The Devil's in the Details

Emerie hums, leaning closer to Nesta and peering over her shoulder. "I have no idea who that man is."

Nesta scoffs, shoving Emerie out of her space. "You don't even watch hockey."

"I watch the PWHL. You know, where all the hot players are."

The comment draws an easy laugh from Gwyn, and Nesta rolls her eyes, finally returning their friend's phone to her. "You were saying? He slid into your DM's?"

"Right. Anyways, so he said he liked my singing videos, and when I saw in his bio that he's a hockey player, I wasn't sure at first, but then we started talking, and we've basically been messaging for like a month now? And now he wants to meet for real, for a date."

"Look at our little Gwynie go," Emerie comments, holding up her glass of wine in a cheers and wiping away a fake tear from her cheek.

"You know, if the date goes well," Nesta offers, biting back a smirk. "You could become a WAG."

"Seriously, Nesta?"

"What? I follow a few on Instagram, and their weddings are always gorgeous. Straight out of a fairytale, disgustingly ornate, and every girl's dream," Nesta explains easily, taking a sip of her own wine. She thinks wistfully back to that one series of wedding photos she saw, all the gorgeous, white flowers in full bloom, the large wedding arch with the mountains providing the perfect backsplash just behind. "I mean athletes have no brains and all that money, so they just say yes to everything their wife wants. Ideal situation, honestly."

"Maybe you should date an athlete and become a WAG then," Gwyn suggests, voice lilting with teasing notes.

"Did you miss where I said no brains? Can you seriously imagine me with an athlete?"

~ * * * ~

Nesta shifts slightly against the cushions of the sofa, burying her legs deeper beneath the blankets. She quickly turns the page of the book in her hand, to the next chapter, excited to discover what sort of fall out will come from the main love interest's secret finally coming to light. Will she forgive him? Will he grovel?

"How do you think it's going?"

Nesta looks up from the pages, finding Emerie now leaning over the back of the sofa, a mug of tea cradled between her hands. "Gwyn's date?"

"Maybe we should go down there and check on her, just to be sure."

"Em…"

"What if he's a creep? I mean she did meet him on Instagram. What if he's secretly not who he says he is?"

Nesta doesn't bother holding back her surprised laugh at that. "His account is literally verified."

Emerie tilts her head, conceding the point, but when she meets Nesta's gaze again, a smirk starts to tug up the side of her lips, brown eyes practically flaring beneath their apartment lights. It's Nesta's only warning for the words that spill from her friend's lips, the words that would have her closing her book with a quiet snap.

"Don't you want to ensure Gwyn gets a WAG wedding for you to live vicariously through?"

"Let me change."

The bar and restaurant is close enough to the apartment that it doesn't take long before Nesta and Emerie are walking through the doors with their arms linked. Pink cherry blossom flowers hang in clusters from the ceiling, adding to the bright, spring elements of the place. It pairs well with the floral wallpaper, with the gallery wall of art and photos, the whole place a perfect place for a first date.

Nesta's eyes sweep over the different tables, over all the different people and couples, until she spots a familiar head of red hair. The man sitting across from Gwyn certainly matches the photos on his Instagram, strands of dark hair messy but artfully falling across his forehead, a pair of hazel eyes seemingly enraptured and pinned on where Gwyn is laughing easily at something said. He looks almost out of place amongst the bright pink flowers, dressed in all black with a leather jacket pulled on over his form fitting shirt despite the warm, spring weather.

"Come on," Emerie says, tugging Nesta away by their joined arms. "We'll have the best view without being spotted on this side of the bar."

The bar is mostly full, but Nesta spots two open seats near the end, just one lone guy sitting there. Even from behind, Nesta can tell that the man is huge, large shoulders stretching the fabric of the henley he's currently wearing and long legs hanging all the way to the floor despite the tall bar seats. There's a baseball cap poised atop his head, his dark hair tugged back in a bun that sticks out the back of it.

"Excuse me," Nesta starts when they reach the open seats. "Is anyone sitting here?"

The man turns his head, and Nesta gets her first look at his face. At the white stitched emblem of the Washington Spirit on his baseball cap. At a kaleidoscope of greens and golds that make up a pair of bright hazel eyes. At dark wire glasses framing those eyes. At stubble lining the man's cheeks and jawline. His gaze sweeps down and up again, a slow and leisurely perusal of her, before an easy, cocksure smile tugs across his face.

"You are now," he tells her, his voice low and smooth.

Nesta rolls her eyes as the blatant flirtation beneath his words, but she slides into the open seat all the same. Emerie works on flagging down the bartender to order them drinks, so Nesta leans forward over the bar, craning her head enough that she has the perfect view of Gwyn and her date again.

"Are you looking for someone?" the man asks, drawing Nesta's attention back to him. "Please don't tell me you're waiting on a hot date."

"If you must know," Nesta bites out with a scowl, looking back toward Gwyn's table. "We're here to check on our friend. She's on a first date and we're making sure he isn't a creep."

The man hums, turning his own head and looking over the tables. "Who's the lucky couple?"

"The red head," Emerie chimes in to answer. "That's our friend Gwyn."

Nesta continues to watch the date unfolding across the bar and restaurant, but it's hard not to frown with each moment that passes. Gwyn is no longer laughing like before. In fact, from Nesta's vantage point, it doesn't look like her or Azriel are currently speaking. Instead, both seem intently focused on the drinks in front of them, Gwyn swirling her straw through the blue liquid in her glass.

"Why does it look so awkward over there?" Nesta asks, her frustration growing when Gwyn glances up toward her date, expression almost expectant, longing, but he keeps his own attention on his drink.

"Maybe he's shy."

Nesta turns to make a face at the man beside her, surprised he even said anything, before shifting fully in her seat toward Emerie. "We should send over a drink. Make him jealous."

"You seem awfully invested in your friend's date."

"Nesta is trying to ensure there's a WAG wedding she can live vicariously through," Emerie offers with a smirk, that smile only dropping a little when Nesta smacks her in the leg in retaliation.

"Is that so, Nesta?"

Nesta has to bite her lip and swallow hard against the shudder threatening to skitter up her spine. She's not sure she's ever heard her name said like that. The deep timbre of his voice and the way it curls around each syllable like smoke, it slinks through her veins like a tall, warm glass of whiskey.

"If you must know," Nesta begins, schooling her features and facing the man again. "They're gorgeous and extravagant, and I want to experience one. What's so wrong with that?"

The tone of Nesta's voice is challenging, her expression just as icy. She expects this man to finally leave them alone and go back to his own business, expects him to flee with his tail between his legs and maybe a muttered comment about her being a bitch just like every other man on the receiving end of that look. But instead a spark seems to flare in the man's hazel eyes, his smile only seeming to grow.

"Why not have your own WAG wedding?" the man asks.

"I would never date a professional athlete."

"And why is that?"

"Why are you asking so many questions?"

The man chuckles, the sound just as warm and deep as his voice. He leans forward over the bar, leans in so close that Nesta can practically count every golden fleck twinkling amongst the mazes of greens that make up his hazel eyes, until she notices the scar slashing through his right eyebrow right above the frame of his glasses.

"I'm sitting here alone at the bar, and you're beautiful," the man answers with a wink. "Can you blame me?"

"I don't even know you're name."

"It's Cassian."

He extends his hand across the bar to shake, and it's practically unfair, the large span of it. Nesta dares to slide her own hand into his, feeling the calluses on his palms sliding against her skin. His fingers close around her hand, his touch surprisingly warm, and Nesta almost has to remind herself to pull her hand away when the handshake has gone on long enough. Almost.

"And you should definitely send a drink over," Cassian continues, nodding his head sagely. "A guy that looks like that is probably used to being the hottest dude in the room, used to girls just falling at his feet. Especially if he's an athlete. So, it would definitely make him jealous."

Nesta rolls her eyes at that, but the comment draws an easy laugh from Emerie, her friend's entire face brightening in delight. She leans forward over the bar and raises her hand, making work to flag down their bartender again.

"Can you send a drink over to that table?" Emerie requests, pointing toward Gwyn's table. "To that girl specifically."

"Say it's from a secret admirer," Cassian adds eagerly.

"But don't say it's from over here."

The bartender looks less than impressed, so Nesta sighs softly. "We'll tip you really well."

It seems to be enough to appease the bartender, and he gets to work preparing a drink. Nesta, Emerie, and Cassian all watch with baited breath as the drink is taken over to the table. As their message is delivered and the glass is set down in front of Gwyn. As Gwyn glances around, pink overtaking her cheeks. As Azriel scowls, pointedly looking around the whole restaurant with an obvious glare, looking right toward the bar…

"Oh, shit," Emerie mutters, quickly ducking her head and pretending to look busy.

Nesta is quick to do the same, taking a pointed sip of her drink, but it seems Cassian didn't get the memo about being incognito. Instead, he meets Azriel's gaze head-on, practically grinning triumphantly.

"Did you just smile at him? He's going to think you sent his date a drink," Nesta hisses, smacking Cassian in the arm. She tries not to think about the fact it's solid muscle beneath her hand, about just how large his bicep is beneath the fabric of his henley.

"Let him," Cassian offers, shrugging a shoulder. "I think I can take him if he picks a fight. What do you think, sweetheart?"

"Oh, I think he could take him," Emerie echoes, her voice teasing and just teetering shy of sarcastic. "Now, let's order some food. I'm starving."

"We should get nachos."

Nesta doesn't bother biting back her surprised laugh. "We?"

