Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The days blur together, but not in the terrible way they did in Velaris.

Here, it’s different.

Each morning, Nesta wakes to the smell of coffee and Cassian’s off-key humming. Each morning, he makes something different for breakfast—sometimes successfully, sometimes not. The eggs are always good. The pancakes too. Yesterday’s toast was charcoal.

“I got distracted,” he’d said sheepishly, scraping the blackened bread into the trash. “Started thinking about oiling my wings.”

“While making toast?”

“My mind wanders.”

She’d eaten bread and honey instead, and it had been fine.

Each day, they go outside for a little while. Sometimes they walk. Sometimes they just stand and watch the chickadees. Sometimes Cassian points out tracks in the snow—rabbit, fox, deer.

“Illyrian tracking 101,” he says. “It’s an essential skill. Right up there with ‘how to be an asshole to your brothers’ and ‘advanced brooding.’”

She discovers he has a seemingly endless supply of terrible jokes.

“Why don’t mountains ever get cold?” he asks on the third morning.

“I don’t know.”

“Because they have snow caps.”

She groans. “That’s awful.”

“I have worse. Want to hear my joke about paper?”

“No.”

“Never mind, it’s tearable anyway.”

She throws a pillow at his head. He catches it, grinning like he’s just won a great victory.

In the afternoons, they settle into companionable silence. Cassian mostly reads ancient Illyrian texts that he squints at, muttering about the terrible handwriting of long-dead warriors. Nesta discovers a small shelf of books tucked in a corner. Romance novels, of all things.

“Don’t judge me,” Cassian says when he catches her looking. “They’re good.”

“You read romance novels?”

“Don’t judge, sweetheart. You know they’re great. Swords, magic, fucking, emotions—what’s not to like?”

She pulls one from the shelf. The Lady’s Warrior. Reads the back. Raises an eyebrow.

“That one’s particularly good,” Cassian says. “The love interest is emotionally constipated for like two hundred pages and then he finally gets his shit together. Very satisfying character arc.”

Nesta settles onto the couch with the book. Cassian returns to his Illyrian text.

They read in silence.

It’s actually nice.

On the fourth day, something shifts.

Nesta wakes and realizes she’s hungry. Actually hungry, not just aware that she should eat.

She pads out to the main room in Cassian’s clothes—she’s been living in them, hasn’t touched her dress since that first night—and finds him already making coffee.

“Morning,” he says, not turning around. “Sleep okay?”

“Yes.” She pauses. “I’m hungry.”

He turns, and the smile that lights his face is brilliant. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you want? I can make eggs. Or oatmeal. Or I can attempt bacon, though I should warn you I have a fifty-fifty success rate with bacon. Sometimes it’s perfect. Sometimes it’s a structure fire.”

“Eggs are fine.”

He sets to work, and she watches him move around the kitchen. There’s an ease to him here that she’s never seen in Velaris. No tension in his shoulders. No constant vigilance. He’s just… Cassian.

“Can I help?” The words surprise her.

He pauses mid-reach for a pan. “You want to?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” She shifts her weight. “I’ve never really learned to cook proper meals. We had servants, and then after we lost everything, Feyre hunted and I...” She trails off.

“You kept house,” Cassian finishes gently. “You took care of your sisters as best you could.”

“I was terrible at it.”

“I doubt that.”

She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t have the energy for the guilt that discussion would bring.

“Come here,” Cassian says instead, holding out a hand.

She crosses to him, and he positions her in front of the stove, stepping close behind her. Not touching, but close enough that she can feel his warmth.

“First lesson in cooking,” he says. “Heat the pan. Not too hot, you’re not trying to forge a sword, but not too cold either.”

She watches as he demonstrates, then lets her try with another pan.

“Good. Now, crack an egg into this bowl.”

She picks up an egg and holds it uncertainly.

“Haven’t done this before?” There’s no judgment in his voice. Just curiosity.

“No.”

“Okay. Watch.” He picks up another egg, taps it against the bowl’s edge, and pulls it apart in one smooth motion. The yolk drops into the bowl intact.

Nesta tries. Her egg doesn’t crack enough at first. Then she puts too much force behind it and the shell shatters, sending pieces into the bowl.

“Fuck,” she mutters.

“Nesta Archeron, was that a profanity?” There’s a gleam in Cassian’s eyes. He huffs a laugh when her scowl deepens.

“It’s fine. First try is always messy.” He fishes out the shell pieces with another piece of shell. “Try again.”

She manages to crack the next one properly.

“There,” Cassian says, and she can hear the smile in his voice. “Perfect.”

She whisks the eggs like he shows her, pours them into the pan, and watches them begin to set.

“Don’t leave them alone,” Cassian instructs. “They’ll betray you the second you turn your back. Eggs are sneaky bastards.”

She stirs them gently, watching them transform from liquid to soft curds.

“When they’re almost done but still a tiny bit runny, take them off the heat,” Cassian says. “They’ll keep cooking in the pan.”

She does, and he sprinkles in salt and pepper.

“Now taste.”

She takes a tentative bite.

They’re good. Better than good. They’re creamy and rich and exactly right.

“I made eggs,” she says, and there’s something like wonder in her voice.

“You did.” Cassian’s hand settles on her shoulder, warm and solid. “You made really fucking good eggs.”

They eat at the small table, and Nesta finds herself eating more than she has in weeks. Cooking herself makes it taste better somehow.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

“For what?”

“For letting me help. For being patient.”

“Nesta.” He waits until she meets his eyes. “You don’t have to thank me for basic kindness. And you definitely don’t have to thank me for teaching you to scramble eggs.”

“Still.”

He reaches across the table, and after a moment’s hesitation, she places her hand in his.

“Do you want to know what my small thing is today?” he asks.

“What?”

“Watching you smile when you cracked that egg right. It was just for a second. But it was beautiful.”

She hadn’t realized she’d smiled.

On the fifth evening, Nesta catches sight of herself in the small mirror by the door.

She stops.

She doesn’t recognize the person staring back. Her hair is matted and dull, pulled into a knot that hasn’t been properly combed in she doesn’t know how long. There are still dark circles under her eyes. Her skin still looks pale and lifeless.

When was the last time she bathed? Really bathed, not just a quick wash?

She can’t remember.

The realization hits her like a physical blow. This is what she’s become. This is what she’s let herself turn into.

“Hey.” Cassian’s voice is soft behind her. “What’s wrong?”

She gestures at her reflection. “Look at me.”

He does. His expression doesn’t change. “I’m looking.”

“I’m disgusting.”

“You’re not.”

“I can’t remember the last time I washed my hair.” The admission costs her. “I can’t—I don’t even know how I let it get this bad.”

Cassian is quiet for a moment. “When I’m at my worst, sometimes I go days without bathing. It’s not about wanting to be dirty. It’s about not having the energy to care. About the simple act of washing feeling like climbing a mountain.”

She looks at him. “Really?”

“Really. After the first war, Azriel had to physically drag me to the bathing room and stand there while I washed. I was so deep in my own head I couldn’t make myself do even basic things.” He pauses. “There’s no shame in it, Nesta. Your body’s trying to survive. Everything else becomes background noise.”

The words make her relax slightly.

“I want to feel clean again,” she whispers. “But I don’t know if I have the energy.”

“Then let me help.”

She turns to face him fully. “What?”

“Let me help you,” he says simply. “You don’t have to do it alone. We can make it easier.”

“I don’t need you to bathe me like a child.”

“That’s not what I’m offering.” His voice is gentle. “I’m offering to make it less overwhelming. To break it down into small steps so it doesn’t feel like climbing a mountain. More like a small hill, perhaps.”

She wants to say no, wants to insist she can do it herself. But the truth is, she’s not sure she can.

“Okay,” she whispers.

Cassian fills the tub with hot water while Nesta sits on the closed lid of the toilet, watching the steam rise.

“First thing to do when bathing feels like an impossible task,” he says, adding some kind of oil that makes the room smell like lavender and something else—mint, maybe. “Make it as pleasant as possible. No suffering through cold water or harsh soap. This is supposed to feel good.”

He tests the temperature, then nods. “Perfect. Now, I’m going to be right outside the door. You get in, get settled, and when you’re ready, I’ll come back and help with your hair. Sound good?”

“You’re going to wash my hair?”

“If you want me to. Or I can talk you through it. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

She considers. The thought of trying to untangle the matted mess herself makes her feel exhausted before even trying, but letting him see her like this, vulnerable and naked and—

“I’ll stay behind your head,” he says, reading her hesitation. “This isn’t about anything except helping you feel better. I promise.”

She believes him.

“Okay.”

He leaves, pulling the door closed. Nesta undresses slowly, her hands shaking slightly. When she lowers herself into the water, the heat is almost shocking after so long.

