick never let go.

Eventually, the sobs quieted into hiccups, then shaky breaths. You were still trembling, your whole body aching with exhaustion, but the panic had dulled — replaced now by the awful throb of aftermath.

Finnick pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering. “Let’s get out of here, alright? Let me clean you up.”

You nodded against him, too tired to speak.

He helped you to your feet like you weighed nothing, like he’d carry you if you asked. You didn’t have the strength to argue.

And as he guided you through the trees, his hand in yours, you realized something that terrified and comforted you all at once:

You would do anything to keep him alive. Even if it meant breaking yourself open all over again.

The walk was quiet.

Finnick kept his hand clasped with yours the entire way, thumb stroking the back of your fingers like he needed to remind himself you were still here. Occasionally, he’d glance over, watching you like you might vanish again — like if he looked away for too long, the jungle might swallow you whole.

Eventually, the trees broke into a clearing, revealing a small stream winding through mossy rocks. The water sparkled in the early evening light, soft and cold-looking, untouched by blood or nightmares.

“Here,” Finnick murmured. “Sit.”

You obeyed, letting him guide you to a flat stone by the edge of the water. Your hands were still shaking, your body humming with fatigue, but Finnick was steady. Solid.

He knelt beside you, pulling a small packet from his belt — standard Games-issued medical gear. But in his hands, even something as impersonal as gauze looked like an act of love.

“Let me see,” he said softly, and you gave him your hands.

He dipped a cloth in the cold stream and began gently wiping the blood from your skin. He didn’t flinch at the stains, didn’t comment on the cuts or bruises blooming along your arms from your frantic run through the trees. He just worked in silence, careful and slow, like he was afraid of hurting you further.

The cold made you hiss a little, and Finnick looked up instantly, his brows pulling together. “Sorry. I’ll be quick.”

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “Doesn’t hurt as much now.”

He smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I scared myself,” you admitted, voice barely audible.

Once your hands were clean, he dried them gently and started wrapping a few fingers with gauze, where the skin had torn. His hands were warm, sure. So careful.

“You’re still shaking,” he murmured, brushing your knuckles. “Want to sit back? I’ll do your face next.”

You let him maneuver you like a doll, leaning against a mossy boulder while he soaked another cloth. This time, when he touched your face, you didn’t flinch — not even when the water traced over scrapes or when his fingers ghosted beneath your jaw.

“Better?” he asked when he was done, voice low.

You nodded, watching him with wide, wet eyes.

He reached out, brushing a thumb beneath your lower lip, wiping away the last streak of blood you hadn’t noticed.

Finnick didn’t speak. He just leaned in.

His kiss was soft — impossibly soft for someone who’d seen so much war and horror. His mouth tasted like saltwater and something sweeter, like a promise. He kissed you like he was trying to stitch all your broken pieces together again. Like if he loved you hard enough, the Games couldn’t touch you anymore.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

"You're so beautiful. So strong, yeah? The strongest woman I know." He said softly, a gentle smile on his face.

Your breath caught, tears stinging your eyes again — but not from fear this time. From the sheer weight of his tenderness.

You shook your head slowly, voice cracking. “I don’t feel strong.”

Finnick leaned in, brushing his nose lightly against yours. “That’s the thing about strength,” he whispered. “It’s not about never breaking. It’s about surviving even when you do.”

You blinked at him, lips parted slightly, as if trying to memorize the shape of every word. Every look.

“And you,” he continued, pressing his forehead to yours again, “you survive. Even when the world tries to rip you apart.”

His hand found yours again, fingers threading through like it was second nature.

"I love you." You said, a tear slipping down your face. Through the blurry layer of your tears, you spotted the glint of Finnick's wedding ring. You gently stroked it with a finger.

Finnick looked down as your finger traced the silver band around his finger, the symbol of a promise made long before this nightmare began. His lips trembled with something that looked like awe, like reverence, like he couldn’t believe someone as shattered and beautiful as you had ever chosen him.

He brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles, slow and tender.

“I wear this because you’re my home, you're the best choice I've ever made,” he murmured against your skin. “Even in here. Especially in here. I love you more than words could ever tell you.”

You let out a soft, broken sound — not quite a sob, not quite a laugh — and leaned forward until your forehead was tucked beneath his chin, letting the steady beat of his heart calm the shaking inside you.

“I thought I’d lost you,” you whispered. “I thought the Capitol had finally taken everything.”

Finnick wrapped his arms around you again, holding you like a man clinging to the last piece of light in the world.

“They can’t have you,” he said, voice fierce and low in your ear. “They’ll never take you from me.”

You stayed there for a long time — just the two of you, curled together by the water as the sun dipped lower and the jungle quieted around you. For now, you were safe. For now, the blood had dried, the voices had gone silent, and you had each other.

Your shrieks haunted the halls of the District 13 hospital. Guttural, vile in nature. Finnick found himself rushing to the source of the sounds. while terrified, he pushed forward, disregarding the voices that shouted at him to stop, pushing past the security team that tried to stop his efforts. Finnick was strong, making it through the barricade of people without any serious casualties.

He emerged into the room where you had just woken up from sedation, and his heart ached immensely. The sight of you there, thrashing against your restraints. You looked drained of color, nutrients, and life. Emaciated and with a raspy, hoarse voice, you still shouted, convinced you were going to be tortured again. convinced that the doctors were going to hurt you, that the excruciating pain might never go away.

Finnick stopped himself; security had grabbed his arm and gently urged him to leave the room. The doctors were saying you would need time, which was something Finnick felt he did not have a lot left to spare. He choked, standing there watching you struggle. You hadn't even noticed him, until you did. Your eyes locked onto his.

For a moment you saw something comforting, something real in Finnick's eyes, but the capitol's torture methods took over you, the distorted images of him hurting you came back and your body recoiled. You shrieked louder, thrashing in your restraints, distressed. Finnick felt a piece of him breaking.

"Please, Sir," a strong voice urged.

"She needs space,"

He finally complied with Security's plead to get him to leave, not wanting to cause you any further harm. As they escorted him out of the hall, he choked out sobs, and the hot tears ran down his cheeks.

. . . .

Finnick found himself back by your room, unable to sleep. He had fallen asleep for a short time with his back leaning against the wall by the door, woken suddenly when a doctor had opened it and stepped out into the hall. Finnick quickly swept up onto his feet.

"How is she?" he asked, wanting to barge in there, to see you, hold you, and tell you it was okay. but he didn't want to cause you any distress. He was terrified for your recovery and worried everyday for you after seeing what they'd done to Peeta.

"She is stable." the doctor said, taking a short breathe. "We need you to be patient." he continued. "Recovery will have its ups and downs, and we will do everything we can..."

Finnick's heart raced. The doctor made it seem like you would never come back. "When can I see her?- Can I please just sit with her?" he asked. The doctor gave a sympathetic look.

"In a few hours, when she wakes again, we can allow you visitation."

Finnick nodded, he knew he had to wait, but he still longed for you.

"It's best if both of you are well rested when you visit, " the doctor said, offering a comforting hand to Finnick's shoulder and giving him a squeeze. "I'm staying here." Finnick insisted. The doctor gave a soft sigh. "Very well." he said, nodding at him.

Finnick sat with his back to the same wall by your door all night, softly dozing to sleep for a several hours when exhaustion overtook him.

In the morning, the hustle of the nurses and doctors woke him, and his eyes fluttered open softly. He rose back up to his feet quickly when he heard the faintest calling of his name.

"Finnick," you sounded rough, you had lost your voice almost entirely.

The door slid open, and he stood in the doorway. You came too, fully, your brain feeling unclear. you stared, now conscious looking at the figure. He was unarmed. That's the first thing you noticed. You looked at him in confusion as he cautiously and gently approached you.

He sat by your bedside and looked at you; his sea colored eyes were glazed over, filled with worry and fear. A strange feeling came over you. Finnick said your name so tenderly, so gently, barely above a whisper. Do I know him? did he hurt me? Is this real? you thought. He reached his hand out to set it on your own, but you pulled away and flinched as if he was going to strike you. Finnick pulled away quickly, the movement startling you more.

They had done unthinkable things to you, and it hurt him to know that they had distorted your image of him, that they had taken the sweetest, kindest person you loved and twisted them into some kind of monster. Your memory of Finnick was vague, plagued by images of violence that felt blurry. Deep down he knew that there had to be the same girl he fell in love with somewhere in there.

He took a step back, noticing your distress. "It's okay, you're safe." He said softly. "Who are you!" you spat, anxiety rising in your chest.

"I want to go home!" you shouted.

This alerted the attention of one of the nurses, who came over and administered some kind of medicine. The liquid quickly entered your system, and you dozed back off to being half awake, mumbling and uttering unintelligible words while the nurse checked your vitals.

The nurse turned to Finnick, apologizing.

. . . .

You can hear them coming. Mutts. They stamp onto the arena's grounds furiously, and you are out running them, just barely until they catch up with you are the group. First, they tear apart Peeta, Katniss' shrill cries haunt you, then they devour her, and you turn to see the rest of your friends being attacked by the mutated beasts.

You run, your feet carrying you far enough that you are in a small wooden shack, something that's safer than being out in the open. The beasts rack the walls, beating against the now locked door, as you notice Finnick emerge from the shadows. His eyes are different. he looks cold, sober, and menacing. He lets out a growl and lunges towards you, tackling you to the ground.

His hands hold you down, finding their way to your neck as they begin restricting your airway. His expression is void of emotions. His hands feel cool, and his calloused fingers force bruises on your skin. You struggle against him, begging for your life . . .