Despite her protests, Nesta soon ends up with plates of appetizers to share in front of her, and soon after that, another round of drinks. She wants to hate how magnetic this Cassian is, how he asks Emerie and Nesta about themselves and seems to genuinely care about their answers. She wants to hate how he seems to delight when she dares to throw anything at him, rising to meet her every quip like it's some sort of game.

She wants to hate that his bright hazel eyes, his warm laugh, and his stupid glasses and baseball hat are doing it for her.

"You know what would be really funny?" Emerie begins, reaching forward to snag another bite of food. "We send someone over to the table to ask for a picture. But not with him. With Gwyn."

"Oh, that's good," Cassian agrees, grinning widely. "He's probably so used to people asking for pictures with him. It will drive him mad."

"They can say that they're a fan of Gwyn's singing videos."

"And who's going to go over there?" Nesta points out. "Gwyn will obviously recognize both of us, and Cassian over here already made eye contact after the drink."

"We pay someone," Emerie suggests, already spinning in her seat to scan the seats immediately around them. "Do you have any cash?"

"What kind of person carries around cash these days?"

"I do," Cassian offers brightly, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet.

Cassian produces a twenty dollar bill from his wallet, and Emerie is quick to lean over the bar and Nesta to snatch it from between his fingers. She slips off her bar seat and practically skips away, clearly having identified the victim she's hoping to convince to join their plan. Leaving Nesta alone at the bar with Cassian.

"We'll pay you back."

"Don't worry about it, Nes. I'm more than happy to help. I'm invested now."

"Don't call me that," Nesta snaps, turning in her bar seat to face him completely. "It's Nesta. Nes-ta."

Cassian's grin twists into a smirk. "Whatever you say, sweetheart. Just trying to ensure you get that WAG wedding of yours."

Nesta rolls her eyes with a soft sigh. "You're not going to let that go, are you?"

"What can I say," Cassian says, his hazel eyes practically simmering as he reaches toward Nesta's face, twirling a strand of hair that's fallen from her up-do around his finger. "I think you'd look amazing in white."

"I wouldn't be wearing white," Nesta reminds him, smacking his hand away.

"The deed is done," Emerie announces, returning to the bar. "And I got her number. This is going to be too good."

All three of them watch as a pretty woman with white hair braided back and falling along her spine strides across the restaurant. She walks over to the table, putting on a wide smile and her best act as she talks and gushes to Gwyn. She pulls out her phone, and Nesta has to cover her mouth to hide her snort when the woman holds it out for Azriel without a second glance.

"Look at his face," Cassian says through a laugh.

Azriel certainly looks less than impressed with the turn of events, but he takes the phone, snapping a picture of them. The woman walks away after the photo is taken, offering Emerie a smirk and a wink as she strolls past the bar and back toward her own table. When they're finally alone again, Azriel leans in closer to Gwyn to say something.

"Do you think he's asking her if she wants to get out of here?" Nesta asks.

"If Gwyn's lucky," Emerie offers, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

Azriel pushes up from his seat and the table, but Gwyn doesn't make any move to stand, and instead of heading toward the door, his strides take him way across the restaurant. Toward the bar.

"Why the fuck is he coming over here?" Nesta hisses, ducking her head to avoid eye contact.

"I think the bathroom's are over here, but besides, he doesn't know us, so it's not like he would recognize us," Emerie says, but she matches Nesta's movements all the same, focusing hard on stirring the ice at the bottom of her drink.

"Is this supposed to be a disguise?" a deep voice asks from behind them.

Nesta's heart stops beating for a moment. She whips around, and sure enough, Azriel is now standing right behind them, in all his model athlete glory, but his attention isn't on Nesta or Emerie.

"I thought the glasses and baseball cap were perfect," Cassian says, shoving at Azriel good-naturedly, clearly friendly with the other man.

"All that's missing is a fake mustache."

"Next time."

"Whatever, idiot," Azriel tells him, his voice quietly teasing as he turns to continue toward the bathrooms. "See you at practice tomorrow."

"Practice?" Nesta blurts out before she can stop herself, her jaw slackening as she looks toward Cassian with wide eyes.

Cassian chuckles a bit self-deprecatingly, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. "Sorry. Didn't I mention? Az and I are teammates."

"You're a Washington Capital too?" Emerie asks, caught between shock and laughing.

Cassian shrugs off the question easily, turning his attention fully back to Nesta. He leans in close to her again, throwing his arm along the back of her bar seat, practically caging her in with his large frame and warmth, trapping her in his orbit. He has that same lopsided smile he's practically been wearing the whole time stretched across his face, but it's softer somehow.

"What do you say, Nes? You. Me. Dinner. We won't tell these fuckers where, so they can't return the favor, and in a year's time we can make sure you get that WAG wedding."

—

***

She didn’t know how long she lay curled there, cold stone pressing hard against all of her aches, before the footsteps sounded. It could have been moments— could have been hours, but she didn’t think so, given that her wrist still throbbed, and her ribs still bleated every time she drew air into her lungs. She wondered how many bones she’d broken; how long they’d take to heal in this new, untested, body.

She wondered how much she ought to care.

From high above, the sound of those footsteps grew faster. Grew louder. Not once did they pause, and as a whispered fuck, fuck, fuck echoed on the spiralling stone, the sound of laboured breathing reached her too, something in her chest tugging as awareness slowly came over her, like her broken body was reacting to his nearness alone. Instinctively, she knew who it was that was barrelling down those stairs. 

With effort, Nesta tried to force herself up. Refused to let him find her curled up in a ball against the stone.

Would he laugh? Lean against the wall with his arms crossed and gloat? Would he see her bruises and ignore them, the way he had ignored all those other, more invisible, wounds? 

Nesta couldn’t bear the thought. Her head spun, pain racketing through all of her limbs as she straightened.

She didn’t think she could do much more than that.

And then, suddenly, he was there, stepping over her and dropping into a crouch on the step beneath her, his hazel eyes level with her silver-blue. His hands were on her instantly, callouses running over her arms as his breathing calmed, the tension leaking from his jaw as his fingers curled around her shoulder. There was no laughter, no gloating. Instead, his face was hard; so at odds with the softness of his touch, the tentative press of his fingers against her skin. 

Nesta flinched.

She couldn’t bear it, the soft brush of his hand more painful than anything the stairs could inflict.

“Hey,” Cassian said softly, his fingers curling beneath her chin, lifting her face as he brushed a thumb across her cheek. His hand was warm, feather-light across her skin as he tilted her face this way and that, studying each small wound the stairs had dealt her. His eyes were grave, a furrow between his brows that spoke to some kind of concern, and Nesta had to wonder if he worried for her at all, or if he was just terrified of telling Feyre she’d fallen to her death on his watch. “Nes. Look at me.”

She shook her head, pulling her face from his grasp as pain bloomed at the base of her spine. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, as if he could feel it too. But Nesta couldn’t move any further, her entire body protesting as she cradled her wrist and held it against her chest. When his eyes dropped to it, he swore again. “Fuck. Can you stand?”

She didn’t answer— she didn’t know. 

“Nesta.”

Still, she couldn’t find the strength to speak.

“Sweetheart,” Cassian tried again, his voice softening as he leaned closer, studying the cuts and bruises that littered her arms, now. “I need to make sure you didn’t do any real damage.”

And wasn’t that almost laughable? 

“I don’t want to see you, Cassian,” Nesta managed at last. 

“I don’t care,” he countered quickly. “If you’re hurt, I—“

She laughed— a bitter sound, devoid of mirth. 

Because she’d been hurting this entire time, and he hadn’t realised. None of them had realised, and yet here he was now, kneeling before her like if he could, he’d fix each and every one of her wounds. But it was too late; she was too far gone. And somehow, it hurt more than he, of all people, hadn’t seen it, hadn’t noticed. Wasn’t he supposed to understand what it was like, the sheer scale of the loss she’d endured? Wasn’t he supposed to feel it somehow, when she was dragged beneath the waves of her own anguish?

He frowned as her laughter died, but didn’t move from the step he’d crouched on to inspect her face. 

“Let me take you back upstairs—“

“No,” Nesta cut in, shaking her head as she tried in vain to force distance between them, twisting her face away, leaving her half in shadow. “I don’t want you to take me anywhere.”

“I can’t leave you here.”

“Why?” she asked, her lip curling with a sneer, the taste of blood sharp on her tongue. “Afraid my sister might get angry?”

Cassian’s brow lowered, his entire body still. “This has nothing to do with Feyre.”

“This has everything to do with Feyre,” Nesta bit out, her chest constricting as she let her eyes fall closed. “I’m only here because of her— because she appointed you my gaoler. And I’m sure this is all just one big inconvenience for you, so maybe you should go back upstairs and leave me be.” She huffed. “Or perhaps you should have sent me to the human lands after all. Saved all of us the trouble and just left me there.”

Her voice echoed in the stairwell, grief given form as it lingered uncomfortably in the air between them. Cassian swore again, softer this time, as something like sympathy flashed across his face.

“I was never going to let them do that to you, sweetheart.” 

He dragged a thumb over her temple, lingering at her brow, where a thin line of blood beaded along her skin. 

“It kills me,” he whispered, “seeing you like this.”

And Nesta didn’t know why— why he insisted on pretending he cared, when he certainly hadn’t seemed inclined to give a damn before now. No, he’d been content to leave her to her own devices for months now, ignoring her as she all but drowned, and only when she lay bleeding did he come running. 

Too. Fucking. Late. 

With a scowl knitting her brows, Nesta tried to shove herself away, the skin of her palms stinging as she pushed against the stone steps, trying to rise even though her entire body seemed to tremble with the effort, quaking like a just-rung bell. But she couldn’t force her body to move more than an inch as her legs shook, threatening to give out if she attempted even one more step. 