But it feels good. Gods, it feels good.

She lets herself sink deeper, below the suds, and lets the warmth seep into her bones.

“How is it?” Cassian calls from outside.

“Good,” she manages. “It’s nice.”

“Take your time. Just soak for a bit, let your muscles relax.”

She does. She closes her eyes and lets the water hold her, warm her through.

After a while, Cassian speaks again. “Ready for the hard part?”

Her hair. Right.

“Yes.”

The door opens, and he enters with a stool and several bottles. He sets the stool behind the tub, settling himself so he’s behind her head, and she realizes she can’t see him unless she turns around.

“I’m going to wet your hair first,” he says. “Can you sit up slightly and tip your head back for me?”

She does, and his hands are gentle as he cups water and pours it over her hair. Over and over until her hair is completely saturated.

“This might take a while,” he warns. “I’m going to work in sections, starting from the bottom. It might pull a bit, but I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

“Okay.”

He starts with some kind of treatment—something slippery that makes the tangles easier to work through. His fingers are patient, working through one small section at a time. When he hits a particularly bad knot, he doesn’t just yank. He works at it carefully, separating the strands bit by bit.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he says softly.

“You’re not.”

They fall into silence. The room is filled with just the sound of water and his steady breathing and the gentle pull of his fingers through her hair.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks quietly.

“Because you need help and you matter to me. Because everyone deserves to feel clean and cared for.” He works through another section. “And because I know what it’s like to feel so low that even basic self-care feels impossible.”

“Does it get easier?”

“Yes and no. Some days are better than others. But having someone who understands—someone who doesn’t judge you for struggling with things that seem simple—that helps.” His fingers move to another section. “You’re not alone in this, Nesta. Not anymore.”

Tears prick at her eyes, but she blinks them away.

He works in silence for a long while, patient and methodical. When all the tangles are out, he washes her hair, his fingers massaging her scalp in a way that makes her want to melt into the water.

“Lean back,” he says, and rinses the soap away with cupped handfuls of clean water.

Then he applies something else. Conditioner, she realizes. He works it through her hair with the same care.

“Now we let that sit for a few minutes,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” she admits. “But good.”

“That’s normal. This kind of care takes energy, even when someone else is doing the work.” She hears him shift on the stool. “Do you want help washing the rest of you, or do you want to do that yourself?”

“Myself,” she says quickly.

“Okay. I’ll get you a cloth and soap and give you privacy. Take your time. I’ll be right outside.”

He does exactly that. He sets a soft cloth and gentle soap within reach, then leaves, closing the door behind him.

Nesta washes herself slowly, carefully. It takes longer than it should because she keeps having to rest. But she does it. All of it.

When she’s done, when she’s dunked her head below the surface and rinsed the conditioner from her hair, when she’s washed every inch of her body, she feels cleaner. Lighter. A little more like herself.

She drains the tub and wraps herself in the towel Cassian left—thick and soft and warm.

“You can come in,” she calls.

He enters with a comb and another towel. “How do you feel?”

“Better.” She touches her hair—clean and smooth for the first time in months. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” He gestures to the stool. “Sit. Let me comb it out before it dries.”

She sits, and he works through her hair again, this time with the comb, starting from the ends and working up. It’s methodical and soothing and she finds her eyes drifting closed.

“Rhys’s mother used to do this,” he says quietly. “Before she died. She’d comb my hair and my brothers’ hair and tell us stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Illyrian legends about warriors and gods of the sky and impossible quests.” His hands are steady, gentle. “She made them sound so real. Made us feel like we could be those warriors someday.”

“You became one,” Nesta says.

“I did. But some days I still feel like that little boy, wishing his mother was there to comb his hair and tell him everything would be okay.” He’s quiet for a moment. “We never outgrow needing to be cared for, Nesta. We just learn to hide it better.”

The words sink into her skin.

When her hair is combed smooth, he hands her one of his shirts to sleep in and leaves her to dress.

When she emerges, he’s made tea. They settle on the couch together, and Nesta realizes she feels different.

Cared for.

The next morning, Nesta wakes and immediately touches her hair. It’s still smooth, still clean. The feeling makes something in her chest loosen.

She finds Cassian making his pancakes again.

“Morning,” he says. “Sleep well?”

“Yes.” She pads over to the kitchen. “My hair doesn’t feel like straw anymore.”

His smile is bright. “Good. That’s really good.” He plates the pancake. “I was thinking—if you want, we could make taking care of yourself a little routine. Nothing overwhelming. Just small things to start each day.”

“Like what?”

“Like washing your face in the morning. Combing your hair. Changing clothes even if you’re just wearing my stuff.” He pours more batter. “When I’m struggling, routines help. They give me something to hold onto when everything else feels like chaos.”

She considers this. “Show me?”

“Show you what?”

“How to make it a routine. How to make it feel less... impossible.”

His expression softens. “Of course, sweetheart.”

After breakfast, he leads her to the bathroom. It’s such a simple thing, but he makes it feel important.

“Okay, so. Morning routine for when getting out of bed is already a victory.” He wets a cloth with warm water. “First, wash your face. Nothing fancy. Just warm water and gentle soap.”

He hands her a cloth.

She washes her face, and the warm water feels good on her skin.

“Good. Now pat dry—don’t rub.” He hands her a towel. “Next, if you have energy, brush your teeth. If you don’t, just rinse your mouth with water. Something is better than nothing.”

She brushes her teeth. The mint taste makes her feel more awake.

“Now your hair.” He picks up the comb. “Every morning, comb it out. Doesn’t matter if you’re going anywhere. Doesn’t matter if you think it’s pointless. You do it because you deserve to feel put-together, even if you’re the only one who sees it.”

He hands her the comb and she sets to work.

“Last thing—and this is important—you look in the mirror and you say one thing you’re grateful your body did for you today.”

She pauses the combing and stares at him. “What?”

“I know it sounds stupid, but it helps.” He meets her eyes in the mirror. “Your body isn’t your enemy, Nesta. It’s been trying to keep you alive even when you wanted to give up. It deserves acknowledgment for that.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Start simple. ‘Thank you for getting me out of bed.’ ‘Thank you for letting me taste the pancakes.’ Anything.”

She looks at her reflection. At her clean face and smooth hair. At her eyes that are still shadowed but maybe a little clearer than before.

“Thank you for letting me feel the warm water,” she whispers.

Cassian smiles softly. “Perfect. That’s perfect.”

For the next two days, they do it together. Every morning, Cassian talks her through the routine. Washing her face. Brushing her teeth. Combing her hair. Finding one thing to be grateful for.

On the third morning, she does it alone while he makes breakfast.

When she emerges, he looks up and his smile could light the whole clearing.

“You did it yourself.”

“I did.” She touches her hair self-consciously. “Is it okay?”

“It’s more than okay. You’re taking care of yourself. That’s huge.”

It doesn’t feel huge. It feels like the bare minimum. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe sometimes the bare minimum is a victory.

That evening, as they’re cleaning up from dinner, Cassian says, “I have one more thing to teach you. If you want.”

“What?”

“How to take care of your hands.”

She looks down at them. Her nails are ragged, bitten down. Her cuticles are torn. There are small cuts she doesn’t remember getting.

“I’ve been picking at them,” she admits. “Without realizing.”

“I know. I do the same thing when I’m anxious.” He takes one of her hands in his, examining it gently. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

He settles them both on the couch with a small basin of warm water, a towel, and a little kit she’s never seen before.

“Illyrian warriors aren’t exactly known for their manicures,” he says with a slight smile, “but we have to take care of our hands. They’re our tools. Our weapons. Can’t fight if your hands are infected or too damaged to hold a sword.”

He guides her to soak her hands in the warm water. It has some kind of oil in it that makes her skin feel soft.

“Now, we trim the nails. Not too short, just enough to keep them neat.” He demonstrates on his own hand first, then hands her the small clippers.

Together, they trim her nails.

“The key is being gentle,” he says. “You’re not attacking your hands. You’re taking care of them.”

When they’re done, he rubs some kind of balm into her hands, smelling like honey and rosemary.

“This is for healing,” he explains, massaging it into her skin with gentle circular motions. “For all the little cuts and tears. It’ll help.”

His hands are so much larger than hers, rough with calluses and old scars. But they’re gentle as they work the balm into her skin.

“Why do you know how to do this?” she asks quietly.

“Because there were times when I forgot how to take care of myself too,” he says simply. “And Azriel sat with me and taught me, the way I’m teaching you.” He looks up, meeting her eyes. “We all need help sometimes, Nesta. We all need someone to remind us that we’re worth the effort.”