After one week of recovery, the nightmares begin to plague you. That was the first of many to come. You woke up with a gasp, desperately trashing and trying to save yourself, Once you realize where you are, you try to rationalize with yourself. You gasp, unable to catch your breath, feeling you neck as if you are hurt, and upon examining yourself, there are no bruises. It had to have been a dream.

Finnick appeared at your bedside, scared to touch you and agitate you more, "Hey, hey," he cooed, his voice was soothing. you felt conflicted, the man in your dreams had eyes devoid of color, and Finnick's were the color of the sea, remaining calm, concerned.

"It was just a dream, you're safe." He said softly.

"You," you managed to rasp out between hyperventilation.

"You tried to hurt me," you said, tears now spilling from your eyes.

"No, love, It was a bad dream. I would never lay a hand on you." he said gently, he was being patient. It was clear to you now that he did not intend to hurt you, because if we was going to he would have tried before the nurses came rushing in to check on your heart monitor that was making a raging beeping noise.

Finnick stood by your side, looking at you with worry.

"You're okay, just try to get some more rest." the nurse said. You nodded, exhaustion once again taking you as you rested your head back against the pillow. Whatever sedatives they had you taking were working well, lulling back into a slumber, hopefully this time without nightmares.

. . . .

After another week you hadn't been sleeping well now relying on the sedatives too heavily, with fear the images from the nightmares would take you out of reality again, each one more painful than the last.

Your eyes fluttered open, nothing too bad this time. The room was dimly lit, it had to be at least midnight. The halls were quiet, your restraints were still there, for your own good, the doctors had said the previous day. You attention was drawn to the gentle snoring of the man sitting in the chair in the corner of the room.

You looked at him and a sickly familiar feeling came across your chest. There was something about watching his chest gently rising and falling in his uncomfortable-looking sleeping position that seemed unthreatening.

You gazed at him, a glimpse of a memory surfacing, you could remember him, you couldn't quite place where you were, but you were standing in water and the sensation of the cool lapping waves against your body somehow felt like home. It calmed you. He was there, you recognized him, a vague figure standing with you in the water. No strangulation, no weapons, just standing in the water in his arms. You couldn't tell if that was real or not, but it seemed happy, calming, the first decent memory you had in a long time.

After a while, you warmed up to his presence, watching him sleeping, you were far too weak to do much else. you still hadn't determined if the memory was real or not.

His eyes fluttered open, and he noticed you were awake.

"Hi sweetheart," he said sheepishly with a yawn.

"Did you get some sleep?" he asked you. you reluctantly shook your head. "I can't sleep," you said, your voice was low, still scratchy but a vast improvement from before.

"Do you want me to stay up with you?" he asked. you waited, hesitating for a long time, before nodding honestly. It was nice to have another person near you, even if you weren't entirely sure who they were, you were beginning to see him as a non threat. baby steps.

After another bout of silence, your voice carried across the quiet room. "I can't tell what's real anymore," you confessed. Finnick frowned. "You don't have to right now," he said. "All you should know right now is that you're safe, and I'm here." he said. you felt comforted.

The two of you stayed up for a while, and he stayed up to watch over you as you stared at the ceiling for a while, contemplating everything, before finally feeling relaxed enough to rest again.

. . . .

After that night, you felt more comfortable, and would sometimes laugh at a small joke Finnick would make. You had even warmed up enough to allow him to sit closer to you, and after several weeks, you allowed him to hold your hand. His felt soft and warm, nothing like the memory of his hands you weren't sure you could trust.

One month of treatment and therapy and conditioning. you were starting to feel somewhat like your old self. Somewhat normal, despite your questioning of your own memory. The doctors had helped you work out ways of differentiating your memories from what was real. It was tough. It felt like a daily battle. But at least now you had someone to tell you what was real, and what was not.

Your eyes fluttered open that morning to see Finnick in the chair in by your bed, flipping through the pages of some novel he had found, pretending to read the page, skimming the words but not really reading them. He noticed your gaze and smiled softly.

"Good morning, love." he said in a quiet voice.

"Hi." you said.

Finnick just stared, admiring your beauty, yearning to have you back. He was beyond thankful you were alive and here with him, so now he focusses all his energy on your recovery.

You were lost in your thoughts for a long while. The memory of the two of you in the water kept resurfacing. Bits and pieces came back to you as time passed, now you were able to form a somewhat coherent image.

you were in his arms, on the beach, back home, in District 4. He held you while humming a gentle song in your ear, the waves pushing and pulling against your bodies, gently complementing Finnick's melody. The safe feeling warmed your whole body, and you felt a love surround you. The gentle sea breeze combing through your hair, the smell of the sea flooding your senses...

"Can I ask you a question?" you spoke suddenly. Finnick leaned forward in his chair. "Of course," he said honestly.

"I think," you said, still unsure of the memories.

"I think you loved me."

the words hung in the air softly and fell upon Finnick like a melody.

"That's not quite right," he said. you gazed at him in confusion. "I Love you. still, always," he said. "No matter what happens." he smiled at you, wanting to cry.

"I love you," Finnick said softly, brushing a piece of hair from your face. "That is real." he said. you nodded, this time initiating contact and placing your hand over his. There was a mutual understanding that day.

"Everything is so fuzzy," you begin.

"But I remember being in the sea with you, back home, I think."

Finnick nodded. "Is that real?" you asked him, gazing into his eyes, the same ones from the memory that brought you comfort now, even if you couldn't remember much else or any other context. It came back in fragmented parts. "Yes," Finnick said without hesitation. "I remember it too."

"That was the first time I realized I was in love with you." he said. you took his word for it, why would he lie? "We had just met up when I had come home from the games; we were so young." He continued on, as you listened to his story, eager like a child to hear more.

"You told me you were scared that you'd never see me again, and you were happy I was home." You smiled softly, tears filling your eyes, flooding with a warming, loving feeling. "And I said to you," he stopped himself, smiling softly, tears gently falling from his cheeks. he hesitated, but your memory became a brighter beacon now, and you finished his sentence for him.

"I'll always come home to you."

The words caused Finnick to sob. he nodded, taking your hand and gently caressing your bony hands with his fingers.

"I'm so sorry they took you." he said with a bit of guilt.

"It's not your fault," you whispered gently.

"I thought the Capitol had taken you from me. I almost lost hope." He confessed. you stayed quiet for a moment.

"Finn?" you uttered softly; his heart fluttered when you said his nickname. "Yes, love," he exhaled, wiping his tears away.

"Will you hold me?"

I opened it and sighed, already exhausted. The email was polite, professional, meticulously worded, an overview of our upcoming assignment, expectations, submission guidelines. 

Clear. Concise. And somehow... completely incomprehensible.

I read it once. Then again. Then a third time, slower, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something sensible if I stared hard enough.

They didn't.

By the fourth reread, my frustration had built into a low simmer. I groaned, tipping my head back against the couch.

"Why do you hate me?" I muttered to my screen.

The assignment wasn't even hard, exactly. It was just abstract. Layered. The kind of task that required interpretation rather than instruction and that was precisely the problem. I didn't know what he wanted. And worse, I didn't know how to ask without sounding stupid.

I scrolled down to the bottom of the email.

Office Hours Available.

My cursor hovered. Absolutely not, I told myself. I could figure this out. I was a grown adult. A graduate student. I had survived worse.

I scrolled anyway.

Time slots filled my screen, most of them already booked. My heart beat a little faster with every name that wasn't mine. When I reached the bottom, there it was.

Friday—Last Slot.

I stared at it. Of course it was the last one.

With a deep breath and a huff that felt suspiciously like surrender I clicked book before I could talk myself out of it.

The confirmation email popped up almost immediately. I shut my laptop.

Thursday night officially ruined.

Friday arrived faster than I wanted it to.

The lecture passed in a blur of half-taken notes and hyper-awareness, every movement Cassian made pulling my attention whether I wanted it or not. 

When class finally ended, my nerves were stretched thin, coiled tight in my chest as I followed him down the hallway toward his office.

I stopped just outside the door. Smoothed my skirt. Adjusted my bag. Took one steadying breath.

Then knocked.

"Come in," his voice called from inside.

I stepped into his office and felt the door close softly behind me, the sound final in a way that made my pulse jump. 

The room was smaller than the lecture hall, warmer, lined with bookshelves and scattered papers. His desk sat near the window, laptop open, sleeves rolled just enough to be distracting.

He looked up and smiled.

"So," he said easily, gesturing to the chair across from him. "What seems to be the issue?"

I sat, laptop balanced on my knees, suddenly very aware of how close we were. Too close. Close enough that I could hear the faint hum of his computer, the soft rustle of paper when he shifted.

"I—um," I began, pulling up the assignment brief again. "I think I understand the concept. Mostly. I just... don't know if I'm interpreting it the way you want."

His brow furrowed slightly as he leaned forward. "Show me where you're getting stuck."

I pointed to a paragraph on the screen, explaining my confusion, my words tumbling out faster as nerves crept in. He listened closely, really listened, eyes flicking between my face and the screen, nodding occasionally.

"That's fair," he said after a moment. "It's meant to be open-ended, but not directionless."

"That's comforting," I replied dryly. "In theory."

A corner of his mouth lifted. "You're sharper than you give yourself credit for."

Heat crept up my neck.

Our conversation shifted naturally after that, less rigid, more fluid. He asked questions, I answered. I challenged a point. He countered. 

Somewhere along the way, the discussion stopped being about the assignment and started becoming... something else.

A rhythm. A back-and-forth that felt personal in a way that made my stomach flutter.

"You're thinking too much about what you should say," he said at one point. "Not enough about what you actually think."

"I tend to overthink," I admitted. "In most areas of my life."

His gaze lingered on me a second longer than necessary. "I've noticed."