Cassian’s hand wrapped around hers, swallowing her fingers like he might try and help her rise. But if there was one thing Nesta was loath to accept, it was his help. 

“Go,” she said as she sat back on the step, pulling her hand free. The burning in her legs refused to relent; her ankle throbbing like perhaps she’d sprained it. “I’ll make my own way back up in a minute.”

She expected him to roll his eyes— expected him to make some blithe comment about how pathetic it was that she couldn’t even handle a few stairs anymore. More than anything, she expected him to leave.

But Cassian shook his head, lowering himself onto the step beside her and tucking his wings in so tightly she wondered if it was a strain to hold them so close to his spine.

“We’ll go together,” he said softly, his body shifting as, gently, he bumped her shoulder with his. “Sound familiar?”

Nesta couldn’t fight the flinch. 

Couldn’t fight the visceral way her entire body recoiled, stiffening at the memory as she remembered, painfully, the way he’d laid on the ground and she’d laid her body over his. They’d been ready to go together then, too. 

What a fool she’d been.

Cassian’s face fell as he watched her pull back, his eyes closing briefly as he let out a long breath. 

“Sorry”, he whispered. “Wrong thing to say.”

Nesta let out a sharp huff, letting her eyes drop to the shadows stretching out before them, the stairs twisting down into the darkness. She’d almost died that day; been ready for it, too. The blood had coated her hands and her heart had ached, but when it came down to it, she’d let herself be honest for once about what she wanted— about who she wanted. 

Not that it mattered, now. She hadn’t touched him since. Hadn’t been in such close confines with him, without death breathing down their necks. She still remembered how it had felt, though, when his lips had touched hers. When his hand had drifted to her face, like all he had wanted was to die with his hands touching her skin.

She would have been lying if she said she hadn’t been chasing that feeling ever since, trying to find it at the bottom of a bottle or in bed with a stranger. 

Because once it was clear that death wasn’t about to take either of them, Cassian certainly hadn’t seemed eager to keep the promise he’d made to her as he lay dying. 

Nesta shook her head now, forcing herself to forget the way he’d kissed her and remember, instead, the way he’d walked right off that battlefield and left her to sort through her grief and her pain alone. 

“I didn’t realise we’d reached the point where we could make jokes about it,” she said dryly— as cutting, as sharp, as the grief that lanced through her at the reminder of all that he’d once promised her; pretty words, so swiftly forgotten.

Cassian exhaled, his breath a low whistle as dipped his chin in some kind of acquiescence.

“Alright,” he said, bracing his forearms against his knees. “No jokes, then. Perhaps we should start by just talking about what happened that day, since it’s not exactly been broached since.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“I didn’t say it was anybody’s fault—“

“Gods, stop pretending, Cassian,” Nesta cut in, her voice sharp in the quiet of the stairwell. Her every breath hurt, but she forced herself to exhale anyway. “Stop acting like you’re not here out of duty. Whatever was between us, maybe it died that day.”

The silence was heavy— so heavy she wondered if such a narrow space could even contain it. It stretched, the kind of silence that was so restless that it ached. 

“Whatever was between us,” Cassian echoed flatly, canting his head to the side, rendering half his face in shadow. “And what was between us, Nesta?”

His face snapped down, looking at her with eyes that seemed to see right through to her very soul. Every vulnerability, every weakness, was suddenly laid bare, and Cassian swallowed, like he saw the truth of it in her face and didn’t quite have the strength to face it just yet. 

“You know, don’t you?” he whispered, his voice barely more than a brush against the stone. His brows drew together, his flushed cheeks suddenly bloodless, like her answer terrified him and he didn’t know what he’d do if she said no.

But Nesta had known— had suspected for a while.

And it should have been warm, she thought. That cord in her chest, the trembling, living, breathing thing connecting her to another soul. It should have been warm. But it was cold, now. 

Like all the words exchanged in anger had driven it into a grave.

“I think I knew then, on that battlefield,” she said, so quietly it was as though she hoped the words might go unnoticed. Hoped the bond tying her to the warrior beside her might be forgotten if she let it go unspoken for just a little bit longer. “When I pulled you out of the path of that blast— when you left an entire legion just because I called your name.”

He flinched. Hundreds dead. Lives lost. And yet he survived— lived, breathed, because when it had mattered, he’d come when she called. His eyes closed, like the memory was an arrow for him, shot right through the heart, and Nesta shook her head again, taking a breath and fighting a flinch of her own as her ribs expanded and a whole host of new bruises suddenly made themselves felt. 

“Just go, Cassian. I don’t…”

She trailed off, not entirely certain how to end that sentence. I don’t want you? I don’t need you? Were either of them even remotely close to the truth?

“I won’t leave you, Nesta,” Cassian said, his voice as hard and as resolute as the stone beneath their feet. Nesta huffed so hard her ribs ached, her battered bones protesting as she shifted her weight on the step.

“Just because there’s some… thing connecting us—“

“It’s not just some thing to me.”

“You’re only here because you feel like you have to be,” Nesta protested, gritting her teeth as she curled her hands into fists. “Isn’t that why they gave me to you in the first place? Isn’t that what all of this is?” She waved a hand at the spiralling walls of the House stairs. “Putting me up here. With you. Because that’s the only place I’m supposed to be now, isn’t it?”

He swore, a muttered curse under his breath that had him angling his face towards her. “You think that’s the only reason I’m here to stop you falling down ten thousand fucking stairs? That it’s the only reason I’d care about you snapping your fucking neck?”

“Isn’t it?” Nesta asked, forcing her voice to be steady. Calm. After all, hadn’t she long since learned that it was better to be detached about such things?

Cassian reached out to grab her face, tilting her chin up until she had no choice but to meet his eyes; twin pools of hazel, brimming with gold. “I was ready to die for you, Nesta. I’m still ready to die for you. No fucking bond in the world can forge that.”

“And what would you have done, Cassian,” she forced herself to ask in a whisper, “without that bond?”

He stilled. So entirely, so completely, she wasn’t sure he was breathing. “What?”

Nesta sniffed. “Without the bond. Would you have bothered to come with me that day, to face the king? Would you be here now? Or would you have cast me off just like everyone else did?”

“Of course I would— of course I would have gone with you.”

“No,” Nesta pressed, her voice straining in her throat as she shook her head. Pain lanced through her, but this time she didn’t think it was because of the fall; didn’t think it was because of the bruises and the broken skin. “You wouldn’t, Cassian. You’d throw your life away, and for what?”

“You pulled me away from that blast to save me, Nes. You think I’d let you die alone after that?”

“That’s all it was, then? A debt being settled?”

Cassian scowled, and in her heart Nesta knew it was more than that— knew he thought it was more than that, at least. The way he’d kissed her said he really would have thrown his life away, but she was still tripping up on the why and the what-if. The knowledge that he hadn’t acted out of his own free will, but some misguided sense of destiny; a soldier following orders. 

“How could you possibly have chosen me, Cassian?” she asked. “In the back of your mind, wouldn’t you have always wondered what might happen if your mate ever came along? A year from now— five, ten?” Her voice quieted, catching in her throat as she looked away, trying to count the cracks in the stone beneath her feet. “Who would you choose then?”

“Nesta—“

She shook her head again, cutting him off as she tried to force space between them on the narrow stone step. He was everywhere, filling up the small space, the scent of him almost cruelly overwhelming. It didn’t seem fair, that he could be there right before her, everything she wanted and all the things she couldn’t take. Because he still didn’t understand. Nesta tried to push off the step, tried to make herself stand, but her wrist barked beneath the pressure as soon as it was forced to bear weight, and she swallowed her hiss of pain, refusing to let him see another ounce of her suffering. 

“Never mind. It’s fine, Cassian.”

“It’s not— clearly it’s not.”

“You don’t understand, do you?” Nesta asked with an acerbic huff, flattening her palms on the stone. 

“I’m certainly fucking trying to understand.” Incredulity was an undercurrent thick in his voice, the furrow in his brow speaking to confusion. “What does it matter if there was no bond? There is, isn’t that what matters?”

And Nesta wanted to laugh, because hadn’t she asked herself that question a hundred times already? Every time she drained a bottle of wine, every time she took a stranger to her bed, every time she found herself thinking back to that day, that kiss, and the promise he’d made her as his blood soaked the ground beneath them…. she’d asked herself why. 

Because what did it matter that they’d been thrown together by the cruel, capricious hands of fate? What did it matter, when it couldn’t be changed anyway?

And she’d realised, at some point along the way, that it did matter, because—

“What if I just wanted somebody to choose me all on their own, Cassian?”

Gods, Nesta swore she’d tried to be angry; tried hard to imbue her words with the same kind of fire that burned in her veins cold enough to leave marks on stone. She’d tried— but it came out as a whisper anyway, a broken sound she didn’t even recognise as belonging to her. Cassian’s face shattered as her words lingered in the stairwell.

“What if I wanted somebody to put me first for once?” she asked, looking down at the stairs that spiralled below her, wondering whether it would hurt less if she carried on falling. “Not just be… stuck with me because some magic cooking pot said so.”

Her heart hurt, like even speaking the words aloud was the worst kind of treachery, the kind that was cruel and unnecessary. Because hadn’t Feyre said that mating bonds were so exquisitely rare that most fae would do anything for one? And here she was, with one sitting in the palm of her hand; one she didn’t know how to appreciate, and one she didn’t know how to be grateful for. Her hands lifted to her chest, like she’d carve the damn thing right out if she could just make it stop aching.