She looks down at their joined hands—hers small and pale in his large, darker ones.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

He brings her hand to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “Always.”

It starts with Cassian noticing something else about her hands.

They’re sitting on the couch on the ninth evening, both reading—Nesta with one of his romance novels, Cassian with some reports. The fire is casting the room in an amber glow, the cabin warm, but when she turns a page, he catches sight of her fingers.

They’re pale. Almost bloodless.

He reaches over without thinking, catching her hand in his.

“Nesta, you’re freezing.”

She glances down at their joined hands, seemingly surprised. “Am I?”

He wraps both his hands around hers, feeling how cold they truly are. Like ice. “How long have you been cold?”

“I don’t know.” She frowns slightly. “I’m always cold lately. I thought it was just the winter.”

“It’s warm in here.” He rubs her hand between his, trying to generate heat through friction. “And you’re still frozen.”

She tries to pull away. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

“That doesn’t mean you should suffer through it.” He keeps hold of her hand, continuing to rub warmth into it. “Being cold all the time isn’t normal, Nesta.”

“Nothing about me is normal lately.”

The words are said lightly, but there’s an edge of bitterness underneath.

Cassian puts away his book, turning to face her fully. “Being underweight can make you cold. Your body doesn’t have enough… padding to regulate temperature properly.” He says it gently, not accusatorily. “And being inside all the time in Velaris, not moving much, not eating much—that all contributes.”

“So it’s my fault.”

“That’s not what I said.” He picks up her other hand, finding it just as cold. “I’m saying your body is struggling to keep you warm because it’s been struggling to survive. But I can help with that.”

“How?”

He considers for a moment, then makes a decision. “Come here.”

“What?”

“Come closer, Nesta,” he repeats, patting his thigh. “Put your feet under my leg.”

She stares at him. “What?”

“Your feet are probably freezing too, right?”

She glances down at her wool-socked feet tucked under her on the couch. “Yes.”

“So put them under my thigh. I run hot. Something to do with lots of muscle mass, and big wings. I’m basically a furnace. Use me.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s practical.” He shifts, making room. “Come on. Don’t be stubborn about this.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she uncurls her legs and slides her feet toward him. He lifts his thigh slightly, and she tucks her feet underneath.

The heat is immediate.

Nesta’s eyes widen slightly. “Oh.”

“Better?”

“You’re… really warm.”

“Told you. Furnace.” He settles his weight back down over her feet—not crushing them, just providing steady heat. “How’s that?”

“Good,” she admits quietly. “Really good.”

They return to their books, but Cassian keeps one hand on her ankle, his thumb rubbing small circles over her sock. After a few minutes, he feels her feet start to warm up beneath his leg.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, not looking up from her page.

“Anytime, sweetheart.”

The next morning, Nesta is helping him make breakfast—she’s gotten good at the eggs, confident enough now to do them herself—and when she hands him a plate, her fingers brush his.

They’re ice-cold again.

“Nesta.”

“I know,” she says before he can comment. “They’re cold. They’re always cold in the morning.”

He sets down the plate and takes both her hands in his, pulling her closer. “Come here.”

Before she can protest, he brings her hands up and tucks them under his arms, against his ribs, trapping them there with his biceps.

“Cassian—”

“Shh. Give it a minute.”

She stands there, awkward and stiff, her hands pressed against his warm sides. He can feel how cold they are through his shirt.

“This is stupid,” she mutters.

“No it’s not.” He keeps his arms down, holding her hands in place. “When your hands are cold, you don’t blow on them or rub them together—that doesn’t actually work very well. You put them somewhere warm. Armpits are ideal. Very warm, lots of blood flow.”

“You want me to just… stick my hands in your armpits?”

“When they’re freezing? Yes. Absolutely.” He grins at her. “I won’t even charge you.”

Despite herself, she huffs a small laugh.

They stand like that for a few minutes, close enough that Nesta has to tilt her head back to look at him. Close enough that he can see the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose.

“Better?” he asks quietly.

She flexes her fingers experimentally against his ribs. “Better.”

“Good.” But he doesn’t let go yet. Doesn’t seem to want to.

Finally, she pulls her hands free, and there’s color in her fingers now. Pink instead of white.

That afternoon, they take their usual walk. The sun is out, but it’s brutally cold—the kind of cold that bites at exposed skin.

They’re only outside for ten minutes before Nesta starts shivering.

“Come on,” Cassian says, turning them back toward the cabin. “That’s enough.”

“I’m fine—”

“You’re shaking.” He guides her inside, immediately moving her toward the fire. “Sit.”

She sits, and he kneels in front of her, pulling off her gloves. Her fingers are white again, almost blue at the tips.

“Nesta,” he says, concerned now. “This isn’t good.”

“It’s just the cold—”

“It’s more than that.” He cups her hands in his, squeezing them. “You’re not circulating properly. Your body is prioritizing your core and letting your extremities freeze.”

“What am I supposed to do about it?”

“Let me help.” He stands, disappearing into the bedroom for a moment. When he returns, he’s carrying a thick quilt. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to sit on the couch. I’m going to sit behind you. We’re going to wrap up in this quilt together, and I’m going to be your personal heating source until you stop shivering.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to.” His voice is firm. “Please, Nesta. Let me do this.”

She looks at him for a long moment, then nods.

He settles on the couch first, spreading his legs slightly. Then he guides her to sit between them, her back to his chest. He wraps the quilt around both of them, then brings his arms around her waist, tucking her against him.

“Okay?” he asks quietly.

She nods, not trusting her voice.

He’s so warm. It’s like sitting directly in front of a fire. Heat radiates from him, seeping through her back, her sides, everywhere they’re touching.

“Give it a few minutes,” he murmurs.

They sit in silence. Outside, snow begins to fall again. Slowly, gradually, Nesta stops shivering.

“Your hands,” Cassian says after a while. “Are they still cold?”

“Yes.”

“Turn around, sweetheart.”

She sits up reluctantly, turning around and sitting back on her heals. Cassian makes sure the quilt stays draped over her shoulders. She holds her hands between them, and he takes them in his, bringing them to his mouth. He breathes on them, warm air flowing over her frozen fingers, then tucks them against his neck.

“Oh,” Nesta gasps. His neck is so warm. “That’s—”

“Better?”

“Much.”

He keeps her hands there, pressed against the side of his neck, and she can feel his pulse under her palm. Steady. Strong. Alive.

“You can do this anytime,” he says quietly. “Anytime you’re cold, come find me. I’ll warm you up.”

“What if you’re busy?”

“I’ll never be too busy for this.” His arms tighten around her waist. “Never too busy to take care of you.”

That night, after dinner, Nesta is reading on the couch when she realizes her nose is cold.

She touches it. It feels like a little ice cube in the middle of her face.

Cassian notices immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“My nose is cold.”

“Your nose?”

“It’s always cold. I don’t know why. Even when the rest of me is warm, my nose is frozen.”

He sets down the dish he’s drying and crosses to her. “Let me feel.”

She tilts her face up, and he cups her face in his warm hands, his thumbs gently touching her nose.

“You’re right. It’s freezing.” He rubs his thumbs over it gently, trying to warm it. “Does it hurt?”

“No. It’s just uncomfortable.”

“Hmm.” He thinks for a moment, then grins. “I have an idea. But you have to trust me.”

“Why do I feel like I’m going to regret this?”

“You won’t. Come here.”

He sits down in the couch and pulls her into his lap, tucking her against his chest. Nesta stiffens for a moment.

“Relax, sweetheart. I only want to make sure you’re warm.” She does as he says, and he hums a pleased sound.

Then he tilts her face toward his neck.

“Press your nose right here,” he says, indicating the spot just below his jaw.

“Cassian—”

“Trust me.”

She does. She presses her cold nose against the warm skin of his neck, and he makes a sound that’s half laugh, half yelp.

“Gods, that’s cold!”

“I told you!”

“No, it’s good. Keep it there.” His arms come around her, holding her in place. “Use me as your personal nose-warmer.”

She laughs—actually laughs—her breath warm against his skin. “This is absurd.”

“This is practical.” But she can hear the smile in his voice. “How does it feel?”

“Warm,” she admits. “Really warm.”

They stay like that, Nesta curled in his lap with her nose pressed to his neck, his arms around her. It should feel awkward. Strange.

Instead, it feels safe.

“My ears are cold too,” she murmurs after a while.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He shifts, bringing his hands up to cup her ears, his large palms covering them completely. The warmth is immediate and wonderful.

“Better?” The sounds of his voice is muffled.

“Mmm.”

They stay like that for a long time. Cassian holding her, warming her, his heat seeping into all her cold places.

“Thank you,” she whispers eventually. Cassian just holds her closer in response.