Before I could respond, he turned his laptop slightly. "Come here," he said, gesturing beside him. "It'll make more sense if you see this."

I hesitated. Then stood.

I moved around the desk, stopping beside his chair, leaning slightly to see the screen. He scrolled through something, explaining quietly but I was aware of everything else instead.

How close we were. How my arm brushed his shoulder. How his knee was angled toward me.

I leaned in a little more. Too much. I realised it at the same moment he did.

Our faces were inches apart now. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. 

He stopped speaking. So did I.

The room felt charged, heavy with something unspoken. My breath caught as our eyes locked, neither of us moving, neither of us looking away.

For a heartbeat, just one, I forgot everything else. 

Where I was. Who he was. Who I was supposed to be.

The rules, the lines, the careful distance we had maintained, all of it blurred, dissolving under the weight of that look. 

Something in my chest tightened, a reckless courage blooming where reason should have been.

I leaned down... and I kissed him.

The moment our lips touched, rational thought vanished completely, as if it had never existed at all. 

The kiss wasn't tentative or uncertain, it was inevitable, charged with everything we had restrained. 

The truth of it hit me all at once. He was my professor, and I was his student, but in that stolen moment, none of it mattered. 

The world had reduced itself to breath and warmth and want.

He responded almost instantly, as though he'd been waiting for permission he no longer needed. 

His lips moved against mine with unmistakable hunger, a quiet groan slipping free as one of his hands slid into my hair, fingers tightening at the back of my head, holding me firmly against him. 

The touch sent a shiver straight through me.

With a swift, careless motion, his other arm swept across his desk, sending papers and books scattering to the floor, forgotten and irrelevant. The sound barely registered. 

Nothing existed beyond the way he kissed me, deep, consuming, like he was trying to pour everything he felt into that single act.

One moment I was standing, my knees weak beneath me, and the next he had lifted me effortlessly, setting me down on the edge of his desk. 

His hands guided me closer, his body settling between my legs as though it was the most natural place for him to be.

The kiss only intensified, desperate and breathless, as if stopping would be impossible, even catastrophic.

My hands roamed over his arms, solid and warm beneath my touch, memorising the strength there before sliding up to clutch at his shoulders. I traced down his back, nails grazing through the fabric of his clothes, drawing a low sound from his throat that made my pulse race.

A soft, urgent moan escaped my lips as he leaned over me, his presence overwhelming, his body pressed close enough that there was no space left for doubt or denial. 

His hand left my hair, drifting downward with confidence, skimming along my thigh until it dipped beneath my skirt, his fingers traced the waistband of the flimsy little thong I wore.

And then he cupped me. Bold, slow strokes between my legs that sent sparks dancing up my spine.

It made my breath stutter, my body reacting before my mind could catch up. 

Every inch of me felt exposed beneath his gaze, like he was reading me as easily as one of the texts scattered on the floor.

I shifted instinctively spreading my legs wider, a desperate sound slipping from my lips as my eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed by sensation and the weight of what we were doing. 

He leaned closer then—impossibly close.

"So wet for me," he whispered, his mouth brushed my jaw, his words murmured so low they felt like a secret meant only for me.

"Oh fuck—" I mewled as his fingers pushed my thong to the side and he finally slid inside me—one at first, then two, pumping in smooth, deliberate rhythm while his thumb circled my clit with maddening precision.

The tension inside me built fast, a thread pulled tighter and tighter with every expert movement, every filthy promise murmured against my skin.

I clutched at him, grounding myself in the solid reality of his presence, my thoughts dissolving into feeling, into heat, into want.

"You sound so fucking pretty like this," he breathed, the words sending a shiver straight through me.

I was coming apart in his hands, every carefully maintained boundary slipping away. My breaths turned shallow, my body trembling as the tension inside me coiled tighter, sharper, until it felt impossible to hold it back any longer.

"Oh god," I panted, barely finding my voice. "I—I can't—"

His grip tightened, his voice low and commanding, threaded with something dangerously tender. "That's it, baby. Come for me. Let go. Come on my fingers—ride it out."

That was all it took.

Everything inside me broke open at once, my body arching, a breathless cry leaving me as sensation washed over me in a dizzying wave of bone-deep pleasure.

For a moment, there was nothing but him, nothing but the echo of his name on my lips and the forbidden knowledge that this line, once crossed, could never be uncrossed.

And I didn't care.

Then reality crept back in, slow and merciless.

His fingers slipped away from beneath my skirt, not abruptly, not cruelly, just deliberately, as if the act itself required control now. 

The loss of his touch felt louder than any sound in the room. 

My body still hummed with it, phantom warmth tracing where he'd been, but the air between us shifted, growing heavier with every breath we took.

We stared at each other.

He looked undone, hair slightly dishevelled, jaw tight, eyes dark with something dangerously close to regret. 

I must have looked the same. Flushed. Breathing too fast. Still sitting on the edge of his desk like I belonged there.

I opened my mouth, intending to say something—anything but the words tangled somewhere between my heart and my throat. 

My pulse thudded in my ears, each beat a reminder that this hadn't been a dream. That it had really happened.

That I had really kissed him first.

The silence stretched until it became unbearable.

"That—" His voice was low, rough around the edges, like it hurt to use. He stopped, swallowed, then tried again. "That shouldn't have happened."

The words landed softly, but they hit hard.

Something inside my chest caved in, even though I had known, had always known, this was where it would end. 

The logic rushed back in all at once, professor, student, power, consequences, reality. All the reasons we had no right to be standing this close, breathing the same air.

I nodded slowly, the movement small, almost fragile. "I know," I said quietly. "It's wrong."

The word tasted strange. Wrong. As if it could neatly contain everything that had just unravelled between us.

But even as I said it, doubt coiled beneath the certainty.

Because if it was wrong... why did it feel so inevitable? Why did my skin still ache for his touch? Why did the idea of stepping away feel harder than staying?

I slid off the desk, creating distance I hadn't realised I was holding back from. My legs wobbled, but I stayed upright, forcing myself to look at him, not the man who had kissed me, but the one I was supposed to see.

My professor.

He had turned slightly away now, hands braced on the edge of the desk, shoulders tense like he was holding himself together through sheer force of will. 

For the first time since I'd met him, he looked unsure. That scared me more than anything.

We stood there, separated by barely a step and an impossible divide, both knowing the same truth.

This shouldn't have happened.

And yet... something told me that pretending it hadn't changed everything would be the real lie.

Cassian's POV - 

I watched her leave my office.

I didn't say anything. I didn't move. I just stood there as the door closed behind her with a soft, devastating click, one that sounded far too much like an ending.

Final.

My gaze drifted downward, unfocused, taking in the aftermath, papers strewn across the floor, a book lying open and face-down, my desk no longer the clean, orderly space it had been an hour ago. 

Evidence. Of what we'd done. Of what I'd allowed.

My hands came up to my face, fingers digging into my hair as I exhaled slowly, shakily.

What the fuck had I done?

The thought followed me relentlessly, through the quiet hallway, through the parking lot, through the drive home. It sat in the passenger seat like a living thing, loud and unyielding.

She was my student.

She had come to me for help, for guidance, for clarification, not for this. I had known better. I had built my career on knowing better. 

And yet the moment she'd been close enough to touch, close enough to look at me like that, everything I prided myself on had unravelled.

One moment had led to another. A look held too long. A breath taken too close. And suddenly restraint had become optional, distant, theoretical.

I could still hear her, those sounds she'd made, soft and unguarded, the way she'd clutched at me like I was the only thing anchoring her to the room. The way her body had reacted without hesitation, without doubt.

It had undone me.

By the time I got home, the house felt too quiet. Too empty. I dropped my keys on the counter and stood there for a long moment, staring at nothing, my pulse still refusing to slow.

The shower was meant to help. Cold water. Control. A reset. It didn't.

Even with the water beating down on me, even with my eyes shut tight, she was there—imprinted behind my eyelids. 

The curve of her mouth. The way her breath had hitched when I said her name. The way she'd looked at me afterwards, wide-eyed and shaken and still so achingly close.

I braced my hands against the tile, jaw clenched, trying to breathe through it.

Trying to remind myself that this was wrong. That this could never happen again. That wanting her didn't excuse anything.

But my body betrayed me just as easily as my mind had earlier.

The memory followed me, relentless and vivid, every sensation echoing until it was impossible to tell where thought ended and instinct began. 

I shut my eyes harder, my hand drifting lower on my body, letting the water drown out everything else as I surrendered, briefly, shamefully, to the truth I refused to name out loud.

That I wanted her.

That I couldn't stop help thinking about her.

That whatever line I'd crossed that afternoon, it wasn't one I could simply step back over and forget.

When I finally turned the water off, the bathroom was thick with steam and regret. I stood there, breathing hard, knowing one thing with painful clarity.

This wasn't over.

A/N - Well that escalated... quickly but the tension was too delicious to keep holding back x

It's important to remember she made the first move, but Cassian definitely finished it :)

There's very obvious regret and disbelief afterwards, especially in Cassian's POV. That part is important (even if he's still thinking about her in the shower!!)

Thank you for reading <33

“Almost.” She could hear the smile in his voice, and it irked her. “Patience, my love.”

She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth. She’d been biting it raw ever since she’d followed Az into the kitchen.

“I’m not even hungry.”

“That’s part of the—”

“The frenzy, I know, I know,” she interrupted, waving her hand. She hadn’t forgotten his lecture from ten minutes ago, when he’d practically had to wrestle himself from their bed. A frenzied brain did not particularly care for sufficient nourishment. Apparently, Cass had lost almost twenty pounds when he and Nesta mated.