Cassian’s face was grave, like she’d just wounded him so completely there was no hope of recovery. When he spoke, his voice was rough, the serrated edge of a knife. 

“Is that really what you think?” he asked quietly. “That I’m stuck with you?”

“Aren’t you?”

Suddenly, he was kneeling before her. His wings blocked the rest of the stairs from view, his hands braced on the step either side of her waist. His face was an inch from hers, so close she could almost count each speck of gold in his eyes as they darted across her face, like they couldn’t find a place to land. At last, after what felt like an age, his eyes caught on hers, and though Nesta wanted so desperately to look away…

She couldn’t.

He swallowed, his throat moving as his fingers flexed on the stone. 

“Do you know what I thought, when I first met you?” he said softly, his eyes still fixed on hers, like he couldn’t look away even if he wanted to. “I was glad I’d never been tied down before. I hated myself for thinking it, for being relieved that there was nobody else in the picture for me. Because I knew, even back then, when you wouldn’t even speak to me, that you were the one I wanted. Human or not, bond or not— when I met you, I knew you were the one I wanted, Nesta.”

Slowly, she blinked. Her lips parted, trying to speak, but he cut her off with a shake of his head.

“I made so many mistakes, Nes,” he whispered, “but if you think for one moment that I ever - ever - regretted that fate decided to mark my soul as yours, then you’re wrong. I was always going to be yours in the end, anyway.”

She couldn’t speak.

Her throat hurt; her bones ached. She didn’t think there was a single piece of her body that wasn’t bleating beneath the bruises, and as she watched in a stunned kind of silence, Cassian’s face softened. Slowly, he lifted his hand to her face again, his thumb going right back to that cut beside her brow, where that thin line of blood had already started to heal.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, his voice sounding almost as broken as she felt. He wiped his thumb along her temple, tracing that small wound. “I really fucked this one up, didn’t I?”

Nesta refused to cry.

She hadn’t let her tears spill after the war, after her father, after any of it. Had kept her emotions in check, like if she could just hold back the flood for long enough then there would come a day - surely, surely - when she’d open her eyes in the morning and feel the weight on her chest lessened by the passage of time. She thought that if she just waited it out, she’d be strong enough to cope but…

She didn’t think she could hold it back, this time.

And as Cassian’s thumb swept across her temple for a third time, she felt the first of her tears tracing a path along her cheek.

He swallowed, his fingers threading through her hair as he let out a trembling breath, and Nesta swore she felt an echo of something in her chest, a feeling that wasn’t her own. Something like guilt, like remorse, made her ribs ache, but she knew it wasn’t hers; it was his. And perhaps he had finally realised that she couldn’t carry on this way, kept locked up until his brother and her sister deemed her fit enough - good enough - to be part of their precious circle.

Cassian cleared his throat, and Nesta half thought he was blinking back tears of his own as he dropped his hand from her face at last.

He didn’t pull back.

Instead he held out that hand, his fingers curled as he looked into her face and searched her eyes, like he was hoping he could convey in a look alone how much his words rang true. 

“I’m choosing you now, Nes,” he whispered. “I didn’t make it clear enough before, so let me do it now. I will always choose you. Over anything, anyone, no matter who they are. No matter how we got here or what quirk of fate decided to tie us together— you’re mine, for eternity.”

Gods, how hard had she hit her head?

Nesta thought she might have been hallucinating; that all of this was a figment of her imagination, because she was struggling to let herself catch up, to let herself believe that the look in his eyes might just be genuine—

“Nesta,” Cassian said softly, keeping his hand extended. “Please, just tell me you’ll let me take you back upstairs.”

She looked at that hand.

At the way he didn’t waver, not for a single second.

I’m choosing you now, Nes.

The words echoed, burrowed deep into her soul. Took up residence there, like they were all she’d really needed to hear, all this time. Like it made the entire world seem different, somehow.

And when Cassian quirked a brow and asked her, for a third time, if he could take her back upstairs…

Nesta took the hand he offered, and nodded. 

You’re hurt.

He hadn’t said a word to anybody, and not even Rhys had noticed the way Cassian had cradled his injured wrist a little closer to his chest than he should have as he approached one of those logs, close to the flames. It wasn’t the worst injury he’d ever had— not by a mile. The skin hadn’t even broken. But it had twisted too far, throbbing now, a sprain that needed to be iced and wrapped but was far from his top priority when his men lay dying in tents nearby, bleeding from injuries so much more lethal than his own.

And then she had spoken.

The fire had cracked, his eyes had lifted. And now here they were, Nesta Archeron standing with the firelight reflected in her eyes, her lips parted and her braid so perilously close to coming undone it looked as though someone had just plunged their fingers right into it. And gods— Cassian wished the situation was different. Wished that he could plunge his fingers into her hair and make her so undone. 

“What happened?” she asked, her eyes fixed on him, like the world around them had ceased to matter.

“Nothing,” Cassian quipped, wanting to keep her eyes on him— never wanting to feel the lack of her attention. 

Softly, Nesta snorted. Her hand reached out, lithe fingers curling around his battered wrist, and he couldn’t fight the hiss of pain that escaped his clenched teeth as he moved. A frown creased her perfect brow, and as she lifted her head to look up at him with those mercurial eyes…

There was an order in the way she looked at him. A question, too. And if there was one thing Cassian knew how to do - had been taught to do since before he could even fucking speak - it was follow godsdamned orders. 

He didn’t need her to tell him to sit down.

Silently, Cassian sank down onto the nearest log by the fire, hardly tearing his eyes away from hers for long enough to make sure the log there was empty. Concern flickered in those eyes, but with his hand in hers, her fingers wrapped around that bruised wrist, Cassian had forgotten to feel the pain. Had forgotten entirely what it was to hurt the moment she’d touched him. 

The Mother only knew how she’d been able to tell he was hurting when nobody else had.

“How do I fix it?” Nesta asked quietly, tracing her fingers lightly across his skin. It didn’t hurt— her touch was so light he barely even felt it, and he might almost have convinced himself that he was imagining it, if not for the way his nerves tingled where she touched him, burning as if to remind him that it was real— that Nesta Archeron stood before him, despite the shadows beneath her eyes that said all she wanted to do was fall down and sleep.

“It’s a sprain,” he said gently. “I just need to ice it before wrapping it—“

She was already reaching for the bandages, pulling out a roll of gauze. 

Cassian wasn’t a fool. He knew that Rhys and Feyre were watching with dumbfounded stares as Nesta’s eyes flicked up, her gaze catching against his for a moment. Cassian held her stare for far longer than he should have, swallowing thickly as Nesta dragged her index finger across the back of his hand, a touch so tentative it was as though her fingertips were only drifting across his skin. 

His eyes closed.

His heart was beating loud enough that he was sure she’d hear it, but Nesta only held his wrist in one hand, her palm smooth against his callouses as she started to lower herself to the ground. He heard the rustle of her dress, the shifting of her feet, and snapped his eyes back open. Logically, he knew that if she sat before him, she’d have a better angle for wrapping his wrist. Logically, he knew there was nothing in it.

And yet he knew, too, that he couldn’t bear the sight of her kneeling before him.

Not now— not yet. If either of them were to get on their knees it would be him, and it wouldn’t be to wrap her fucking wrist.

“No,” he said, his good hand catching her by the waist, his fingers landing on her middle just firmly enough to give her pause. Confusion flashed briefly across her face before Cassian offered her a wry smile. “Let’s not dirty that pretty dress, hm?”

She rolled her eyes as his good hand fell away, opting to sit beside him on the log instead. She didn’t bother to point out that the dress was plain enough, and already mud-stained at the hem, and Cassian didn’t bother to mask the soft smile when she sat beside him, her thigh pressing against his, her scent encompassing him. He twisted to face her, his wrist barking at the pressure as she pulled it across and into her lap, but it didn’t matter. How could it?

She began to wrap the bandage tight around his wrist, and Cassian winced. But Nesta didn’t waver and didn’t hesitate, meticulous in her work as she was with everything else. Only once did she pause, her eyes darting up to his face before falling back down again. 

“Your face,” she whispered as she continued to wrap, her eyes landing on his cheek.

Cassian frowned.

Lifting his good hand, he brushed his fingers across his cheekbone, his fingers coming away red.

A small cut— tiny. He hadn’t even felt it.

“It’s fine,” he said.

She nodded, winding the bandages tight about his wrist.

“Will it scar?”

Cassian smiled softly. “Worried, sweetheart?”

She snorted gently, shaking her head in a way that was almost indulgent— endearing in a way that had Cassian forgetting all about the chaos around them; the fact that they were still dealing with the bloody aftermath of battle was so far from his mind it was almost laughable. All that mattered to him now was the woman before him, and gods, he hoped that roll of gauze never ran out. Hoped she might sit there with her hands on him forever. 

“Don’t you find my scars dashing?” he added, tilting his head and offering her his most cocksure smile, a suggestive quirk of one brow. 

Nesta’s silver eyes caught his, the air between them tightening— unbearably, impossibly. His heart stumbled, like just looking into her eyes was enough to have him tripping over himself, and as she finished her work on his wrist - tying off the bandage with a neat little bow - she sat back a little, as if preparing to leave. And suddenly Cassian felt like it would be the worst thing in the world - the most painful wound he could imagine - to have to watch her walk away.

He felt her fingers slide away, her touch retracting, retreating, and before he paused long enough to think it through, Cassian’s hand darted out, grasping hers. Tightly, he held her. So tightly, like he might convey in that one gesture all the words he didn’t know how to say yet, all the things he didn’t know how to voice. His thumb brushed along hers, tracing along the scar at the base of her thumb; the evidence of her own tortured past.