The next morning, Nesta wakes to find Cassian already up, standing by the stove.

She pads over to him, still in his oversized shirt, her feet cold on the wooden floor.

Without a word, she presses herself against his back, nestling between his wings, wrapping her arms around his waist, seeking his warmth.

He goes still for a moment. Then his hand comes down to cover hers.

“Cold?” he asks gently.

“Always,” she murmurs against his back.

“Come here.” He turns in her arms, pulling her fully against his chest. One hand comes up to rub her back, the other slides into her hair, cradling her head. “I’ve got you.“

She presses her cold nose against his collarbone, her frozen hands sliding under his shirt to find warm skin. He doesn’t even flinch.

“Your hands are freezing,” he says, but there’s no complaint in his voice.

“I know.”

“Keep them there as long as you need.”

So she does. She stands there in the warm kitchen, pressed against him, stealing his heat. He just holds her, one hand rubbing slow circles on her back, generating warmth through friction.

“Is this what it’s like?” she asks quietly. “To be warm?”

“This is what it’s like to be cared for,” he corrects gently. “To have someone who wants to keep you warm.”

She closes her eyes, breathing him in. Pine and snow and something uniquely him.

“I could get used to this,” she whispers.

His arms tighten around her. “Good, because I’m not going anywhere.”

They stand there until the eggs start to burn, and Cassian has to gently extract himself to save their breakfast.

But even as she steps back, the warmth remains.

Not just in her hands or her nose.

In her chest. In her heart.

That evening, as they’re settling onto the couch with their books, Nesta doesn’t wait for an invitation.

She sits down, picks up her book, and immediately tucks her feet under Cassian’s thigh.

He looks up, surprised, then smiles. “Cold again?”

“Always.”

“Good thing I’m here, then.”

“Good thing,” she agrees softly.

She reads her book. He reads his. Her feet warm beneath his leg, her shoulder pressed against his side.

And when her hands get cold, she doesn’t hesitate. She just puts away her book and reaches over, tucking them under his arm, against his ribs.

He shifts to accommodate her without looking up from his page, as natural as breathing.

“Better?” he murmurs.

“Better.”

Later, when her nose gets cold, she turns more fully toward him.

He sets down his own book immediately. “Come here, sweetheart.”

She curls into his lap, pressing her cold nose to his neck, and his arms come around her automatically.

“You’re getting good at this,” he says, amusement in his voice.

“At what?”

“At letting yourself be cared for. At asking for what you need.”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“Yeah.” He presses a kiss to the top of her head. “And I’m proud of you.”

The words settle into her bones, warm and solid. She doesn’t say anything in response. Instead, she nuzzles closer, breathing in his warmth, his scent, his steady presence.

Nesta is dreaming of warmth when she feels something soft brush across her forehead.

Fingertips, she realizes slowly. Gentle fingertips tracing along her hairline, tucking a strand behind her ear.

“Nesta,” a voice murmurs. Low and warm, like honey. “Sweetheart, I need you to wake up for me.”

She makes a small sound of protest, burrowing deeper into the pillow. The bed is so soft, the blankets so warm. She doesn’t want to wake up. Doesn’t want to leave this cocoon of peace.

The fingers continue their gentle path, now stroking through her hair with infinite patience. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.” The voice—Cassian’s voice, she realizes—is so soft. So tender. “But there’s something I need you to see. Something that can’t wait.”

“Cassian?” Her voice is thick with sleep, barely audible.

“Right here.” His thumb brushes across her cheek, the touch featherlight. “I need you to open those beautiful eyes for me. Just for a moment. I promise it’ll be worth it.”

She forces her eyes open, blinking in the darkness. Cassian is sitting on the edge of the bed. She sees the gentle curve of his smile. The warmth in his eyes.

“There she is,” he says, voice full of quiet affection. “Hi, sweetheart.”

“What time is it?” She’s still half-asleep, words slurring slightly.

“Late. Or early, depending on how you look at it.” His hand cups her cheek, thumb stroking softly. “But I promise you want to see this. Do you trust me?”

She finds herself nodding. “Yes.”

His smile brightens. “That’s my girl. Come on, let’s get you into something warm first.”

He moves to the dresser, and she hears him rummaging quietly. When he returns, he’s carrying a thick wool sweater.

“Arms up,” he says gently.

She sits up slowly, still foggy with sleep, and raises her arms. He slides the sweater over her head with careful hands, guiding her arms through the sleeves like she’s something precious. His fingers linger at her wrists, making sure the cuffs are settled properly.

“There we go.” He tugs the hem down, making sure it covers her properly. “Now socks.”

“Cassian, what—”

“Shh, trust me.” He’s already kneeling by the bed, and she watches him lift one of her feet. His hands are warm as he slides a thick wool sock on, then the other foot. “Can’t have these pretty toes freezing.”

Despite her grogginess, she feels heat rise in her cheeks at the casual endearment. At the care in his every movement.

He stands, grabbing the quilt from the end of the bed. “One more thing.”

He drapes it around her shoulders like a cape, then scoops her up before she can protest.

“Cassian!” The word comes out as a startled laugh.

“Shh,” he says again, but he’s grinning now. “You’re still half-asleep. I’m not risking you stumbling in the dark and breaking something.”

She should protest. Instead, she finds herself tucking her head against his shoulder, breathing in his scent.

He carries her through the cabin with sure steps, and she can feel his warmth even through all the layers.

He opens the door with one hand, somehow managing to keep her secure in his arms. The cold is immediate, but he settles onto the bench there, arranging her in his lap so she’s cradled against his chest.

“Cold?” he asks, adjusting the quilt around her.

“A little.”

He wraps his arms around her, tucking the quilt more securely. His wings come up too, curved around them like a shield, creating a warm pocket of air. “Better?”

She nods against his shoulder. “What are we doing out here?”

“Look up,” he murmurs, his lips close to her ear. “Go on, sweetheart. Look.”

She tilts her head back, still resting against him.

Her breath catches.

The sky seems alive.

Colors dance across the dark inky expanse. Ribbons swirl and shift like silk in wind. They pulse and flow, waves of light that seem to breathe with the rhythm of the world itself. Red bleeds into orange, orange into yellow, yellow into green. The green shifts to blue, blue to violet, violet to pink. The colors overlap and blend, creating new shades she doesn’t have names for.

It’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

“What is it?” she whispers, afraid that speaking too loudly might shatter the spell.

“The Sky Dancers,” Cassian says quietly, his chin resting on her shoulder now. “That’s what the Illyrians call them. They appear maybe once or twice a year. Usually just green, sometimes blue. But this…” His arms tighten around her. “I’ve never seen them like this. With all the colors.”

“It’s…” She can’t find words. “How?”

“I don’t know the science of it. Something about the sky and the mountains and the magic in the earth here. The old warriors used to say it was the gods painting the sky. Showing off.”

A ribbon of crimson arcs overhead, so bright it casts a faint red glow over the snow. Then it fades into gold, into pale green, into deep indigo.

“Why did you wake me?” she asks.

His arms shift, pulling her impossibly closer. “Because some things are too beautiful to experience alone. And because…” He pauses. “Because I wanted to share this with you. Wanted you to see that there’s still magic in the world. Still beauty. Still things worth waking up for.”

The colors swirl and dance, reflected in the snow around them, making the whole world look like a watercolor painting.

“When I was younger,” Cassian says softly, “I cried when I saw the Dancers. Azriel teased me for weeks, but I didn’t care. I’d never seen anything so beautiful. Never knew the world could make something like that.”

A tear slides down Nesta’s cheek. Then another.

“I was in a dark place then,” he continues. “Darker than you might think, given how young I was. I was angry and violent and I hated everything. Hated myself most of all.” His voice is quiet, reflective. “But that night, standing in the snow watching the colors paint the sky, I thought… maybe there’s more. Maybe there’s something worth trying for.”

More tears fall, faster now. Silent and hot against her cold cheeks.

“Nesta?” Cassian’s voice changes, concerned. “Are you—are you crying?”

She nods, not trusting her voice.

His arms loosen immediately, and he starts to turn her. “What’s wrong? Did I—”

“No.” The word comes out choked. “It’s—they’re good tears.”

He stills. “Good tears?”

She nods again, wiping at her face with shaking hands. “I haven’t…” She has to stop, swallow. “I haven’t really cried in months. Real tears. Tears that weren’t angry or frustrated.”

Understanding softens his face. His arms come back around her, tighter this time, and he turns her so her face is pressed against his neck. One hand comes up to cradle her head, the other wrapping around her back.

“Then cry,” he says quietly. “Let it out.”

So she does.