Azriel chuckled quietly, wings rustling as he skilfully diced a tomato to add to the scrambled eggs.

“Then how is it you can focus enough to care for food right now?” She narrowed her eyes at his back.

“Oh, believe me, I would gladly starve myself if it meant I never had to leave that bed again,” Azriel hummed in a tone that sent a shiver down her spine. “I am, however, unwilling to starve you.”

She rolled her eyes, though a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Damn you.”

Her eyes flickered back to the clock, and with a groan she realised that only two more minutes had passed. She felt like she was damn near vibrating with impatience now, and next thing she knew, she was pushing off her chair to near Azriel by the stove.

She hadn’t even touched him yet when she noticed him grow still as death, his shoulders suddenly tense with her presence.

She smiled to herself as she wrapped loose arms around his waist, careful not to brush up against his lightly flared wings as she pushed to the tips of her toes to peek over his shoulder.

“It does smell good,” she hummed, wrists loose for her hands to brush the hard bulge in the front of Azriel’s tight black underwear that he’d insisted on wearing to the kitchen.

A wicked grin twisted her lips as she realised that Azriel was holding his breath, hands frozen in their movements.

Pressing a featherlight kiss right between the symmetrical bases of his wings, she breathed her next words against his skin.

“Come on, Azriel. We can eat later.”

The shadowsinger cleared his throat, and with a shallow breath and chopped movements, he continued dicing.

“I’m almost done,” he spoke in a tight voice.

She huffed a puff of air against his skin, lip jutting out in a pout.

“I gotta say, I’m beginning to take this personal,” she said, as she lowered her arms from his body to take a step back. “How are you this composed when—”

With a clank, Azriel dropped the knife to the cutting board, and faster than what should have been possible, he spun around to back her against the table, shadows restless as they curled through the air surrounding their master.

Her own breath hitched as Azriel inhaled deeply through his nose, arms caging her in as he leaned close enough for their lips to almost touch.

His eyes were dark, pupils almost swallowing the warm brown tone of his irises whole, and it felt like he was staring into her very soul as he held her gaze.

“You best believe that it’s taking me every ounce of willpower I have to not bend you over this table and fuck you till your legs are shaking,” he growled deep in his chest, urging closer for the table’s edge to press into her spine. She could feel her heart beat up to her throat, body heating with Azriel’s proximity until her mind began to swim.

His jaw worked as he noted the change in her scent, the table groaning with the harsh grip of his hands. “But first we’re eating these fucking eggs because I don’t know if I have it in me to prepare more than one meal today and I’m not having you starve yourself.”

Her chest was heaving now, eyes flickering from his eyes, to his wings, to his bare chest so close that it almost brushed against hers.

With another deep inhale, Azriel closed his eyes for a moment, jaw clenched. When he looked at her again, there was a daze in his gaze that must have mirrored hers. His voice was lower now, softer, almost pleading.

“So please,” he said with a shaky exhale. “Please just sit there, and don’t move, because the faster we’re done here, the faster I can bury myself in you as the Cauldron intended.”

It took her everything to blink the haze away, and even more to nod. Her lips were slightly parted, her body thrumming with need, but when Azriel turned back towards the stove with his every muscle tensed, she forced herself to sit back down.

A brief glance to the clock told her that another two minutes had passed. Sucking on her teeth, she trailed her eyes down Azriel’s lean body.

“Can you do something, please?” Rhysand asked him earlier that day. 

“What would you have me do, Rhys? I can hardly throw her over my shoulder and march her out of the library,” Cassian sneered in return. 

His response was met with an incredulous brow and a smarmy once over. “Are those muscles just for show, brother?”

Cassian’s siphons flared indignantly causing Rhysand to sigh.

“Listen, I know she’s down there doing research for me, but she’s hardly taken a moment to eat or sleep or, like, breathe,” the High Lord explained tiredly, as though your over-working exhausted him. “I was sort of hoping that, you know… as her mate…” 

Rhysand didn’t finish that thought, Cassian didn’t need him too. 

While Cassian and Azriel have made some progress with you, you’ve been warming up to them at a glacial pace and Cassian hardly thinks he’s the one who will finally be successful in extricating you from the library.

Feyre’s already tried, Gwyn and Nesta too; what can Cassian possibly do that three females can’t?

Still, you’re his mate, and he’s yours, and he should—at least try to—take care of you.

If he’s unsuccessful, maybe Azriel will have more luck tonight once he’s back from his mission. 

With a small prayer to the Mother, Cassian braves the library beneath the House of Wind and begs the Cauldron that you’re not currently bumping elbows with Bryaxis. 

The Cauldron has some pity on Cassian, it seems, which finds him locating you on the very first floor.

You’re so engrossed in whatever you’re working on that you don’t notice Cassian’s approach despite the mating bond, despite the fact that he’s not exactly an easy male to miss, despite the way he nearly upends an entire stack of books with his wings on his way over. 

“I’ve heard you’re due for a break,” he says as quietly as he can manage, wincing when he still manages to startle the ever loving shit out of you. 

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, your hand rising to splay beneath your throat as you try to still your racing heart.

“You scared me,” is all you manage to say.

Cassian chuckles albeit apologetically. “I can see that. Sorry, sweetheart.”

“S’okay,” you manage as you roughly rub at your face as though trying to rouse yourself back into action. “Did you need something?”

Did Cassian need something? Uhm, yeah, for his gorgeous little mate to see the light for a few minutes or, you know, eat and sleep like a normal person. 

“I was wondering if you had time to grab something to eat with me,” he settles on, raising a brow when you wince halfway through his sentence.

“I…I’m really quite busy,” you try carefully, gaze pointed at the spread of books and parchment across your table as though it might vanish should you lift your eyes from it. 

“Yeah?” Cassian hums thoughtfully. “You’ve been at this for a while, right?”

You sigh. “I… guess, but, I really think I’m onto something here.”

“I’m sure you are, you’re a brilliant fae,” he allows, wishing beyond measure that Azriel was here to help; he’d be so much better at this right now. “You still need to eat, though.”

And just like that, whatever progress Cassian thought he was making with you vanishes, finding you rolling your eyes in frustration. 

“Did Nesta send you?”

“What? No, I-”

“Because I told her I’m fine; I was already sitting when it happened and-” But whatever happened while you were sitting remains a mystery to Cassian when you fall silent, doing a double take before staring at the male with wide eyes. 

“What happened?” you almost whisper.

What happened? What happened, indeed; you’re the one who stopped the story halfway through.

“What do you mean?” he asks instead of potentially starting a fight with you. You're a bit all over the place; whether that’s due to exhaustion, hunger, or stress, Cassian’s not entirely sure. He’s kind of afraid to find out.

“You’re hurt,” you explain, hand rising slightly from your side as though it itches to reach out but won’t commit to the action.

Honestly, Cassian almost laughs; he’d all but forgotten about the incident until you brought it up. 

Gwyn’s face was priceless at sparring this morning after successfully landing a blow to Cassian’s cheek, immediately falling into hysterics over it. 

The Illyrian eventually had to command the priestess to stop apologizing to him; she did exactly what she was supposed to do, and she did it well.

So well, in fact, that it managed to cut the skin and is producing a decent bruise. 

It’ll be gone by tomorrow, maybe even later tonight if he soaks in a nice bath with healing salts.

He almost tells you as much until he realizes that your hand still hovers between the two of you, until he realizes that you’ve looked away from your workspace for the longest stretch of time in Cauldron knows how long. 

Until he realizes that he might be onto something.

“Training incident,” Cassian explains with a put upon forlorn expression. Your brows furrow even deeper; a sign of his success. 

“Does it hurt terribly?” you murmur then, leaning to the side in order to get a better look, hand still hovering—just begging to be held—though Cassian doesn’t dare take it in his yet; doesn’t dare shock you out of whatever trance his mottled skin has you under. 

Truthfully, it doesn’t hurt at all. It hurt minutely when it happened—no one tell Gwyn or Rhysand, though; Gwyn will go on another apology tour and Rhysand will definitely laugh at him—and he long forgot it happened by the time he came looking for you.

He doesn’t tell you any of that.

“It has a heartbeat,” he lies, almost feeling bad about the small, pitiful sound you let out at that. 

“Cassian…” you hum mournfully. “You should ice it.”

“Yeah?” he asks you, daring a small smile. “Az is usually in charge of that, but he’s out on a mission.”

Your chest falls at Cassian’s predicament but your hand finally rises, daring a delicate, barely there touch to the purpling skin under his eye. 

He’s glad Azriel’s end of the bond is shut while the Shadowsinger works, Cassian’s almost embarrassed at the acrobatics his heart does in his chest at the show of affection. 

“Can you help me, maybe?” he ventures then, words barely above a breath as your eyes trace his face. 

Your hand stills on his face but doesn’t retreat. 

“Please?” he doubles down. Honestly, Cassian’s not above getting on his knees and begging you if that’s what it takes. 

You make a noncommittal sound, looking back over your shoulder at your work.

He speaks again before you can argue. “Clotho will make sure no one touches it,” he tells you quickly, winking over your head at the priestess who looks up from her book at the sound of her name. 

Cassian doesn’t really give you a chance to reply let alone argue. He gently takes your hand in his larger one and starts leading you in the direction of the exit. 

Rhysand must’ve been right; you must be exhausted. You’re completely listless as you let him guide you out of the library, you nearly fall asleep as he flies you up the the House of Wind, and you barely manage to hold the ice against Cassian’s cheek while he plies you with grapes and a few bites of cheese before finally collapsing in exhaustion on his and Azriel’s bed.

Surprise, Azriel’s shadows inform him as he trudges through the now dark and quiet home, the male having long missed dinner and saying goodnight to everyone before the House finally shut down for the evening. 