And when Cassian looked into her eyes, he swore the entire world was held there.

Still, she looked to the cut on his cheek. Warmth took root in his chest— because she cared, and she worried, and even though Cassian loved every member of the family Rhys had given him, the scars of his own childhood ran too deeply, and the notion that someone else gave a damn about him still made something twist deep inside him, made him want to weep.

He didn’t care if the cut scarred. If the battle left a mark on his skin.

It had led to this moment, and how could he ever regret that?

Distantly, he knew they were being watched, that conversation had fallen into stunned silence on the other side of the fire. If he looked up, he knew he would be met with Rhys’ startled violet gaze and Feyre’s slack-jawed surprise. But Cassian didn’t look up. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t look anywhere else but at her, like she was the most wondrous thing the universe had ever seen fit to create.

Slowly, he linked his fingers through hers, twining them together in a way that said he didn’t want to be apart from her just yet. Nesta blinked, her eyes heavy.

“Thank you,” he whispered, nodding to his bandaged wrist.

She didn’t answer— like she couldn’t find words. Cassian brushed his thumb across her hand again, and felt the way her breath caught. He gripped her hand tighter, and felt her do the same, clinging to him in the midst of the chaos, like the peace they had curated in this small corner was more precious to her than anything.

Footsteps sounded, breaking that peace. A familiar tread cut through the mud, and when Cassian looked up, Mor lingered by the edge of the circle, the firelight glimmering against the armour she still wore. Her blonde hair was pushed away from her face, her braid lying idle over one shoulder, and as he watched she stopped short, her eyes wide as she took in the sight before her. And then they narrowed— her face tightening with suspicion and disapproval as she looked at the way Cassian’s fingers were twined with Nesta’s. She opened her mouth to speak, but Cassian looked away, looked to Nesta.

“You look like you need to sleep for a week,” he said gently, taking in the weariness that she was wearing like a cloak about her shoulders. With his free hand, he swiped at the dirt that had smeared her perfect cheek. Nesta raised a brow.

“I’m not the one that just fought a battle.”

Cassian smiled wryly. “No, you’ve just been dealing with the aftermath.” He nodded to the bandages. “Hardly an easy feat.”

She rolled her eyes, and Cassian’s heart beat faster at the sight. He could hear Mor speaking— Rhys, too. It didn’t register. 

“Come,” he said, rising to his feet.

He didn’t drop her hand.

Mor’s eyes fixed on their interlinked fingers, and as Cassian turned his head, he saw Rhys’ mouth parted with surprise, and Feyre’s eyes were alight as her attention bounced between him and her sister. He refused to let it change anything— refused to let the moment he yearned for be lost. Once more, Cassian squeezed her fingers.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he said firmly. 

“If that’s your attempt at seducing me, it’s woefully inadequate.”

He grinned. “One step at a time, princess. One step at a time.”

Throwing an arm around her shoulder, he led her away from that circle of logs around the fire. Only when they reached her tent did he draw away, putting some small amount of distance between them, even though it made his soul ache. Nesta sighed, like the weight of the past twenty-four hours had suddenly come upon her in a wave, and it was all Cassian could do to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear, letting his fingers linger on her cheekbone, skating down to her jaw. 

“Sleep,” he said gently, nodding at the flaps of the tent where, from inside, a golden fae-light was glowing. “And in the morning…”

His throat began to close as he pulled away, wondering if this was a one-time thing. A moment fostered by intense emotion— the fear and adrenaline that came with a battle. What if, in the morning, Nesta woke and regretted every tender touch? What if, when the sun was high in the sky, she wished she’d never been so vulnerable?

“In the morning?” she asked.

Cassian reached out for her again, flattening his hand against her cheek. When she turned her face into his palm, he swore his heart hammered against his ribs so hard, he thought it might have bruised.

“Come find me, sweetheart,” he said, and he didn’t know whether it was an offer, a request, or a plea borne of desperation.

Nesta looked up, met his eyes.

“Okay,” she whispered.

And as she slipped away, her eyes already heavy with sleep, Cassian thought that single word might have been the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard in all his life.

Okay.

He remembered kneeling before King Archeron and swearing fealty, dedicating his life to the realm. He remembered the honors that followed whenever he returned from a quest, meeting the smiling face of the king while he over and over declared Cassian a hero.

As the fourth son of a minor lord, Cassian considered himself lucky to even be a part of the knighthood in the first place. What he lacked in reputation, he made up for in pure, raw skill.

Rising through the ranks hadn’t been easy. He had to admit, it was hard at times having to earn the respect that was given to Rhys freely. But Rhys was his friend and his brother, so he never said a word. In turn, he trained relentlessly. Made sure no one ever had any reason to claim he shouldn’t be there fighting with the rest of them.

The early summer sun beat down on Cassian. Why the king insisted that they needed to stand at attention in full metal armor for this announcement he didn’t understand, but he’d suffered through it along with the rest of the knights. 

When it was over, they all trailed out of the courtyard, hanging up their armor and muttering amongst themselves. They’d separated themselves into groups, talking in circles as they walked, all coming up with a plan for the challenge ahead.

He exchanged a look with Rhys and Azriel, and they split apart from the rest, intent on ending the day at the local tavern over some ale.

“Well, that was certainly something,” Rhys said as they approached the building in the town square.

It had been. King Archeron had stood up on the palace balcony, Princesses Elain and Feyre on either side, and declared the quest. 

One brave knight was to rescue Princess Elain from the tower hidden deep in the woods, guarded by a fearsome dragon.

There was a catch, though. Only the legendary sword, Ataraxia, could defeat the dragon. And that sword, according to King Archeron, was in the possession of a witch in the forest.

And the reward for this whole thing? The hand of the princess. Elain.

“So not only do we have to rescue Elain from that tower, but we have to hunt down a witch for some sword as well?” Cassian asked. 

Ataraxia. The sword that Cassian had never even heard of until today. But he knew the Archeron family hid secrets behind their fortified walls, and he could only question so much before he was grasping through the air for answers.

“How did she even get it?” Rhys pondered. “I’ve never heard the name. Maybe it was hidden in the vaults somewhere? Maybe she stole it?”

So Rhys was thinking the same thing. 

But something didn’t add up. How would a witch get into the vaults? And the king remained surprisingly neutral about the circumstances. 

He merely said claim the sword. Nothing about killing the witch. But Cassian did not doubt that most of the knights wouldn’t take it that way, and would instead barge into this witch’s cottage with their weapons raised.

“You’re assuming the witch is evil,” Cassian said. “That’s not very progressive of you, Rhys.”

Though in truth, he couldn’t blame Rhys. He knew as much as the rest of them did—and that was what they were all told as children.

That witches were ruthless, terrible old hags, and whoever was foolish enough to get caught in their trap would suffer a slow, painful death. He’d heard stories of good, faithful men being cursed with bad luck and misfortune. Tales of witches kidnapping children and wives, never to be seen again.

He didn’t know how much truth he placed in that fact. As he got older, he realized such stories were few and far between, and spouted by men who feared a disruption to the order of things. In his experience, witches mostly seemed to mind their own business, which suited Cassian just fine.

“I’m not,” Rhys argued. “I’m merely curious. What else are we supposed to think?”

Nothing. He supposed that was the point. 

There was something that King Archeron was hiding. Something told Cassian that it wasn’t quite as simple as going into the woods on a witch hunt.  

“That poor witch will be dead within a week,” Rhys said. “Especially if someone like Kallon goes after her.”

How many men would she be forced to deal with on her doorstep? He didn’t even want to think about it. He preferred to steer clear of witches, but he had no desire to see one die. Especially if she hadn’t committed any crime.

However, being a witch was crime enough to some like Kallon.

The tavern was already buzzing by the time the three of them sat down with their full tankards. 

“You going?” Azriel asked, right before taking a sip of ale.

Cassian had never met Elain. Not formally, anyway. He’d seen her from across crowded rooms, dancing with suitors who were of much better rank than him, but he’d never actually spoken to her.

But he was the strongest knight the kingdom had to offer. It wasn’t just arrogance that made him say that; it was the cold, hard truth. Cassian alone had slain more beasts than the other knights combined.

Lanthys. Seven-headed Lubia. Blue Annis. He’d killed them all, freeing villages on the border from the terror they inflicted, and had the scars to prove it. 

So, yes. Cassian was the best. He was worthy of Elain. He had to be. He would be an idiot not to try for her hand. 

“Obviously. You?”

Azriel shrugged. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

Cassian watched him with a scrutinizing gaze, picking up the blush that Azriel was trying—and failing—to hide. 

“There’s plenty of pretty girls around here,” he countered. “You could get pretty anywhere, without having to track down some witch.”

“Then why are you going? And don’t go spouting some shit as to how you’re in love with her.”

Cassian didn’t have a good answer to that.

Maybe it was because he’d had that feeling in his chest since he was a boy that he was destined for something greater than being a simple knight. Some siren in the woods sang his name, and he knew, in his gut, that it was a princess. 

But he didn't say any of that. Instead, he kept his mouth shut.

“What, you think she’ll pick you?” a sneering voice from behind them said. 

Eris. Of course it was Eris.

The Vanserra brothers stood behind him, a smug expression on the older one’s face. Lucien looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, though he gave the three of them a respectful nod of his head.

“No princess in her right mind would choose you for a husband. You might as well give up now,” Eris said.

“And she would choose you?” Cassian shot back. “Last I remember, you couldn’t hold on to your previous engagement. She did anything she could not to marry you.”