She cries while the sky changes into impossible colors above them. She cries for everything she’s lost and everything she’s been too numb to feel. It feels releasing, because something beautiful is happening and she can feel it—actually feelit—for the first time in so long.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, one hand stroking through her hair. “Let it out, sweetheart. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

The colors continue their dance overhead. Gold melts into rose. Rose bleeds into lavender. Lavender shifts to seafoam green.

When the sobs finally ease to quiet tears, Cassian pulls back just enough to see her face. His thumbs are impossibly gentle as they wipe her cheeks.

“Better?” he asks softly.

She nods, breath hitching. “I’m sorry—”

“No.” His voice is firm but kind. He tips her chin up so she has to look at him. “No apologies for feeling. No apologies for crying. Especially not for good tears.” His smile is so tender it makes her want to cry all over again. “Do you know how glad I am that you can cry good tears? That you can feel this?”

“It’s just crying,” she whispers.

“It’s not just anything.” He brushes a strand of hair from her face. “It’s you coming back. It’s you healing. It’s you letting yourself feel joy.” His thumb traces her cheekbone. “It’s everything.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that. So instead, she turns back to the sky, and he adjusts her in his lap, settling her more comfortably against his chest. His arms wrap around her again, and she feels one of his hands find hers under the quilt, fingers interlacing.

A wave of pure blue washes across the darkness, so deep and rich it looks like the ocean. Then pink, soft and gentle like dawn. Then green so vivid it hurts to look at.

“They say,” Cassian says quietly, “that the Dancers appear when something significant is about to happen. When the world is shifting. When change is coming.”

“Do you believe that?”

She feels him shrug slightly. “I don’t know, but I like the idea that the universe marks important moments. That beauty appears right when you need it most.” He squeezes her hand. “That tonight, when you needed to remember there’s still magic in the world, the sky decided to paint itself in every color it knows.”

Another tear slides down Nesta’s cheek, but this time she doesn’t try to hide it. Cassian sees it, and he leans down to press a kiss to her temple.

“What’s your small thing today?” she asks, her voice still thick with tears.

She feels him smile against her hair. “This. Right now. Sitting here with you in my lap, wrapped up warmly. Knowing you’re here, alive, watching this with me.” He brings their joined hands up to press a kiss to her knuckles. “You. You’re my small thing. You’re my everything.”

The words settle into her bones, warm and bright.

“What’s yours?” Cassian asks, his lips still against her hair.

Nesta watches the colors dance and swirl. Feels his warmth all around her. Feels his heartbeat steady against her back. Tastes the salt of her tears and knows they’re healing tears, not breaking tears.

“This,” she whispers. “All of this. The colors. You holding me. Your hands being so gentle when you woke me. Feeling something other than empty. Being alive to see this.” She squeezes his hand. “You. Sharing this with me. It doesn’t feel small, though.”

His arms tighten around her, and she feels him press another kiss to her hair. Then another to her temple. Then one to her cheek.

“I’ll always share the beautiful things with you,” he murmurs. “Every single one.”

They stay like that until the colors begin to fade. Until the sky slowly returns to its usual darkness, scattered with stars. But even after the last ribbon of light disappears, they don’t move. Cassian keeps her wrapped in his arms, warm and safe and cherished.

“Thank you,” Nesta says quietly, her voice hoarse from crying. “For waking me. For being so gentle. For sharing this with me.”

“Always,” he says. He shifts slightly, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “Every time the Dancers come, I’ll wake you and we’ll watch them together.”

She turns her head to look up at him, and even in the darkness, she can see the tenderness in his eyes.

“Why?” she asks. “Why do you care so much? Why are you so gentle with me?”

He looks at her for a long moment, his hand coming up to cup her face. His thumb strokes across her cheek, catching a stray tear.

“Because you deserve it,” he says simply. “Because you matter. Because you’re worth every soft touch and kind word. Because I love you, and I want you to feel cared for. Cherished.” His voice drops to barely a whisper. “Because when I look at you, I see someone extraordinary who deserves to be treated like something precious. Because that’s what you are to me.”

She doesn’t have words for what his confession does to her. For the way something warm and bright blooms in her chest, pushing back against the cold emptiness that’s lived there for so long.

So instead, she reaches up, placing her hand over his where it cups her cheek, and leans into his touch.

“Can we stay out here a little longer?” she asks quietly. “Even though the colors are gone?”

“We can stay as long as you want.” He adjusts the quilt. “I’ll keep you warm.”

“You always do,” she murmurs.

They sit in comfortable silence, watching the stars. Cassian’s hand moves from her face to play with her hair, fingers running through the strands with a gentleness that makes her eyes drift closed.

“Tired?” he asks softly.

“Mmm. But I don’t want to go in yet.”

“Then we won’t.” His lips brush her forehead. She lets his gentle touches lull her into a peaceful half-sleep.

After a while, he speaks again, his voice barely audible. “Nesta?”

“Mm?”

“I’m so glad you’re here. So glad you stayed. So glad I get to hold you like this.” His arms tighten around her.

She opens her eyes, tipping her head back to look at him. In the starlight, she can see the emotion on his face. The love.

“I’m glad too,” she whispers. She can see him clearly in the starlight. The strong line of his jaw. The curve of his lips. The way his eyes catch the light.

“Cassian?” Her voice is soft. Tentative.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

She doesn’t know how to ask for what she wants. Doesn’t know if she has the right to want it. But she can still feel the warmth of his confession settling into her bones.

I love you.

She wants to feel more.

“Can you…” She stops. Swallows. Tries again. “Will you kiss me?”

He goes very still. His arms tighten around her slightly, and she feels him take a careful breath.

“Nesta.” His voice is rough. Strained. “Are you sure? You don’t have to—I don’t expect—”

“I want to.” The words come out stronger than she feels. “I want to feel something more. I want… Please.”

He shifts, one hand coming up to cup her face. His palm is warm against her cold cheek, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone with devastating gentleness.

“I’ll kiss you,” he says quietly. “But not because you want to feel something. Not because you’re trying to break through the numbness.” His eyes search hers.

“I want you,” she whispers. And it’s true. She does want him. She has wanted him for longer than she’s been willing to admit. “I want this. I want you to kiss me because I’ve been thinking about it for months. Because you love me. Because I’m sitting here in your arms and you’re so warm and you smell like pine and snow and I want to know what you taste like.”

His breath catches. “Nesta—”

“Please,” she says again. “Please kiss me.”

For a moment, he just looks at her. His eyes searching hers for any hesitation, any doubt.

Then he leans in slowly. So slowly. Giving her every chance to change her mind. To pull away.

She doesn’t.

When his lips finally touch hers, it’s soft. Gentle. The barest brush of contact.

And Nesta feels it.

She makes a small sound—surprise and wonder—and presses closer.

Cassian responds immediately, his hand sliding from her cheek into her hair, cradling the back of her head. His other arm tightens around her waist, pulling her more fully against him.

The kiss deepens slightly, his lips moving against hers with careful pressure, learning the shape of her mouth. Testing. Exploring.

She sighs against his lips, and he makes a sound low in his throat—something between a groan and a sigh.

His tongue traces her bottom lip, asking permission, and she grants it. Opens for him.

The first touch of his tongue against hers sends heat cascading through her body. Real heat. Not the numb acknowledgment that something should feel good, but actual sensation racing along her nerves.

Her hands come up to clutch at his shirt, fisting in the fabric, pulling him closer.

He kisses her deeper, his tongue sliding against hers, exploring her mouth with a thoroughness that makes her dizzy. She can taste him—something warm and slightly sweet, like the honey from their tea, and underneath that something that’s purely him.

Her head is spinning. Her heart is pounding. And that hollow place in her chest is filling with something warm and bright and alive.

Cassian breaks the kiss suddenly, and she makes a sound of protest, chasing his mouth.

He doesn’t go far. He pulls back far enough to look at her, his breath coming hard, his eyes dark and intense.

“Okay?” he asks, voice rough. “Too much?”

“Not enough,” she breathes.

His eyes flare, and then he’s kissing her again. Soft, gentle brushes of his lips against hers. Once, twice, three times. Each press of his mouth is sweet and tender and unhurried.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs between kisses. “Perfect.”

Another soft kiss to her lips. Then one to the corner of her mouth. Then back to her lips.

“Been wanting to do this for so long,” he whispers against her mouth.

“Then don’t stop,” she says, and captures his lips with hers again.

This time when they kiss, it’s tinged with urgency. His hand tightens in her hair, angling her head so he can kiss her more thoroughly. His tongue strokes against hers with purpose now, no longer testing but claiming.

And Nesta lets him. Opens for him. Meets every stroke of his tongue with her own.

Heat pools low in her belly—real, undeniable heat. The kind she hasn’t felt in months. The kind she thought she’d lost the ability to feel.