Azriel’s fresh from a mission, which means he’s sore and tired and desperate for a wash and definitely not in the mood for his shadows’ secrecy. 

Azriel does not want to be surprised, does not appreciate surprises; surprises in his line of work usually mean injury—or worse. 

So, he’s tense as shit by the time he finally shoulders his way into his and Cassian’s shared room when he stills; first at the scent, and then at the sight. 

You’re snuggled into Cassian’s side—your boots discarded on the floor near Azriel’s side of the bed—and dutifully tucked in under the covers as Cassian draws delicate lines up and down your upper arm with a loving finger. 

Asleep. 

Surprise! his shadows cheer again as they flee forwards to investigate his mates.

“What’s this?” he asks Cassian quietly as he shucks off his own boots and moves to perch on your his edge of the bed.

“Turns out you and our troublesome little mate have something in common,” Cassian taunts, pausing in his caress of you only for Azriel to draw a tender line of his own. 

“Your stories can put both of us to sleep?” Azriel teases in return, smirking when Cassian flicks him before returning to his ministrations. 

“She works too hard,” he explains pointedly. “Wouldn’t take a break. Feyre, Nesta, and Gwyn all tried; Rhys finally asked me to check on her.” 

Hasn’t slept in twenty-seven hours, Azriel’s shadows fill him in. Stubborn girl. 

“How’d you manage to convince her?” Azriel asks then as he brushes a few baby hairs from your hairline; you let out a shuddering sigh. 

“Magic,” Cassian tells him. 

He got hurt in training, his shadows tattle.

“Are you sure it’s not because of that shiner you’re sporting?” he supplies. 

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Cassian denies haughtily. “Although, you should probably expect a round of apologies from a certain priestess tomorrow for—quote—marring your poor mate’s face.”

Azriel huffs a laugh and feels his wings sinking behind him, beginning to relax at finally being home, at finally being reunited with the other pieces of his soul. 

“Missed you,” Cassian murmurs then, continuing when Azriel responds with a pulse of warmth down the bond. “Mission was okay?”

“It was okay,” Azriel supplies noncomitally; he’s never been one to talk much about his missions, and finds the idea of discussing the dark reality of his line of work in your presence all that much more offensive. 

The sound of water running steals Azriel’s attention and he watches a few of his shadows leave the attached bathroom.

He almost regrets wanting to bathe when sitting here in bed with both of his mates is the alternative. 

“Go wash up,” Cassian encourages him, clearly clocking Azriel’s hesitation. “We’ll be here when you get back.”

Azriel sighs. “With my luck, I’ll get back and she’ll be on the couch again, or worse; in her room.” 

Cassian snorts at the Shadowsinger’s petulance. “She barely stayed awake on the flight up here. Besides, I’m pretty sure she was about to tell me that she passed out in the library—I know, we’ll have to ask Nesta for more details—before I dragged her out of there.

“Trust me,” he explains easily. “She’s not going anywhere.” 

Azriel relents, giving Cassian a quick peck and then pressing a much gentler one to your temple before making his way to the bathroom. 

Azriel takes the world's quickest bath that evening and makes the executive decision that he and you will be taking the day off tomorrow.

But it was the exhaustion that felt heaviest. The kind that seeped deeper than flesh.

Dried tears tightened against my skin. Salt tracks. Evidence.

Beside me, Silas shifted.

I felt him before I saw him—his arm sliding across my bare waist, pulling me toward him as though nothing had happened. As though the night had been nothing more than a storm that had passed without consequence.

I opened my eyes carefully. He was already awake. Already watching me.

There were tears in his eyes. There always were.

They gathered in the aftermath like clockwork, clinging to his lashes, spilling down his cheeks as if he were the one who had suffered.

"I'm sorry, angel," he breathed, voice rough with emotion. 

His thumb brushed gently over my cheekbone, the same cheekbone he had struck, again and again, when my explanations had not satisfied him. 

The tenderness of the gesture made something inside me twist violently.

"I just—" His voice broke. "I just lost control. You know that, don't you?"

Lost control. As if it were something that simply happened to him. As if it had not happened to me.

I couldn't find my voice. So I nodded.

That was what he needed. Agreement. Reassurance. Participation in the lie.

His relief was immediate. His arm tightened around me, careful now, so careful, as if he feared breaking something fragile.

"I love you so much," he whispered into my hair. "I just can't bear the thought of anyone coming between us. Of anyone looking at you like that." His jaw clenched. "You understand that, don't you?"

I swallowed against the ache in my throat. "I know," I managed.

The words felt like swallowing glass.

He exhaled shakily, pressing a kiss to my temple just shy of the bruise. "We'll make it right," he promised. "Tonight. I'll finish my work early and take you somewhere nice. Just us."

As if a dinner could erase the shape of his hand against my skin.

"How about that?" he coaxed softly.

"I don't know," I murmured.

His fingers stilled for a fraction of a second. Only a fraction. But I felt the shift.

"Come on," he insisted, tone still warm just slightly tighter at the edges. "We'll go somewhere beautiful. I'll have a healer sent for you. You'll feel better in no time."

"Silas, I'm sore."

The admission slipped out before I could stop it. Quiet. Honest.

Something flashed across his face. Irritation, there and gone. "I said I'll send for a healer," he replied, sharper now. "You'll be fixed right up."

Fixed. As if I were something cracked but repairable.

I nodded again. Monotone. Obedient. Easy. That was all he required.

He kissed my mouth gently before rising from the bed, already composed. By the time he reached the door, his tears were gone. His posture immaculate. His voice steady as he called for someone in the hallway.

A female healer I did not recognise entered shortly after. She did not ask questions. She did not need to.

Her hands were careful. Reverent. Sorrow-filled.

When she pressed cool magic into my ribs, her jaw tightened. When she brushed her fingers near my temple, her eyes flicked to mine just once full of something dangerously close to pity.

I held her gaze for a heartbeat. And then I looked away.

Because pity was worse.

When she finished, the worst of the swelling had faded. The cuts had sealed. The bruises dulled to shadows beneath my skin. 

Magic could smooth the surface. It could not touch what lived underneath.

Silas did not return before I dressed.

I chose something simple. Soft fabric that would not press too tightly against my ribs. I braided my hair loosely, fingers trembling only once when they brushed the tender spot at my scalp.

The House of Wind was quiet when I stepped into the corridor. Too quiet.

Velaris glittered beyond the windows, sunlight dancing across rooftops and riverbanks like nothing in the world had ever been broken.

I walked without truly thinking.

Down the winding path. Past blooming gardens. Past laughter drifting from distant streets. The city of starlight and second chances.

The Sidra came into view like a ribbon of silver.

It flowed steadily, unconcerned with cruelty. Unbothered by the small devastations of marriage vows spoken in the wrong hands.

I found a shadowed alcove along the bank. Tucked between stone and overhanging branches where the light could not fully reach.

And then—I fell. Not gracefully. Not quietly.

My knees struck the cool earth, hands bracing against the ground as the first sob tore free from somewhere so deep it startled me.

It did not stop.

Everything I had held in, the careful nods, the soft reassurances, the monotone compliance, fractured all at once. My shoulders shook violently. My breath came in broken gasps that scraped my throat raw.

The river did not judge me. It did not demand I understand. It did not tell me he loved me.

I pressed my palms into the dirt, nails digging in as though I could anchor myself to something solid. Something real.

My ribs still ached when I breathed too deeply. My cheek throbbed in quiet reminder. 

But none of it compared to the ache in my chest, the hollow, cavernous ache that made it hard to believe my heart was still beating at all.

The sobs had slowed, but they hadn't stopped. They had merely grown quieter. Quieter was safer.

I didn't hear him approach. 

I felt him. The subtle shift in the air. The whisper of wings folding. The warmth that didn't burn.

Gentle hands touched my shoulders, hesitant, as though he feared I might shatter.

I did not flinch. For the first time in what felt like years, I did not brace. I turned willingly.

And when I saw him, when I saw the grief already pooling in hazel eyes that did not belong to the one who had hurt me—I broke all over again.

The sound that tore from my chest was not dignified. It was not soft. It was ugly and raw.

I stepped into him. No hesitation. No thought.

My arms wrapped around Azriel, fisting in the fabric at his back as I pressed myself against him and sobbed. Truly sobbed. The kind that steals breath and makes your body shake. The kind you don't allow anyone to witness.

He held me.

He did not hush me. Did not tell me to quiet. Did not tell me I was overreacting or dramatic or foolish.

He simply held me.

One hand cradled the back of my head. The other splayed wide against my spine, steady and warm and grounding. His cheek rested against my hair. 

His breathing remained slow, controlled. Anchoring mine.

"I want out," I choked into his chest.

The words felt impossible. Treasonous. They were also the truest thing I had ever said.

"I want to go away, Azriel," I whispered, voice cracking. "I don't want this life anymore. I don't want to wake up and feel afraid of the night."

His arms tightened, not possessive. Protective.

"Don't," he breathed. Not commanding. Pleading. "Don't say you want to die."

"I don't want to die," I cried, pulling back just enough to look at him. My vision blurred with tears. "I just don't want to live like this."

My voice fractured. "I can't endure this forever. I can't sit and take what he does to me. I can't keep shrinking myself so he doesn't feel threatened. I can't keep apologising for existing."

The words spilt now, years of silence breaking free.

"He makes me feel like I am something to be managed. Corrected. Owned." My hands trembled against his chest. "And every time he says he loves me, I feel like I'm drowning."

Azriel's jaw clenched so hard I saw the muscle tick.

"But I can't leave," I whispered. The fear in that truth made my stomach twist. 