Morrigan, Rhys’ cousin. He’d slept with her once, years ago when she’d begged him in order to get out of her betrothal.

She was, in turn, disowned by her family, and once Rhys became lord when his father died, he took her in.

While he’d taken lovers since, he’d done it with the assurance that he wasn’t their first. They were usually either married women whose husbands didn’t pay them enough attention, or those who propositioned him in the taverns.

He wasn’t going to be the reason some lady was ruined again, her reputation torn. 

It was a low blow, he knew, but Eris turned red as he seethed.

“I have no need for a wife,” Eris said. “My brother, however, does.”

Cassian watched Azriel’s gleam as he took in the younger Vanserra brother, ultimately deeming him a worthy opponent. Lucien did the same. The two men watched each other, ignoring Cassian completely, having some invisible dick-measuring contest that only existed between the two of them.

“May the most worthy man win, then,” Azriel said, holding out his hand.

Sir Lucien peered at the hand that was offered to him. There was only a moment of hesitation before Lucien reached down and took it in his own, shaking Azriel’s hand firmly.

“And good luck to you as well, Sir Azriel.”

Eris clenched his jaw, then pulled Lucien away by the scruff. 

“You have nothing to worry about,” Eris muttered into his ear as they walked away. “The princess will be yours.”

Azriel merely lifted his eyebrow in amusement while he watched them as if to say, we’ll see. 

“I thought there was supposed to be a third sister,” Cassian said, once the Vanserras were out of earshot. 

“There was. Nesta Archeron,” Rhys noted, keeping his eyes on the Vanserras as they ordered their drinks and sat at a table in the opposite corner. “Almost no one’s seen her in years, though. They say she’s off completing her studies, but I don’t quite buy that.”

Cassian hadn’t come to the palace until he was nearly seventeen. By that point, she was long gone, though supposedly she’d come back for visits every now and then.

“Why not?”

“Because the woman that’s next in line for the throne should be here, shouldn’t she?” Rhys said. “I think that’s why Elain’s betrothal is so important. Whoever marries her could be the king someday.”

“What do you think?”

“It could be any number of things. But trust me, Cassian, that is not a woman you want to go after.”

“What do you mean?”

Rhys shrugged. “I met her once. She’s not particularly pleasant.”

“With your charming personality? I wonder why.”

“Sir Tomas tried to charm her once,” Rhys went on. “Claimed they had a nasty end to their courtship because she turned out to be a massive bitch.”

“And you’re trusting his word? I’ve never liked the guy.”

“Listen. I know you like to believe the best in people, but just…don’t,” Rhys said. “Focus on rescuing that princess.”

Cassian didn’t know why he felt honor-bound to defend this woman he didn’t even know. So he kept quiet, not wanting to start a fight with his brother in the middle of this tavern.

“So, what’s your plan?” Cassian asked.

Rhys considered for a moment. “I think I’m going to sit this one out,” he said carefully.

Rhys was dutifully avoiding eye contact, and Cassian leaned forward, eyes narrowing and placing his weight on his elbows.

“You’re not even going to try?” Cassian asked Rhys.

“Elain’s nice enough,” he said. “But she’s not who I envision as my wife.”

“Oh?” Cassian asked, an arrogant smile already taking hold. “You already have someone in mind then, Rhysie?”

His brother rolled his eyes. “Everyone forgets there’s another princess right here, waiting for her perfect prince.”

Cassian barked a laugh. “Feyre Archeron? That girl does not need to be rescued.”

“Perhaps not,” Rhys said. “Maybe I like that in a woman.”

Feyre Archeron. Last he’d heard of that princess, she’d gotten in trouble for hunting in the forest like a half-feral beast. 

One day a few months ago she’d returned to the palace covered in mud and wyrm guts, claiming there was a sighting in one of the northern villages. Her father nearly had a heart attack when he saw her.

But…Cassian had to admit there had been a gleam in Rhys’ eye that day. He’d watched the corners of his brother’s mouth rise into a smirk when she threw that bone onto the ground, proof that the wyrm was well and truly dead.

“She’ll be the death of you,” Cassian muttered.

Rhys grinned. “What a fantastic way to die, then.”

Cassian shook his head and took another swig of ale, letting the stress of the day fall away. Tomorrow, he would strategize. And then he’d be off to rescue his princess.

*****

Cassian prepared for his journey the next day. In the morning he trained with the other knights, and as morning turned to midday several children ran up to him. They flaunted their sticks, makeshift swords that they pretended to fight with, and Cassian chuckled before kneeling down.

“If you want to be a proper warrior,” he said to one of them, “you’ll hold your sword like this. See?”

He adjusted the child’s grip on the sword, and he looked up at Cassian with awe before diving back into the fight.

They did that until one of their mothers called them back to finish their chores, and Cassian returned his attention to his exercises.

Rhys excited the alcove an hour later. He hadn’t been at training that morning. Now, he sported a bruise on his cheek, which he traced with the tips of his fingers, and he scowled as he approached Cassian.

“So, Rhys? Any luck?” 

His brother glared at him. “She threw her shoes at me.”

“Really?”

“Perhaps I deserved it.”

“What did you do?”

Rhys had the decency to look away ashamed before saying, “I may have climbed through her window.”

Cassian was about to ask more questions, but then Devlon rushed by, brushing past the two of them towards the palace gates.

There was shouting just beyond, and the knights all gathered towards the commotion, wanting to know what was happening.

Whoever the fuck this witch was, she wasn’t messing around. Kallon emerged through the gates, bloody and bruised, barely clinging onto his horse.

He nearly fell down getting off. Devlon grabbed the reins, and snorted at the sight.

“Bested by a woman, Kal?”

There was a part of Cassian that was glad to see the man so roughed up. They’d never gotten along, and the other man had certain opinions about how far a fourth son could rise, and what a woman’s place was.

Kallon stumbled forward a step. “I underestimated the bitch. It won’t happen again.”

“What happened?” Devlon asked.

“I…” Kallon started, but then his face furrowed in obvious frustration. “What the fuck did she do?”

“What?” Devlon asked. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t remember anything!” Kallon said. “I can remember going into the forest, and leaving it, but nothing else. What kind of curse did she put on me?”

“She wiped your memory, idiot,” Rhys said from next to Cassian. “She probably didn’t want you remembering where she lived, or what she looked like. I know I wouldn’t.”

Cassian shuddered at how practiced the witch needed to be in that. How many men had she felt the need to do this to?

“How?” Kallon asked.

“Are we forgetting the whole ‘witch’ aspect of all this?” Rhys asked sarcastically. “Magic,” he said, making a gesture with his hands.

Cassian snorted, leaning back up against the wall. Kallon began his limp towards the alcove leading into the palace.

“I’ll find her again. I already tracked her down once. How hard could it be?” Kallon said, shooting a sneer towards Cassian as he passed.

He remained silent. Cassian didn’t want to know the answer to that. And more than anything, he didn’t want Kallon to find her again. He’d find her first.

Then he’d put an end to this whole thing.

*****

Cassian left before dawn the next morning, saddling his horse and setting out through the village. Only a few souls were out and about, and they nodded his way with respect as his mare clopped down the cobblestone.

He’d dressed in leather armor, not wanting to deal with the metal heating his skin as he traveled. Plus, he wasn’t riding into battle. Just to some witch’s cottage in the forest.

Ruby nickered softly as Cassian patted her neck. “One more big adventure, girl. What do you say?”

Ruby had been through it all with him. She’d seen him slay beast after beast, was there when he received all of his scars, and never bolted away from him when any other horse might.

The trip to the edge of the forest was short, and once he reached the first line of trees he slowed Ruby down to a walk.

These woods were his destiny. Finding this woman was his destiny. He could feel it in his bones, and he followed that feeling deep into the forest, like a golden string guiding him to where he was meant to be.

Ruby carefully maneuvered over the foliage and through the thicket of leaves and branches. The woods turned dark and gloomy with the canopy above blocking any form of sunlight. All he could hear was the snap of branches underfoot as Ruby walked, and the soft exhales of her breath.

But still, he followed that feeling. That string in his chest tugged and tugged and tugged, until he was so deep in the forest that he could have sworn it was the middle of the night.

Until he saw light—a stream of it, fighting through the thick trees. That string in his chest snapped and called to him, drawing him closer. When he got nearer, he could see it for what it was.

A clearing in the woods. His mare pushed nervously through the rest of the trees, until they were right on the edge of it.

He slid off of her back and studied it.

This was it. A small cottage sat in the grass, surrounded by wildflowers and large, capped mushrooms. On the other side of the clearing, behind the cottage, was a babbling creek. The water trickled slowly across the rocks and the stones to a steady rhythm.

It was like a respite from the forest behind him, and Cassian felt peace settle into his bones as he crossed over the line that separated the two.

There was harmony in his soul, like the final, blissful cadence as a ballad resolved, leaving behind nothing but a lingering serenity.

He took another step forward, and realized there was actually music.

Birds sang with gleeful chirps, and the sound of humming made its way out of the open door. They blended together into a warm song that was melodic and sweet, and he paused at the edge of the property for a minute more, merely so he could relish that glowing feeling in his chest.

A second later, the source of that humming made herself known. A figure appeared in the door, like she was waiting for him. A woman, covered in a pale blue cloak that hid all of her features, except for the slender hand holding a straw basket.

She didn’t make a move towards him, instead choosing to watch from the doorway to see what he would do.

Kallon had tried to attack her. Cassian already wasn’t planning to do that, because he wasn’t the kind of man to harm a woman in the forest, but the bruises and gashes that the other knight returned with was not an encouraging sign.