Her hands slide from his shirt to his neck, her fingers threading through the strands of his hair. It’s softer than she expected, silky under her touch. When she tugs slightly, he makes that sound again. That groan-sigh that vibrates through his chest into hers.

The sound does something to her, making that spark in her chest flare into a flame.

She’s burning. Finally, after months of being cold, she’s burning.

Cassian’s hand slides from her hair down her back, pressing her closer. She can feel the rapid beat of his heart against her chest. She feels the controlled strength in the arm wrapped around her waist, holding back.

“Don’t,” she gasps when his lips leave hers to trail along her jaw. “Don’t hold back.”

“Have to.” His voice is strained. He presses a kiss just below her ear, and she shivers. “Have to go slow. Have to make sure you’re ready.”

“I’m ready.” Her hands tighten in his hair. “I want—”

“Tell me.” His lips are at her throat now, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to her pulse point. “Tell me what you want.”

“More.” The word comes out breathless. “I want to feel more. I want to feel everything.”

He pulls back to look at her, and his eyes are molten. Dark with want. But there’s hesitation too, open care.

“You’re feeling it?” he asks softly. “The numbness—it’s breaking?”

“Yes.” Tears prick at her eyes—happy tears, overwhelming tears. “I can feel it. I can feel you. I can feel this.”

His expression goes through several emotions in rapid succession. Tender and awed and hungry all at once.

“Then let me make you feel good,” he murmurs, and kisses her again. It’s full of promise and passion and infinite care all woven together. His lips move against hers with purpose, his tongue stroking deep, and his hands—gods, his hands—

One hand cradles her head with exquisite gentleness while the other spans her back, fingers splayed wide, holding her like she’s precious.

She kisses him back with everything she has. Pours all her desperate need, all her gratitude, all her tentative hope into the kiss.

When they finally break apart, both breathing hard, her lips are swollen and her cheeks are flushed and she feels alive.

Cassian rests his forehead against hers, his hand still cupped around the back of her head, his thumb stroking through her hair.

“How do you feel?” he asks quietly.

She takes inventory. The hollow place in her chest is still there. She’s not naive enough to think one kiss, however perfect, will cure months of depression. But it’s smaller now. No longer all-consuming.

“I feel…” She searches for the right word. “Awake. Like I’ve been sleeping and I’m finally waking up.”

His arms tighten around her. “Good. That’s so good, sweetheart.”

She pulls back slightly to look at him. His lips are kiss-swollen, his hair mussed from her fingers, his eyes still dark with want.

He’s beautiful.

“Kiss me again,” she whispers.

“Always.” His smile is soft. “I’ll kiss you as many times as you want.”

“I want a lot.”

“Then it’s a good thing we have all night.”

Later—much later—when her lips are thoroughly kissed and her body is warm from his touch and the passion that’s been building between them, Cassian pulls back with obvious reluctance.

“We should go inside,” he says, voice rough. “Before we freeze out here.”

“I’m not cold,” she protests, which is true. She’s never been less cold in her life.

“You will be.” He’s smiling. “Come on. I’ll keep you warm inside too.”

He stands, keeping her cradled in his arms, and carries her back into the cabin. She tucks her face against his neck, breathing him in, pressing soft kisses to his throat just because she can.

She feels him shiver and smiles against his skin.

When they’re back inside, he settles her on the bed. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to her forehead. “Sleep now, sweetheart. I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

He starts to pull away.

“Wait.” The word comes out small. Uncertain.

He freezes, then turns back to her, concern flickering across his face. “What’s wrong? Do you need—”

“Stay.” She swallows hard, her heart suddenly pounding. “Please. Stay with me.”

The words hang in the air between them.

Cassian goes very still. “Nesta,” he says carefully. “Are you sure?”

She nods, then realizes he might not be able to see it clearly in the darkness. “Yes. I’m sure.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I don’t... I don’t want to be alone tonight. Not after—” She has to stop, emotion clogging her throat. “Please.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move or speak, and panic starts to rise in her chest. Maybe she’s asked too much, maybe he doesn’t want—

Then he’s moving, rounding the bed with quiet purpose. The mattress dips as he climbs in beside her, and she feels the careful way he settles himself, like he’s afraid of spooking her.

“Come here,” he says softly, and opens his arms.

She doesn’t hesitate. She turns into him, tucking herself against his chest, and his arms come around her immediately. Secure. Warm. Safe.

“Is this okay?” he asks quietly, his hand coming up to stroke through her hair.

“Yes.” She burrows closer, breathing him in. “This is… this is perfect.”

She feels him press a kiss to the top of her head. “You can ask me to stay anytime,” he murmurs. “Anytime you don’t want to be alone. Anytime you need this. I’ll always say yes.”

“Always?”

“Always.” His voice is firm. Certain. “Every single time, Nesta.”

Something inside her loosens, like a door she’s kept locked for so long finally giving way. Letting in a bit of light.

“I haven’t…” She pauses, gathering courage. “I haven’t let anyone hold me like this. Not since… not in so long.”

His arms tighten around her, but gently. “I’m honored,” he says quietly. “That you trust me with this. With you.”

“I do.” The words surprise her with their truth. “Trust you. I don’t know when that happened, but I do.”

She feels him smile against her hair. “I’m glad.” His hand continues its soothing path through her hair, down her back, up again. “You’re safe with me.”

“I know.” And she does. She knows it bone-deep, soul-deep.

They lie there in comfortable silence, just breathing together. His heartbeat is steady beneath her ear, grounding her.

“Cassian?” she whispers after a while.

“Shh. Sleep now,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

One of his wings drapes over them both, creating a cocoon of warmth and safety.

“Warm enough?” he asks softly.

“Perfect,” she whispers. “You’re perfect.”

She feels him press another kiss to her hair. “Sleep, sweetheart. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

The promise settles into her bones.

She closes her eyes, breathing in his scent, feeling his warmth, remembering the colors that painted the sky.

She falls asleep feeling not just safe, but cherished.

Wanted.

Loved.

“Cassian?” she whispers, already half-asleep.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Thank you. For kissing me. For making me feel.”

His arms tighten. “You don’t have to thank me for that. Kissing you was…” He pauses, searching for words. “It was everything. You’re everything.”

She’s quiet for a moment, processing that. “Can we do it again tomorrow?”

She feels him smile against her hair. “We can do it again right now if you want.“

“I want.”

So he kisses her again in the darkness. Soft and slow and sweet.

When they part, she presses her face against his chest.

“I think I felt hope tonight. Just for a moment. Watching the colors. Feeling you hold me.” Her voice is drowsy, soft. “I think I felt like maybe things could be okay.”

His arms tighten around her, and she feels him press another kiss to her hair. “They will be,” he promises. “Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But they will be.”

She makes a small sound—not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. Just a release of something that’s been locked inside too long.

“I might believe it,” she whispers. “Someday.”

“That’s all I need,” he says.

She falls asleep wrapped in his arms, warm and safe and cherished.

“Come on,” Cassian says on the afternoon of the twelfth day, already pulling on his cloak. “We’re going outside.”

Nesta looks up from her book. She’s at a particularly good part involving a misunderstanding that’s about to be cleared up with a passionate declaration. “Now?”

“Right now.” He’s grinning that boyish grin that makes him look five hundred years younger. “You’ve been cooped up inside all day. You need fresh air.”

“I had fresh air this morning when you made me stand on the porch while you chopped wood.”

“That was three hours ago. That doesn’t count.” He holds out her cloak. “Come on, sweetheart. Trust me.”

She sighs dramatically, though she’s learning that she doesn’t actually mind when he insists on these things. In fact, there’s something almost comforting about it. About someone caring enough to make sure she gets outside, moves around, exists in the world.

“Fine,” she says, setting down her book with exaggerated reluctance. “But if I freeze to death, I’m haunting you.”

“Deal.” He wraps the scarf around her neck with careful hands. “Though I should warn you, I’d probably enjoy having you as a ghost. You could rattle chains and be all spooky.”

Despite herself, she snorts. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re only just now figuring that out?” He tugs on his own gloves, then opens the door. “After almost two weeks of my company?”

The cold air rushes in, but it’s not as bitter as it has been. There’s something almost gentle about it today.

They step outside, and Nesta has to admit—silently, never out loud—that it feels good. The sun is bright, making the snow sparkle like someone scattered diamonds across the ground.

“See?” Cassian says, bumping her shoulder with his. “Not so bad, right?”

“I suppose it’s tolerable.”

“High praise from Nesta Archeron.” He starts walking, and she falls into step beside him. “I’ll take it.”