"He would never let me go. He would rather kill me than lose me. And sometimes—" My breath hitched violently. "Sometimes I think I would welcome it. Because at least then I would be free."

His hands came up to cup my face. Carefully. As though I were something sacred.

"I would never allow that," he said, voice low and shaking with contained fury. "Do you hear me? Never."

His forehead pressed to mine.

"I lay awake last night listening," he admitted, and the shame in his voice cut through me. "Listening and doing nothing because I thought I had made it worse. I thought my interference lit the match. And it killed me. Every sound. Every silence."

"It wasn't your fault," I whispered fiercely.

"It doesn't matter," he said hoarsely. "Because I care for you."

The words stilled the world. Not dramatic. Not grand. Honest.

"I have cared for you since the first night," he continued, voice unsteady. "When you stood in that hall and pretended you weren't exhausted. When you smiled like it cost you something."

His thumb brushed gently beneath my eye, catching a tear before it fell.

"I saw myself in you," he confessed. "Not the broken parts—the quiet ones. The ones that endure. The ones that survive because they don't know how to stop."

His breath faltered.

"I see someone good. Someone soft. Someone who has been made to feel small for being gentle." His voice dropped, rough with emotion. "And I care for you so much it hurts. I want you safe. I want you laughing without fear of who's watching. I want you to exist without apologising for it."

My fingers curled into his shirt, desperate.

"I want you," he said finally, the words almost breaking him. "Not because you are beautiful. Not because you are forbidden. But because you are you. And he does not get to destroy that."

Something inside me, something frozen and brittle, cracked wide open.

I had never been wanted like that. Not as property. Not as proof. Not as possession. Just... wanted.

"Azriel," I breathed.

He looked at me like I was something miraculous. Like I was not broken. Like I was worth fighting for.

The decision wasn't conscious.

I rose on trembling toes and kissed him. Softly at first. Tentatively. As though testing whether something this gentle could truly exist.

He froze for half a heartbeat. And then his hands slid to my waist, not gripping, not claiming. Holding. Asking.

When he kissed me back, it was slow. Careful. Reverent.

There was no force. No urgency born of hunger. Only aching restraint and overwhelming tenderness. His lips moved against mine like he was afraid to take more than I offered. 

Like he understood that this, this fragile moment was not about desire. It was about choice.

I melted into him. 

For the first time in my life, a kiss did not feel like something taken. It felt like something given.

A tear slipped between us. He caught it with his thumb before it reached my mouth, brushing it away as though it were precious.

When we parted, our foreheads remained pressed together.

The river moved quietly behind us.

And for the first time since I had learned what love was supposed to look like—I believed that I might survive long enough to find it.

Azriel's POV -

I waited until the House had quieted.

Until I felt Silas's presence exactly where I had arranged it to be—distracted, occupied, entertained by matters that would keep his attention firmly elsewhere. 

I did not like the ease with which I could manipulate such things but for her, I would have unravelled entire cities.

The corridor outside her room was silent when I reached it.

For a moment, I simply stood there.

I had faced battlefields without hesitation. Torture chambers without flinching. Yet my hand hovered before knocking, my pulse unfamiliar and uneven.

I knocked once. The door opened almost immediately.

She stood there in soft light, hair loose over her shoulders, dressed simply, no jewels, no careful performance. Just her. 

For a fleeting second, her face lit up when she saw me. A real smile. Bright. Unfiltered. 

Then it fell.

"What are you doing?" she asked quietly, glancing past me into the hall. "Silas will be back soon."

"Silas will not be back tonight," I said gently.

Her brows drew together. "How?"

I stepped inside, closing the door softly behind me. "I am the Spymaster," I replied, allowing the faintest hint of amusement to curve my mouth. "If I cannot occupy one self-important male for a single evening, then perhaps I do not deserve the title."

A breath of laughter left her before she could stop it. It was soft. Fragile. Beautiful.

I reached out without thinking, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. My knuckles grazed her cheek with deliberate care, as though I feared she might bruise again from something as small as touch.

She leaned into it. Just slightly. That trust felt heavier than any blade I had ever carried.

"We're going out," I said.

"Out?" she echoed, eyes widening.

"Yes."

Her fingers traced absently over the scars on my hand, following the raised lines with reverence rather than revulsion. I swallowed against the tightness in my throat.

"Azriel..." she began, uncertain.

"You deserve one night," I murmured. "One night that belongs only to you."

She hesitated. Then she nodded.

I offered my hand. She took it.

We slipped from the House unseen. The night air embraced us the moment we stepped onto the balcony. I gathered her carefully against me before she could protest, one arm at her waist, the other bracing her securely.

"Hold on," I whispered. 

Her arms circled my neck. 

I leapt. The wind rushed around us, cool and alive, carrying the scent of the Sidra and distant bakeries. 

She gasped not in fear, but in wonder as Velaris unfolded beneath us. Lights glittered like fallen stars. Music drifted faintly from open windows. The city breathed freedom.

I landed softly on a secluded rooftop overlooking the river.

She blinked. "Azriel... what is this?"

I stepped aside.

A blanket lay spread across the stone, deep blue against pale rooftop tiles. Lanterns glowed softly around it, their light warm and golden. A basket rested at its centre, fresh bread, cheeses, honeyed figs, small tarts dusted in sugar. A bottle of sparkling cider. Two glasses.

Nothing extravagant. Just thoughtful.

"I wasn't sure what you liked," I admitted, suddenly uncharacteristically uncertain. "So I brought a little of everything."

Her hand rose to her mouth. "You did this for me?" she asked, voice trembling.

"Yes."

She looked at the city. At the stars scattered endlessly above us. At the river winding silver through it all.

"No one has ever..." She trailed off, unable to finish.

I did not press her.

Instead, I knelt and offered her my hand again. She stepped onto the blanket as though entering something sacred.

We sat side by side, close but not touching. Not yet.

For a while, we simply existed there. She removed her shoes and tucked her legs beneath her, tilting her face up toward the sky. The starlight softened her features, turned her eyes luminous instead of hollow.

"What do you see?" I asked quietly.

"Possibility," she whispered.

The word nearly undid me.

We spoke of small things at first. Her favourite books. The way she used to climb rooftops as a girl just to watch storms roll in. The scent of jasmine she loved. How she preferred tea too sweet and always let it grow cold because she forgot to drink it.

She spoke slowly at first. Carefully. Then more freely.

Every time she laughed, it felt like witnessing something rare and endangered.

At one point, she grew quiet, fingers tracing the edge of her glass. "I don't know how to be this version of myself," she admitted. "The one who isn't... bracing."

"You don't have to know," I said. "You just have to allow it."

She looked at me then. Really looked at me. "And if it disappears tomorrow?"

"Then we steal another night."

The vulnerability in her expression cracked something inside my chest.

Tentatively, I reached for her hand. She did not pull away. Her fingers slid between mine, cool at first, then warming.

"I'm afraid," she confessed softly.

"Of what?"

"That this is the happiest I've felt in years," she said. "And I don't know how to survive losing it."

I shifted closer, lifting our joined hands to my lips. I pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles.

"You are not losing this," I told her. "Even if everything else changes. You are not losing the part of you that can feel this."

Her eyes shimmered. "You're very good at saying the right thing," she murmured.

"No," I said quietly. "I'm just telling the truth."

The wind tugged at her hair, carrying the scent of jasmine to me. Carefully, slowly, I brushed my thumb along her jaw.

"You are not something to endure," I said. "You are something to cherish."

Her breath hitched.

The kiss that followed was not desperate. It was soft. Sweet. She leaned into me like she had been waiting her entire life to rest. My hand cradled the back of her head, my other at her waist, holding but never restraining.

When we parted, she rested her forehead against my shoulder, breath uneven, fingers fisted in the fabric of my shirt as if she feared I might disappear.

I tilted my head, brushing my nose lightly against her temple.

"Stay," she whispered again.

"I'm not going anywhere," I murmured.

She leaned back just enough to look up at me.

The city lights below us shimmered like fallen stars. The real ones burned overhead, endless and watchful. Wind curled around us, cool and clean, tugging at her hair.

Her eyes searched mine.

There was fear there. And longing. And something fragile that felt like hope trying to take shape.

Slowly, carefully, she lifted her hand to my jaw.

Her touch was tentative at first, as though she expected me to flinch. When I didn't, when I leaned into her palm instead, something inside her seemed to steady.

She kissed me again. 

This time there was no hesitation. Not urgency. Not hunger. Choice.

When she deepened it, when her fingers slid into my hair and she pressed closer, I felt the tremor in her, not from uncertainty, but from release. From wanting without fear.

"Are you sure?" I asked against her lips, breath mingling with hers.

She nodded, eyes shining. "I want this," she said. "I want you."

There was no bravado in it. No seduction. Just truth.

I kissed her like something precious. Like something breakable. Like something sacred.

The blanket shifted beneath us as I guided her down slowly, giving her time to change her mind at any moment. 

She didn't. She pulled me with her.

Under the open sky, beneath constellations older than memory, we made love—not with desperation but with care.

I took my time.

I traced every scar I could see. Pressed my lips to each bruise still fading along her skin. Not to erase them—I could not but to tell her, in the only language my body knew, that they did not define her.

She shuddered beneath me, not in fear. Not in pain. In trust.

Every time she tensed, I paused. Every time her breath hitched uncertainly, I whispered her name until she relaxed again.

She touched me as though I was something worthy of gentleness. No one had ever done that.

When we finally came together fully, it was not frantic. It was slow. Intentional. Like we were memorising each other.

She clung to me as though she had been drowning and had finally broken the surface.

And I held her like I would never let her sink again.