All Cassian could do was hope that she accepted his deference,  and did not not subject him to the same fate. He’d fight if he had to, but he prayed that it wouldn’t come to that.

He knelt, placing his sword on the ground. “I mean you no harm. I swear it, on my honor.”

He meant every word. Nothing in the world would make him sacrifice his honor, his reputation, his standing. It wasn’t a promise he took lightly.

She cocked her head—or Cassian imagined that she cocked her head. He couldn’t see under the hood except for the slightest hint of gold—of youthful looking skin that had him fighting to contain his surprise.

“I didn’t realize knights knelt for witches,” she said. Her first words to him.

“Think of it as a gesture of goodwill.”

She was watching him like a wolf might watch a rabbit, her hooded face making note of the armor and insignia he proudly wore. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure, Sir…?” 

He cleared his throat. “Sir Cassian, my lady.”

“My lady,” she said, amusedly. “It’s been a while since anyone called me that.”

With that, she turned on her heel, leaving the forest behind as she strode into her cottage. Cassian stood there, lips parting in silent question, until she paused in the doorway.

“Well? Are you coming in?”

Cassian stumbled upwards, following her through the door and leaving his sword behind in the grass.

She moved to the counter by the window, and Cassian took a second to take in the interior of the cottage. On the wooden table in front of him were papers strewn about with markings, runes from the look of it, in addition to  both dried and living plants hanging from the windows.

“Do you have a name?” he asked.

“Most people do have those, yes,” she said. She had gone back to work, throwing some of those dried plants into a bowl to crush together into some sort of paste.

“Fine. I deserved that one. Will you tell me your name, please?”

She paused in her task, cocking her head slightly to the side. “I haven’t decided if I will yet or not.”

He felt excitement, of all things, flare in his chest at the back and forth. Yet he asked anyway, “Are you like this with everybody?”

“No. Only arrogant knights.”

He let out a short laugh at that, but she paid it no mind, going back to her bowl.

“Most arrogant knights wouldn’t get on their knees for you.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of that,” she said. Then, as if it were an afterthought, “Don’t mind Bryaxis. He doesn’t bite, unless you do first.”

Cassian was about to ask who the hell Bryaxis was, until a black cat sprung up onto the table. His eyes were a pure onyx and seemed to contain more wisdom than a cat was supposed to. The feline studied Cassian  unblinkingly.

Bryaxis stalked around him, slinking across the table, and it seemed like the cat was staring straight into his soul.

“Are you sure that’s a cat?” he asked, dread pooling in his stomach.

The witch threw her head over her shoulder. He could see the shadow of her face, though her hood hid most of her features. What was under it, he wondered? He’d heard witches were supposed to be old crones, but this one seemed young from the sound of her voice and the skin he could see.

Despite the hood, he noted the hint of blue in her eyes that pushed through the dark. A blue he had a feeling that would haunt his every thought. Those eyes were made of steel and fire and ice, and if he wasn’t careful, he could see himself getting utterly, inexplicably lost in them. Like a moth to a damn flame.

Her lips curved into a smile. “I never said he was.”

Bryaxis turned and did a stretch in front of him, bowing and flexing his claws, and faced Cassian with a slow blink. 

Cassian couldn’t help the shudder that rolled through him, as he tried to think about anything else. 

Right. Made perfect sense. Why would anything in this witch’s cottage be normal? He plastered his usual grin back onto his face. 

“Nice place you’ve got here.”

“I let the first man into my cottage in nearly five years, and that’s what you open with?” she said.

“The first? I’m flattered, sweetheart.”

She chuckled coldly, and said, “Call me sweetheart again, and you very well could be the last.”

His smile remained, but the confidence behind it faltered. His charm always worked. He couldn’t remember a time when it hadn’t. But here, it was like talking to a wall of steel. Not that he minded too much. 

The witch turned, holding the stems of some plant in her hand, and brought them towards him.

“Chop,” she said. “You’re here, so you might as well be useful.”

“Seriously?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What? Is a little bit of housework beneath you?”

Cassian’s grinned, intent on proving her wrong. “Fine. Give me the knife.”

She placed the plants on a board on the table in front of him, in addition to the knife.

“So, you can follow orders,” she said, observing him for a moment. “That’s good to know.”

“When it suits me,” he said, sitting down and picking up the knife. “But you should know that I didn’t come here to cut plants for you.”

“Really? What a surprise.”

He sank the knife into the plant for the first chop, and then the second. Once he settled into a rhythm, he spoke again.

“I’ve come because there’s a sword that you supposedly have.”

“I know why you’re here, Sir Cassian.”

“So you have it.”

“I do.” 

“Are you going to give it to me or not?” he asked.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

He opened his mouth to protest, she silenced him with a finger in the air. “Chop. I’ll think while you do.”

“This seems like a way for you to get free labor.”

She let out what sounded like a chuckle, but she didn’t say anything further. Cassian got the message, and continued the task he was assigned, chopping the plant into fine pieces on the board.

She sat down across from him, writing something in her book. 

The minutes flew by. Before he knew it, he realized the cottage had gone completely silent, save for the sound of the knife hitting the board. The witch had stopped her scribbling.

When he looked up, she was watching him intently, tapping her finger silently on the table before her.

She asked, “Why should I entrust a woman’s future to a man I barely know?”

“Isn’t the point to choose somebody brave, like all the other quests?”

“Ah,” she said. “But this is no ordinary quest, is it?”

“I don’t see what you mean.”

“King Archeron takes his daughter’s well being very seriously. He will not settle for mere bravery.”

Cassian frowned. That was the purpose of this whole thing, wasn’t it? To find the knight that would venture into these woods, daring to face down the ruthless dragon that guarded Elain’s tower? It was supposed to be a measure of bravery and strength.

“Listen, let’s cut to the chase here. I’m the strongest knight you’re going to find. Just put me through your trials or whatever it is you want to do, and I can be on my merry way.”

“The strongest knight,” she repeated to herself, chuckling. “And that is all that matters to you, isn’t it?”

Cassian clenched his jaw at her mocking tone, but kept silent. The witch noted it, rolling her eyes and asking another question.

“Fine. Why do you want to marry her?” she asked.

“What?”

“That’s your trial, as you so put it. Tell me right now why you want to marry that princess. If it’s a good enough answer, I’ll give you Ataraxia.” 

He paused. It was the same thing Azriel had asked him two days ago.

It’s what he was supposed to want. It’d practically been ingrained in him. His duty was to the realm—he was destined to slay beasts and keep the kingdom safe. It’s what he had done for the last six years, and what he would continue to do until he no longer could.

Marrying a princess was supposed to be an honor.

“Well, I’m supposed to want to, aren’t I?”

She let the silence settle over the room like a fine dust. She was waiting for him to go on, almost like she was expecting him to proclaim his undying devotion to the princess.

He couldn’t.

What was he supposed to do? Lie?

Azriel had said it himself—Cassian didn’t love the princess. But respect and perhaps fondness would surely come with time. The princess seemed nice enough from what he’d seen, and he didn’t doubt that they would get along if he did marry her.

But clearly, his reasoning wasn’t enough.

“Any other reason?” she asked.

“I-”

Her eyes continued to bore into him, expecting an answer. What was he supposed to say?

“Any at all?” she asked.

Cassian cleared his throat, being the first to break eye contact. “This is fucking ridiculous.”

“Is it? I think it’s a rather simple question.”

It wasn’t a simple question. And from the look on her face, he assumed the witch knew she had him beat.

He supposed that’s why he said it. Maybe there was something in him that couldn’t handle this witch having the upper hand, when he was so used to getting his way.

So he said, “You know, it almost sounds like you care.”

At that, any lingering traces of amusement fell from her voice completely. “Should I not care?”

In the back of his mind, Cassian knew this was a test. But he didn’t like her prying for answers that he couldn’t give.

He couldn’t stop the words coming out of his mouth. He stood from his chair, placing his palms on the table as he leaned forward.

“I didn’t expect a soulless witch to be so invested in the marriage of a princess. Aren’t you supposed to be the one kidnapping maidens and throwing away the key?”

She blinked so slowly that he thought she might try to kill him. Maybe she would. She stood and took a step towards him around the table, her eyes flaring with a silver that was wholly unnatural.

She kept going until she was right in front of him, somehow looking down on him despite only reaching his shoulder in height.

The woman got so close that he took a step back, and another, into the pots hanging from the wall behind him. They clanged as they hit his head, and he winced, bringing his hand up to the hurt spot.

Gods, she was stunning. He couldn’t even see all of her, but what he could see had him thinking that this was why witches were so feared. She had a lethal kind of beauty, one that had him anticipating his own demise by her hand. And some masochistic part of him would enjoy every single second of it.

But she didn’t go for the kill.

Instead, she said, “Get out.”

“What?”

“If you’re going to bring your damn prejudice into my own home, then get. The fuck. Out.”

“Sweetheart-”

“I told you not to call me that.” The witch turned on her heel, not deigning to face him anymore. “You can leave on your own, or Bryaxis can see you out. Your choice.”

One look from the ‘cat’ told Cassian that he better follow the witch’s orders. He let out a hiss, digging his claws into the wood of the table, and Cassian knew better than to push that thing any further than he needed to.

“Listen. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Clearly.”

“But I need that sword.”

“So that’s what this is about,” she muttered. “You don’t care that you were wrong. You don’t care about making things right. You just want to ensure that you can still get what you need from me.”