They walk in comfortable silence for a bit, following a path that Cassian has clearly walked many times before. The snow crunches under their boots in a satisfying rhythm.

“You know what this place needs?” Cassian says after a while.

“What?”

“Snowmen.”

She looks at him. “Snowmen.”

“Yes. Snowmen. An essential part of winter.” He’s completely serious, which makes it even more absurd. “I can’t believe we’ve been here twelve days and haven’t made any snowmen. We’re wasting valuable snowman-making time.”

“You want to build a snowman.”

“I want us to build snowmen. Plural. A whole snowman family.” He’s warming to the idea now, gesturing animatedly. “We could give them personalities. Maybe a dramatic backstory. The snowman is a retired warrior who’s trying to adjust to civilian life—”

“You’ve thought about this.”

“I’m thinking about it right now and it’s getting better by the second.” He stops walking, turning to face her. “Come on. When was the last time you built a snowman?”

She has to think about it. “I… don’t think I ever have.”

His face goes soft and sad and determined all at once. “Never?”

“We didn’t exactly have time for frivolous activities when we were poor. And before that, I was too busy trying to act like a proper lady.” She shrugs, aiming for nonchalance. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a huge deal.” He’s already dropping to his knees in the snow, starting to pack it together. “Everyone should build at least one snowman in their life. It’s basically a requirement for living.”

“I don’t think that’s—”

“Help me.” He looks up at her, and his eyes are bright with enthusiasm. “Please? I promise it’ll be fun.”

Her knee-jerk response is to tell him it’s childish and pointless. What comes out instead is, “Okay.”

Twenty minutes later, Nesta is laughing so hard she can barely breathe.

“It looks deranged,” she gasps, staring at their creation.

The snowman—if it can even be called that—is lopsided and lumpy. One side is significantly larger than the other. The head sits at an angle that makes it look like the snowman is deeply skeptical about something. They’d used pinecones for eyes, but Cassian had placed them unevenly, giving it a wild, startled expression.

“He’s seen things,” Cassian admits, adding a stick arm that immediately falls off. “Been through the wars.”

“He looks like he’s actively having a crisis.”

“Exactly! That’s the civilian adjustment I was talking about.” He picks up the stick arm and tries to reattach it, but it falls off again. “He’s processing.”

Nesta dissolves into giggles again—actual giggles, like she’s a child—and has to bend over, clutching her stomach.

Cassian watches her with an expression so tender it would make her self-conscious if she took the time. But she’s too busy laughing, too caught up in the absurdity of their misshapen snowman and Cassian’s completely serious expression as he tries to give the abomination some depth.

“What should we name him?” Cassian asks, finally giving up on the arm and sticking it in at a jaunty upward angle instead, like the snowman is waving. Or possibly surrendering.

“Why would we name him?” Nesta asks.

“Nesta Archeron, don’t be cruel. Everyone needs a name.”

“You name him, then.”

“Chilliam.”

Nesta blinks. “Chilliam?”

“You know, chilly William.”

She can’t help it, she starts laughing again, wiping tears from her eyes. “Chilliam the Traumatized Snowman.”

“Chilliam the Traumatized Snowman,” Cassian repeats slowly, then nods. “You know what? You’re absolutely right.” He steps back, hands on his hips, surveying their work. “Chilliam’s had a rough go of it, but he’s doing his best.”

“Aren’t we all,” Nesta murmurs.

Cassian’s hand finds hers, squeezing gently. “Yeah. We are.”

They stand there for a moment, looking at Chilliam in all his lopsided glory.

“We should make him a friend,” Nesta says suddenly. “So he’s not alone.”

The look Cassian gives her could melt all the snow in Illyria. “Yeah,” he says softly. “We should.”

Chilliam’s friend—whom they name Brrrenda—turns out even worse than Chilliam. She’s short and squat, with huge boobs, and her head keeps rolling off.

“Brenda has some structural issues,” Cassian says diplomatically as her head tumbles into the snow for the third time.

“Brenda is a disaster,” Nesta corrects, but she’s smiling as she retrieves the head and tries to balance it again. “But I think Chilliam will appreciate that about her. He seems like the type who values authenticity.”

“Oh, absolutely. Chilliam doesn’t judge.” Cassian adds a pinecone nose to Brenda, which immediately falls out. “He’s been through too much to be judgmental.”

Cassian trying to give Brenda stick arms when Nesta sees her opportunity.

She packs a snowball quickly, quietly. She takes aim and throws. It hits Cassian square in the back of the head, exploding in a puff of white.

He freezes. Slowly, very slowly, he turns to look at her.

Nesta tries to look innocent. “What?”

“Did you just…” He reaches up, brushing snow from his hair. “Did you just throw a snowball at me?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Nesta Archeron.” He stands to his full height, and there’s something predatory in his grin now. Something that makes her heart skip. “You’re going to regret that.”

“Am I?” She’s already backing away, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Oh, you absolutely are.” He bends down, and she sees him gathering snow.

She runs.

His laughter chases her, along with a snowball that catches her shoulder. She shrieks—half surprise, half delight—and ducks behind a tree.

“You can’t hide forever!” he calls out.

“Watch me!”

She packs another snowball, peeking around the tree. He’s stalking toward her, moving with that warrior grace, another snowball in hand.

She throws. Misses.

“Terrible aim!” he taunts.

“Shut up!” But she’s laughing as she says it, already packing another one.

They chase each other through the clearing, throwing snowballs with varying degrees of accuracy. Cassian is absolutely cheating—using his wings for aerial advantage, to dodge quickly, even using them to create gusts of air that knock her snowballs off course.

“That’s unfair!” she yells after her fourth snowball goes wide because of a well-timed wing flap.

“That’s strategy!” he yells back.

She manages to hit him twice more—once in the chest, once on his wing, which makes him yelp and laugh at the same time.

He gets her at least five times, though he’s clearly pulling his punches. The snowballs are soft, barely packed, breaking apart harmlessly.

She’s laughing so hard she can barely aim anymore. Her face hurts from smiling. Her stomach aches from the laughter.

She can’t remember the last time she felt this light.

She’s packing another snowball when she realizes Cassian has gone quiet. Too quiet.

She turns slowly, scanning the clearing.

He’s nowhere to be seen.

“Cassian?” She takes a cautious step forward. “This isn’t funny.”

Silence.

Then, from above, he taunts, “Oh, I think it’s pretty funny.”

She looks up just in time to see him diving at her from where he’d been perched in a tree.

She screams—half terror, half laughter—and tries to run, but he catches her around the waist, both of them tumbling into the snow.

They roll, each trying to gain the upper hand. Snow gets everywhere—in her hair, down her cloak, in her mouth. She’s shrieking and laughing and trying to shove snow in his face while he’s doing the same to her.

“Truce!” she finally gasps. “Truce!”

“Never!” But he’s laughing too hard to be threatening.

They end up in a tangled heap, both breathing hard, covered in snow. Cassian is on his back, and somehow Nesta has ended up sprawled across his chest.

“I win,” she announces.

“You absolutely do not win.” But he’s grinning up at her. “You called truce.”

“Which you ignored. And now I have you pinned. That means I won.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“That’s exactly how it works.”

They’re both still catching their breath, faces flushed from cold and exertion and laughter. Nesta’s hair has come loose from its braid, falling around her face in wild tangles. Cassian has snow in his eyelashes, on his wings, melting in his hair.

They’re a complete mess.

“You look ridiculous,” she tells him.

“You look beautiful,” he says, suddenly completely serious.

The words catch her off guard. The sincerity in them.

“I look like a drowned rat,” she protests, but her voice is soft.

“A beautiful drowned rat.” His hand comes up, brushing snow from her hair, her cheek. “The most beautiful drowned rat I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s the worst compliment I’ve ever received.”

“I’m working on my delivery.” His thumb traces her cheekbone, his touch gentle despite their rough-and-tumble just moments before. “But I mean it. You’re beautiful. Especially when you’re laughing. Especially when you’re covered in snow and looking at me like I’m ridiculous.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“I know.” His smile is soft now. Tender. “But I got you to laugh. So it’s worth it.”

She looks down at him, this warrior who tackles her into snow and builds deranged snowmen and makes terrible jokes just to see her smile. This male who woke her gently to see lights in the sky. Who teaches her to cook and helps her wash her hair and holds her when she cries.

This male who looks at her like she’s something precious even when she’s a mess.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“For what?”

“For this. For making me play. For...” She struggles to find the words. “For helping me be light.”

His eyes go soft, and he reaches up to cup her face in both hands. “You’ve always been light. You just forgot for a while. I’m just helping you remember.”

She leans down and kisses him. Soft and sweet and cold from the snow.

She can’t remember the last time she felt this happy.

“Hey, Nes?” Cassian says as they part.