Later, when the stars had shifted and the wind had grown softer, we lay tangled together beneath the blanket.

Her head rested over my heart. My fingers drew slow, lazy patterns along her spine.

For a few fragile minutes, I allowed myself to believe this was enough.

Then I felt it. Warmth against my chest. At first I thought it was sweat from cooling skin. Then I felt the slight tremor of her shoulders. 

Tears. I stilled instantly.

"Did I hurt you?" I asked quietly, panic threading through my voice before I could mask it. "Do you regret it? Tell me."

She shook her head against me, clutching at my shirt.

"No," she breathed, though her voice wobbled. "No, Azriel. Never that."

I shifted so I could see her face. Tears tracked silently down her cheeks, catching starlight as they fell.

"Then what is it?" I asked, brushing them away with my thumb.

She swallowed. "I just..." Her voice broke. She pressed her forehead against my chest as though ashamed of the tears. "I just wish it could be forever."

The words were barely audible but they shattered me.

I wrapped both arms around her, pulling her closer until there was no space left between us.

"It can be," I said immediately.

She gave a faint, sad huff of breath. "You don't know that."

"No," I admitted. "But I know this."

I tilted her chin up gently so she had to meet my eyes. "I will not let this be all we get."

Her brows drew together, fragile hope flickering there.

"I don't know how yet," I continued, voice low and steady. "I don't know what it will cost. But I will figure it out."

She searched my face like she was trying to decide whether to believe me. "I can't lose this," she whispered.

"You won't," I said firmly. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

She studied me for a long moment. Then she leaned up and kissed me again, not with urgency. Not with fear.

With faith.

And beneath the endless sky, holding the female who had been taught her whole life to endure instead of want, I made a silent vow to the stars above us.

I would burn the world down before I let her go back to living half-alive.

A/N - Manipulative Silas is back... but this time she doesn't swallow it down and pretend it's fine. This time, she lets herself fall apart. She goes to Azriel and finally lays her heart bare instead of carrying the weight alone :(

Azriel confesses what he's been holding in, makes some very sweet promises and gives her a glimpse of what love is supposed to feel like. A quiet date. Gentle touches. Being cherished instead of endured!!

Thank you so much for reading <3

You could only assume that his cock was nearly as big.

And finally, finally, you’d gotten what you wanted. You had the warrior splayed out beneath you as you bounced up and down on his cock, swirling your hips with a fervor that would put a whore to shame. It is much larger than you had even imagined.

He lets out a hiss of arousal as you jerk your hips in a particularly pleasurable manner, hands clamping to your hips in a bruising grip before curving over the round of your ass, feeling the way your body moves up and down on his slicked length.

You brace yourself against his chest, large pectorals flexed beneath your fingers. He’s sculpted like a God and you trace the muscles you’d fantasized about touching so many times. He is a rock solid force beneath you, pistoning his hips up to meet yours.

You shoot the warrior a confused glance when the door creaks open but Cassian’s enjoying you entirely too much to care, eyes rolled back into his head, bucking up into you when you slow, your attention drawn to the entry.

He’d said that he had the house to himself tonight, that the High Lord’s wife wasn’t staying in the camp currently, and as her son slips into the room with a female attached to his lips, you can’t help but to stare.

Cassian growls, vying for your attention as he tweaks one of your nipples between his fingers, causing you to release a lewd moan. It draws the attention of Rhys, who parts from the female, only to lick at his bruised mouth as he surveys you riding his friend.

“Don’t stop on my account,” the future High Lord grins wickedly, head cocked to the side to allow the female in his own arms to suckle at his neck, those glowing violet eyes dragging down your naked body curiously, sending a bolt of lightning up your spine in response. You let your head fall back on your shoulders, keening at the attention.

“Wasn’t going to,” Cassian bites back at his friend, gripping your hips tighter in his large grasp, hazel eyes glinting with primal challenge.

You dip down to kiss him as you continue your ride, enjoying every second of his large body pinned beneath your own. You know he can easily flip you, manhandle you into any position he wants and you’d be putty in his hands as he takes you apart.

He distracts you from the soft gasps of the other female as Rhys kisses down her body, the sound of fabric falling to the ground as your lips meet Cassians, fingers finding his long hair and twisting the strands in your grip. His arms snake around your waist in response, pinning you against him. He runs one hand up the curve of your back and over the crown of your wings, swallowing the unabashed noise you let slip at the feeling.

The girl beneath Rhys lets out a filthy moan and if it’s because of obscene sounds of you and your partner or because the future High Lord is as skilled with his tongue as they say you haven’t any idea.

But hearing what they’re doing on the bed across from you ignites something else within you and you find yourself reacting to their noises with your own, timing your pace with theirs, skin slapping against skin as you clutch onto Cassian because it feels so fucking good.

You’re nearly there, nearly coming from the large cock stuffed inside of you, the amplified noises spurring you on. The male beneath you is looking up at you like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen, clenching around his prick and bobbing up and down like you’re meant for it.

“Fuck, (Y/N).” He’s trembling beneath you but he’s not ready to come. His head lolls to the side as you nip at the strong column of his throat and his eyes meet Rhys’ twinkling ones. He smirks, splaying a hand at the base of your skull so you keep at it while he watches his brother take apart the female beneath him.

The room goes dark and for a second you think you’ve blacked out. It wouldn’t surprise you, Cassian's massive cock had pushed all the breath from your lungs upon entering it nearly did feel like you fainted.

But it’s the other Illyrian, the shadowsinger, appearing out of the darkness with his own female from the corner of the room. She’s squealing excitedly in his arms and her shrill voice has you tensing, cunt clenching around Cassian’s prick and he squeezes his eyes shut, grasping your hips to still your movements, his orgasm ebbing slightly.

The female quiets when Azriel kisses her, setting her on his bed and climbing over her, pinning her down with his large, muscular body.

“Is that getting you off baby?” Cassian grunts and you moan loudly in response as his thumb snakes down to rub your clit. He’s not going fast enough, you want more, need more. “You can turn around on my cock and watch them if you want, I won’t mind.”

Your eyes roll back into your skull at his words. It sounds amazing, watching the other two warriors as they take the females in their own beds, wanting to see their strong bodies writhing in the sheets only feet away from you.

You whimper as Cassian stops you, pulling your hips tight against his as he grinds up into you. You’re so wet, dripping on his cock as he gently helps you turn around, letting out a shuddering breath when he inserts his cock back into you.

His large palms cup your ass as you begin moving again. This new angle is bliss, his cock curving up into you has you nearly seeing stars – or maybe it's the future High Lord, emitting those orbs with his powers, casting them throughout the room.

Your gaze flickers back and forth between Azriel and Rhysand. You don’t know who to look at because they’re both as gorgeous as the male beneath you, who’s thumb ghosts across your pucker and you nearly shout, right on the edge of your orgasm.

The shadowsinger’s got a female wrapped around his head as she rides his face. She’s starkly opposite of him in nearly every way, blond hair and louder than hell but her pleasured noises only spur him on, flicking his tongue faster as he holds her to his face with a scarred hand to her thigh, the other tugging himself in time with her movements.

And Rhys…the heir to the Night Court has his female pinned beneath him, her head hanging over the foot of the bed with his hand to her throat, cutting off the desperate noises she’s trying to make as he pounds into her. The way he’s looking at her sends fire up your spine and when his gleaming violet eyes catch yours you brace your hands on Cassian’s shins, nearly melting beneath his lust filled gaze.

Maybe Cassian is being selfish. He wants to watch too, wants his brothers to see exactly what he can do to you. So he slinks an arm around your waist and pushes himself up. You squeak, startled, but he stays sheathed inside of you as he moves, resting you on all fours as he resumes thrusting into you.

“Cassian,” you exhale in bliss, arms giving out because he’s hitting that spot inside of you with every jerk of his hips. Your face melts into the sheets, hands clawing at the soft fabric before he’s bunching your hair in a fist and pulling on it to lift your head.

He wants you to watch.

The thought of this dirty male behind you wanting you to watch his brothers fucking while he takes you from behind has you climaxing with a shout of his name. The other two females seem to react to your filthy moan, matching cries of pleasure spilling from their lips.

Cassian comes shortly after and you’re thankful. You need a second to recuperate after your mind blowing orgasm, and the Illyrian settles against you to catch his own breath.

His weight is a welcome warmth against your back, hot and slick and covering every inch of you is pure bliss as you come down from your high. You can feel his cock pulsing inside of you but he doesn’t pull out, not yet.

“Who do you think is going to come first?” Cassian’s voice is rough and breathy in your ear, caressing the shell with his filthy question before he follows it with a flick of his tongue.

You hum languidly as you assess. Azriel’s shoving that enormously large cock of his into the female beneath him. Shadows writhe around them like they’re ready to strike, to wrap around her pretty throat and choke off the noises she’s making. His mouth glints with her slick and his hazel eyes are nearly black as he pounds into her, jaw set like he just wants her to finish and be quiet.

Rhysand has let up on his partner’s throat, finally allowing her salacious moans to be heard by all. Cassian’s cock twitches inside of you and you clench around him in reflex, the warrior groaning low in his throat.

“Rhys,” you whisper your response to Cassian but the heir’s head perks up having heard you. He has to bite his lip at the sight of you, well–fucked and pinned beneath his brother.

He had done well for himself tonight.

Azriel’s smirk is a shadow across his face. Surely he’ll be the last to come, ever the male of patience and poise. They’ve done this before, each bringing a female of their choosing – sometimes each other’s choosing – to bed. He knows what Rhys sounds like when he’s close to coming, his words getting filthier, hips snapping faster, slapping louder as he tumbles over the edge into oblivion.