He opened his mouth to protest. “I am sorry. But-”

“But.” She cut him off, demanding his full attention. “You are a coward, Sir Cassian. No amount of charming smiles will change that.”

“I would think that someone who puts his life on the line hunting beasts is the furthest thing from a coward,” he said. “And what about you? Hiding away here in the woods?”

“I am not hiding.”

He dropped his voice nearly an octave, and said with a serious calm, “Aren’t you?”

“Why would I possibly need to hide out here? Not when I have brave, heroic men showing up unannounced on my doorstep already.”

“Those heroic men keep the realm safe,” he argued. 

“Really? Do you want me to fall to my knees in gratitude? You want me to sing your name from the rooftops to feed your own arrogance?” 

She stalked towards him again, this time pushing him towards the door with Bryaxis at her heels.

She kept talking. “You want me to find you worthy? Well, here’s a hint. I don’t.”

The words hit him hard in the chest. He’d spent his entire life proving his worth. She wasn’t the first to say that he didn’t deserve the opportunities he’d been given, and she certainly wouldn’t be the last.

He didn’t know why this one woman saying it sounded different from all the others. Her eyes blazed as she shoved him through the door, back to the clearing and the forest beyond.

“Is this why you said to wear comfortable shoes?” Nesta asks from the passenger seat, tearing Cassian away from his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Cassian answers easily, throwing his truck into park. He slips out of the driver’s seat, quickly jogging around to pull open Nesta’s door, but she’s already clambered out before he can. Still, he holds out his arm in offering. “M’lady.”

“Idiot,” Nesta teases softly with a roll of her eyes.

The reaction just has Cassian grinning even wider, especially when Nesta settles her hand in the crook of his elbow despite her words. He leads the way toward the front gates, pulling up the tickets on his phone, and then they’re stepping inside. There’s various families, groups of friends, and even a few other couples milling about, their voices and laughter mixing with the melody of wheels on tracks and screams from the rides. The sugary sweet scent of fried dough floats on the breeze, flooding his senses.

“So, what do you think?” Cassian asks, turning his head so he can peer down at Nesta. “Start easy and work our way up?”

“Sure.”

Despite the response, Cassian doesn’t miss the way Nesta keeps her face forward, the way there’s not a single slip to her expression as though she’s purposefully keeping it neutral. Cassian tilts his head, curious what could cause such a reaction, but before he can ask, Nesta snaps her attention fully to him, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

Cassian chuckles easily and shakes his head, leading them both down the winding path and toward the large, wooden rollercoaster of the park. Luckily, the line is quite short, and they barely have to wait at all before they’re sliding together into one of the cars. Cassian pulls the black bar down over both their laps before slinging his arm across Nesta’s shoulders, offering her a winning smirk.

“Ready, Nes? If you need to hold my hand, you don’t even have to ask.”

“What am I? Five? Why would I need to hold your hand?”

Cassian gives her shoulder a teasing squeeze. “Because of all the turns and drops? Because I’m so attractive you can’t keep your hands to yourself?”

Nesta scoffs, driving her elbow right into Cassian’s gut hard enough that he lets out a pained gasp, curling forward over his knees. Of course, it’s at that exact moment that the ride goes rocking forward, the cars pulled along the track and up the large first hill. As the cars go cresting into the first drop, Cassian throws his arms up, laughing through every twist, every swoop of his gut as they go flying over another hill. By the time the ride is pulling back to the beginning, he feels breathless.

Breathless and ready for another.

He leads Nesta to the other wooden rollercoaster in the park, the one with two tracks that ‘race’ one another, and when they’re finished with that ride, it’s on to their first steel rollercoaster of the day. Cassian is buzzing as he secures the safety over his thighs, but when he glances toward Nesta in the seat beside his own, her grip on the metal handles is white knuckled. Her fingers flex as the ride operator begins his teasing introduction spiel, throat bobbing with a hard swallow.

“Alright, sweetheart?” Cassian leans over as best he can to ask.

“I’m fine,” Nesta snaps, not even bothering to meet his eyes.

Cassian doesn’t believe her for a second, but before he can ask again, the ride starts, the only sound filling his ears the click of the track as they climb up and up followed by the rush of wind as they crest into the first drop. But when the ride ends, he focuses his attention back on Nesta. On the way her shoulders slump almost in relief when she gets off the ride and her feet are back on solid ground. On the way she takes a deep almost steadying breath before pushing through the exit gate. On the way she holds her spine straight as steel like she can feel his attention as he follows her down the path and back into the main part of the park.

“Which ride next?” Nesta whirls on him to ask before he can utter a word.

“Are you afraid of coasters?” Cassian asks anyway.

“No,” Nesta answers too quickly, crossing her arms. “Why would I be afraid of rollercoasters?”

“You could tell me if you were. We could–”

“I’m not.”

Nesta raises her chin, her blue eyes blazing and narrowing on him. Daring him. I Will Eat Your Eyes for Breakfast, that was what he named this look of hers. One of many that he has named in the time since he’s known Nesta. And in that time, he’s also learned just how stubborn she can be, that iron will and pride one of the many attributes of hers he loved.

“Aright,” Cassian concedes with a shrug. “Let’s go big then. Do the one with the big drop and all the loops.”

“Great.”

Cassian presses his lips together to keep from smirking. “Great.”

Nesta is quiet as they wait in line for their turn, and Cassian wonders if she’s trying to mentally psych herself up for the rollercoaster. He watches her carefully, waiting for the cracks to show, for her to finally cave and admit the truth. But perhaps he truly is underestimating her and her unwillingness to yield.

“Last chance,” Cassian offers when the small gate swings open, indicating it’s their turn to step onto the ride.

Nesta doesn’t even bother deeming him with a response. She strolls right through the small gate and to the first open seat of the ride for their row. She hops up into the seat, quickly pulling down the shoulder restraint. Cassian shakes his head with a chuckle, stepping over to the seat beside her and doing the same.

“Hold hands?” Cassian suggests again, holding his hand out palm up.

“I don’t need to hold your hand,” Nesta bites out. “I told you, I’m not scared.”

Cassian puts on his best pout, wiggling his fingers. “But what if I need to hold your hand? Please, Nes?”

Nesta makes a big show of sighing, but she carefully releases her grip on the metal handle of the shoulder restraint. Her fingers slide between Cassian’s own, and he curls his, daring to slide his thumb across her skin with a wide grin.

It’s at that exact moment that the ride surges forward, going from zero to seventy miles per hour just as the rollercoaster’s tagline promises. Nesta’s scream is blood curdling, her grip on his hand tightening enough that he actually winces. As they go soaring through the first loop, he chances a glance toward her, but he finds Nesta with her eyes squeezed shut, face scrunched in fear.

The high speed has the ride ending before Cassian knows it, laughter echoing from the seats behind them and a ‘whoop’ coming from a guy in one of the front row seats. But Nesta still has her eyes closed, still has a death grip on his hand, even after the ride comes to a full stop and the shoulder restraints release with a quiet whoosh.

“You have to let go of my hand now, sweetheart,” Cassian leans over to whisper.

It takes a moment, but slowly Nesta’s fingers uncurl and she pulls her hand away. She hops down from the seat, stalking toward the exit without a glance backward. Cassian is quick to jog after her, slinging his arm around her shoulders when he catches up.

“You know, that was quite a scream for someone not scared,” Cassian comments teasingly.

“Shut up. I hate you,” Nesta snaps, shrugging out of his hold and continuing forward.

“Come on, Nes.” Cassian continues after her, moving in front of her and halting her steps. “I’m sorry, okay? No more coasters, I promise.”

Nesta continues to watch him dubiously, those blue gray eyes still narrowed, but her shoulders relax at least. Cassian steps closer into her space, reaching up for one of the stray strands of hair that’s come free from her updo through the rides and now tumbles down along her temple. He twists it around her finger, tugging until that scowl finally vanishes, until the corners of her lips twitch with the barest hint of a smile.

“Forgive me?” Cassian requests, giving in to his own soft smile that he knows there’s no point trying to fight.

Nesta hums, clearly intent on denying him, but she can’t hide the spark in her gaze that gives her away. The reaction has Cassian laughing and shaking his head fondly. She’ll be the death of him, and he’ll die happy.

He glances around, spying one of the game booths just down the path from them. With a decided nod, he starts to walk backwards from Nesta, holding his arms out and shrugging in faux innocence. It earns him an eye roll, and he knows he’s won, finally turning full around and stepping up to the booth.

He hands over the money to the worker, awkwardly settling onto one of the low stools despite his tall frame. He squints at the small target, moving the water shooter up and down until he’s confident he has the right aim.

“I expect the biggest prize,” Nesta tells him from his left.

And Cassian intends to give her nothing less. As soon as the bell sounds for the game, he presses down the little red buttons with a single minded focus. He doesn’t spare even a glance toward the kids sitting to his right that he’s playing against. He doesn’t even bother to think about them. He stays focused on his target until the winning bell rings out, the lights flashing above his station.

“Let’s go,” Cassian cheers, pumping his fist and jumping up from his seat. He points toward the prize he wants, a large purple narwhal plushie, that the worker hands over, and then he whirls back toward Nesta, presenting it with a wide smirk. “M’lady.”

“You’re an idiot.”

She says the words, but she still laughs softly as she does, still takes the plushie to hug close to her chest. It’s a sight and a sound that has Cassian’s heart stuttering and blooming with warmth between his ribs. Has him grinning wide enough that he’s sure he really does look like an idiot. Not that he cares. Especially when Nesta leans closer, pressing up onto her toes and kissing him on the cheek.

“And now you’re forgiven, but no more rollercoasters.”

—