The shadowsinger wears a full grin now, unleashing himself on the loud female beneath him.

You watch, intrigued and aroused as he works. The muscles of his tanned back ripple although his wings stay tucked in close. Cassian’s are draped over your own, dwarfing them with the sheer size of his, a blissful comfort where they rest.

The warrior licks a hot stripe up your neck while he pulls out gently and you whimper in time with the last female, her orgasm ripping through her as she clutches onto the spymaster who follows her soon after.

Cassian presses apology kisses following the path he’d just licked, shifting into a more comfortable position, letting you rest your head on his arm.

Your full attention is on him, staring into his ruddy hazel eyes as you tuck a strand of hair that had fallen across his brow behind his ear. 

“I should be going soon,” you sigh softly. Your father will have your head if you arrive home any later. 

Cassian catches your retreating hand, kissing your palm. His eyes say stay but he knows you can’t. He can’t let the beautiful girl before him get in trouble because of him. Well…more in trouble than you’ll already be with his scent all over you.

And he knows he’s going to get shit for this tomorrow from his brothers but he says it anyway, “Can I walk you home?”

Rhys’ prowling laughter echoes in his head and he’s pretty sure he hears Azriel snort but it’s too soft to make out. He doesn’t care though, solely focused on you.

The blush dusting your cheeks is adorable and you think for a moment that you don’t care what happens if someone sees you with the Illyrian before you because you’ve just had the best sex of your entire life.

The heat of your body pressed up behind him, the scent of your contentment, the sound of your happy humming, the raking of your fingers through his hair—it all has him melting further and further into the cobblestone beneath him, caring less and less what the gathering spectators think of the Lord of Bloodshed’s new favourite pastime. 

“How do they look, gorgeous?” he asks, setting his now perfectly sharpened and polished blade down on his right—adding it to the done pile—and picking up a new one from his left. 

“I think this might be my best work yet,” you muse, dropping your hand down to his shoulder to give it a quick squeeze in thanks. Thanks for asking, thanks for letting him do it, he isn’t sure; doesn’t find he cares, he’s just happy to do it. “I think it’d be very pretty if I added flowers or something to them.”

Cassian hums in agreement. “Think you can find any red ones? They can match my siphons.” 

You like the idea, if the bouncing of your knees are anything to go by, reaching over him in an attempt to grab your tote only for Cassian to pause what he’s doing to hand it to you.

“Thank you,” you hum happily. He tilts his head back at you and shoots you an upside down wink before returning his attention to his blades.

You look very pretty, brother, Rhysand croons in his mind, followed by Azriel’s quiet amusement. 

No need to be jealous, Rhys, he quips back, never looking up from his current task. I’m sure she’d do yours too, you only have to ask. 

I think it’d suit Azriel better, he retorts. 

Only if she has blue flowers, Azriel adds. Because of my siphons, of course.

Oh, of course, Rhysand agrees.

“I think the boys are jealous, gorgeous,” Cassian informs you then, smiling to himself when your fingers pause in their task, likely as you look up at the balcony above you. 

Cassian catches a quick glimpse of Rhysand offering you a wave while a single shadow comes to bump your elbow in hello. 

“I could make them flower crowns,” you offer thoughtfully, fingers slowly continuing in their task. “Do you think they’d like that?”

Cassian detects an insecurity in your voice he can’t profess to liking. “They’d love that, sweetheart. Thank you.” 

His eyes flicker up to his brothers, both grinning like cats that caught a canary. 

I’ll make sure of it, he threatens them, causing their grins to grow even wider.

"Wow." The man breathed out, his eyes widening and I couldn't help the ego boost that went to my head. "You're beautiful." I laughed a little bit, stepping out into the hall and locking the door behind me. "That's a good reaction at least. You clean up pretty nice yourself." That was an understatement. Rhysand looked damn good in a suit, sharp lines complimenting toned muscle and his midnight hair had even been styled. He always had an annoying effortlessly gorgeous air about him. but tonight? in this moment especially he looked nearly too perfect. 

He let out a polished grin, bowing slightly. "Well thank you darling. A compliment from your lips makes it all worth it." 

I couldn't help but roll my eyes as he walked to the elevator. "Really? Going to be laying it on thick tonight then?" I teased and Rhys smiled, shooting me a look that was genuine, letting the mask fall for just a moment. "Oh absolutely angel. I am trying to court you after all." 

"I have high expectations then." I warned, settling a hand on my hip, careful to not crease the fabric of my dress. "For all three of you." 

"I cannot wait to surpass them." 

── °ꨄ︎｡ /̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ｡ꨄ︎° ──

I wasn't surprised about the BMW Rhys drove me around in, talking nicely along to the soft hum of music. I was surprised however by the completely empty restaurant we walked into. When the elevator doors dinged open and an empty dining area overlooking the city greeted me mouth dropped. I turned to my date with a raised brow. "What…is-?" 

"I told you I'd surpass expectations. Can't expect us to give you our full attention around a bunch of other people can you?" 

"Only Rhys can come up with something as dramatic as this." Another familiar voice spoke out and when we walked further out onto the roof that's when I noticed the two other men. Nerves hitting me for the first time and in absolute full force. 

Holy shit I'm really doing this. 

"Although in this instance I must say the dramatics were needed. You look absolutely beautiful." Cassian spoke, all earlier playfulness morphing into something serious as he pressed a kiss to my hand. The weight in his eye only lasted for a moment but it felt more than that. felt more important than a casual compliment. 

"Thank you, you can pull of a suit well." I breathed out. Azriel pulled the chair out for me and when I went to sit down he spoke softer than his brothers. His next words just for me and me only. "You really do look beautiful." 

A flush spread up my chest to the tips of my ears. "Thank you." I murmured just as softly, giving him a small smile. Azriel was harder to read, but I appreciated the efforts he put in. The peace he offered in private moments. 

Soon the three men settled at the table, surrounding me and fuck if I didn't enjoy it. They looked good. more than good. Rhysand wearing a crisp suit and a clean watch.

Cassian was a bit more rugged even in his formal attire, a few rings dotting unusually large hands and even though Azriel had chosen the spot most secluded in darkness he still looked polished. It was a bit of a head rush to have such attractive men's attention. But a part of me couldn't help but relish in it, after all my bad dates and long shifts. 

Just for the night I promised myself to have fun, to let a little loose and enjoy the company. Putting aside the anxiety about what could happen. 

As if the universe heard me the waitress came and set down a bottle of wine that looked more expensive than half my closet and when the cork popped off the night began. 

── °ꨄ︎｡ /̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ｡ꨄ︎° ──

Conversation flowed so much smoother than I was expecting. The food melted into my mouth, the night sky and quiet dining area all creating a comfortable ambience. The company I was with making me feel like I could breathe for the first time in months. 

I laughed at Cassian's jokes, shared stores with Rhysand and teased Azriel. It felt more normal than I was expecting and I think that terrified me more than anything. The thought only brought me back to a nagging question on my mind. With another bite into a french dish I couldn't pronounce I finally decided to bite the bullet. 

"Do you guys usually share women?" I asked, and for the first time that night I couldn't make eye contact. Instead I focused on the red of my wine, swirling the drink before finally bringing it my lips. 

I didn't usually date rich men, and I certainly never dated three men at once and from their earlier proclamations they seemed intent on sharing me, and while it flattered me it only made me curious. None of my other coworkers talked about their love life and yet they loved to gossip about them. Was this normal or was it rare? And how careful did I need to be in stepping into something like this. Especially when it felt so natural. 

They stopped chewing, sharing a few glances and I carefully watched the interaction, anxiety thrumming under my skin. Rhysand leaned forward in his seat, his voice even (almost matter-of-fact) as he spoke. "We have shared women before in the past. But usually not romantically. I suppose I should say not long-term romantically." 

Not long term? 

Oh. 

oh. 

He was talking about the bedroom. and suddenly I was envisioning them in the bedroom. What it would be like to between all three of them. Being the sole focus of their attention in a much more intimate way. A sudden heat swept through me and I cleared my throat, shoving that thought aside and ignoring the sly grin on Cassian's face. 

"I see, and is that what you want? Long-term?" I clarify at the pause settling on Rhysand's face. I didn't do one night stands. Especially not with my damned bosses. 

"Yes." Azriel was the one to speak this time, his voice cutting through almost desperately. 

"We've never done this before Angel but we want to try. Only question is are you?" 

I paused, setting my glass back down and instead of returning eye contact I glanced at the city below us. This whole night was nice, had been more than that, there was an undercurrent of something more. something charged and it felt so natural as if it had been there the entire time. 

I'd seen firsthand what men can do to a woman, what a powerful man can do to a desperate woman. I wasn't desperate. I wasn't easy. I wasn't going to place my trust in someone romantically when they signed my paychecks. That was playing with fire. 

But I was here now. We'd already crossed the line, and it had felt good. Felt good to be cherished, felt good to feel wanted. To be the center of attention. It felt good to have conversation with someone who understood. 

I finally looked back at the three men before me. "I do want to try." I started off slowly, as if tasting the words on my tongue, as if I couldn't even believe what i was saying. "But if you want me, then it's all up to you." 

Something passed through each of their eyes, something akin to excitement, maybe a hint of something darker. "Challenge accepted Angel." 

── °ꨄ︎｡ /̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ｡ꨄ︎° ──

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he gets so annoyed when you both can’t seem to find your shared bedroom so he decides to just take you against the wall. you’re being so gods damned loud but neither of really you care. one hand has you hoisted up against him while the other gently tightens around your throat as his cock pistons in and out of you.

“we gotta be quiet,” but then he’s pressing against that gummy spot inside of you that has you stuttering out his name.