“Yeah?”

“You have good aim. Really good aim. I’m a little concerned about what that means for my future safety.”

She grins up at him. “You should be.”

His laugh echoes across the clearing, warm and bright and full of joy. He kisses her again.

When they pull apart, he’s smiling. “So I definitely won, right?”

She shoves his shoulder, laughing. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossibly charming?”

“Impossibly annoying.”

“I’ll take it.” He sits up, keeping her in his lap, and looks around. “Oh no.”

“What?”

He points.

Brenda’s head has rolled away again. Chilliam stands alone, listing slightly to one side, his stick arm raised in what could be a wave or a cry for help.

They look at each other, and burst out laughing again.

Two weeks later, Nesta wakes to sunlight and the sound of Cassian humming in the kitchen.

She lies there for a moment, taking inventory the way she does every morning now. The way he taught her to do.

The heaviness is still there. It hasn’t magically disappeared. But it’s manageable. Like a weight she’s learning to carry rather than one that’s crushing her.

The hollow place in her chest is smaller. Still present, but no longer vast and echoing. There are things filling it now. Small things. Chickadees and pancakes and the feeling of Cassian’s hand in hers.

She sits up slowly, pulling on one of his sweaters—her sweater now, really, since she’s claimed it. It smells like him and like the cabin. Safety.

When she pads out to the main room, Cassian looks up from the stove and smiles that soft, warm smile he gives her every morning.

“There she is,” he says. “Morning, sweetheart.”

“Morning.” She crosses to him, and it’s natural now, this morning ritual. She slips her arms around his waist from behind, resting her cheek against his back. Her cold nose presses to his shoulder blade.

“Stealing my warmth again?” But he’s laughing softly, one hand coming down to cover both of hers.

“Always.”

They stand like that for a moment, just breathing together, before he gently extracts himself to stir the eggs.

“How do you feel today?” he asks as he plates their breakfast.

She considers. “I woke up without the immediate thought that I want to disappear. It was just... waking up.”

He sets down the spatula and turns to pull her into a proper hug. “That’s huge,” he murmurs against her hair. “That’s enormous, Nesta.”

“It doesn’t feel huge.”

“Progress never does. But it is.” He pulls back to look at her. “What else?”

“Your terrible singing woke me up. So that’s either a good thing or a bad thing depending on how you look at it.”

“Hey, my singing is great.”

“Your singing sounds like Chilliam looked.”

He laughs—that full-body laugh that makes his eyes crinkle. “Chilliam was a masterpiece and you know it.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. Actually smiling. It still feels strange, her face making this expression so frequently. But it’s a good strange.

They eat breakfast together at the small table.

“I was thinking,” Cassian says carefully, watching her over his coffee. “Maybe we could talk about going back to Velaris. Just for a visit.”

The anxiety spikes immediately. She can feel it in her chest, tightening.

But Cassian’s hand finds hers across the table. “Just a thought. No pressure. But you’ve been doing so well, and I thought maybe seeing your sisters—on your terms this time—might help.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“That’s okay. We don’t have to decide today. Or tomorrow. Or next week.” He squeezes her hand. “But just so you know, they’re worried. Especially Feyre and Elain. Rhys says Feyre’s been asking about you every day.”

Guilt tries to worm its way in. The old familiar guilt that says she’s a burden, that she’s causing problems, that everyone would be better off without her.

But then Cassian speaks again. “And before you start spiraling, and I can see you doing it, they’re not angry. They’re not frustrated. They’re just worried because they love you. That’s all.”

She looks down at their joined hands. “It’s just always there. The voice that says I’m too much. That I’m a problem.”

“I know. But you’re working on it. You’re recognizing it. You’re making so much progress.” He brings her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “What does the other voice say? The one that’s getting stronger?”

She has to think about it. She has to work to listen past the loud, stern voice to find the quieter one underneath.

“That I deserve gentleness,” she says finally. “That I’m trying. That it’s okay to need help.”

“That’s right. What else?”

“That I matter.” The words still feel foreign in her mouth. “That I’m worth the effort.”

“You are.” He says it with such conviction. “You’re worth every bit of effort. Every moment. Everything.”

She looks up at him, this male who’s spent two weeks patiently teaching her how to care for herself. Who makes her breakfast every morning and holds her when the darkness creeps back in. Who never gets frustrated when she has bad days, who celebrates the smallest victories.

Who loves her.

“I think…” She pauses, gathering courage. “I think maybe we could visit. Just for an afternoon. And if it’s too much, we leave.”

His smile is brilliant. “Just for an afternoon. And I’ll be with you the whole time.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

They fly back to Velaris one morning a few days later, when the sun is bright and the sky is clear.

Nesta is nervous. Her hands are freezing despite her gloves, and the old anxiety is churning in her stomach, but Cassian keeps up a steady stream of commentary through the flight, pointing out landmarks, telling terrible jokes, making her laugh despite herself.

When they land at the House of Wind, Feyre is already waiting.

For a moment, the sisters just stare at each other.

Then Feyre’s face crumples, and she’s rushing forward, pulling Nesta into a tight hug.

“I’m sorry,” Feyre says, voice breaking. “I’m so sorry. For the money, for making you feel like charity, for not seeing how much you were struggling—”

“It’s okay,” Nesta says, and is surprised to find she means it. “I wasn’t exactly making it easy for you.”

“That doesn’t matter. I should have tried harder. I should have—”

“Feyre.” Nesta pulls back to look at her sister. “I’m the one who’s sorry. For shutting you out. For being so…” She struggles for the word. “Difficult.”

“You weren’t difficult. You were hurting.” Feyre’s eyes are bright with tears. “I should have understood that.”

Cassian, standing a few feet away, catches Nesta’s eye. He raises an eyebrow. Okay?

She nods slightly. Okay.

“Come inside,” Feyre says, wiping her eyes. “Elain made tea. And cake. And about seven other things because she’s been stress-baking.”

Inside, Elain does indeed rush to hug her, tears streaming down her face. “I’m so glad you’re okay. I was so worried. I kept thinking about that last night and how I should have—”

“Don’t,” Nesta says quietly. “Don’t blame yourself. This wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

“Are you better now?” Elain asks, pulling back to study her face.

Nesta considers the question. “Not better. But… better than I was. I’m working on it.”

They settle in the sitting room.

After a few minutes, Rhysand appears, greeting her with surprising gentleness. “It’s good to see you, Nesta. Cassian’s been keeping us updated every once in a while, but it’s not the same as seeing for ourselves that you’re alright.”

“I’m alright,” she says. Then, because honesty is something she’s been practicing, she says, “Most days. Some days are harder.”

“That’s understandable.”

They talk for hours. Not about Solstice—Cassian must have told them it’s off-limits—but about other things. Feyre tells her about a new painting she’s working on. Elain talks about her garden plans for spring. Azriel has joined the group, and him, Rhys and Cassian are engaged in their own conversations.

Nesta participates. Actually participates. She asks questions and makes comments. She even laughs a few times.

At one point, Cassian’s hand finds hers under the table, squeezing gently.

“Proud of you,” he murmurs against her hair.

“It’s not that hard,” she whispers back.

He just squeezes her hand in response.

When the afternoon stretches into evening, Nesta realizes she’s tired.

“We should go,” she says quietly to Cassian.

“Alright, sweetheart.”

She looks at Feyre and Elain. “Maybe we could do this again? In a week or so?”

Feyre’s face lights up. “Really?”

“Really. If that’s okay.”

“It’s more than okay.” Feyre reaches across to squeeze her hand. “Whenever you’re ready. No pressure.”

As they’re leaving, Elain presses a package into Nesta’s hands. “For back at the cabin. Just some baked goods. And tea. The kind you used to like.”

Nesta’s throat tightens. “Thank you.”

“Thank you for coming,” Elain says. “For giving us another chance.”

Back at the cabin, after they’ve eaten some of Elain’s cake and changed into comfortable clothes, Nesta doesn’t settle beside Cassian on the couch.

Instead, she climbs into his lap.

His eyes widen slightly in surprise, but his arms come around her immediately, steadying her as she straddles his thighs, her knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of him.

“Hi,” she says, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Hi yourself.” His hands settle on her waist, warm and secure. “This is new.”

“I wanted to be close.” She’s chest to chest with him now, can feel his heartbeat against hers. “Is this okay?”

“This is more than okay.” His voice is warm. “What brought this on?”

She rests her forehead against his. They sit like that for a moment, just breathing together.

“How do you really feel?” he asks softly. “Not the brave face you put on for your sisters. The real answer.”

She considers. “Tired. Proud. Scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“That this won’t last. That I’ll slide back into the darkness and lose all this progress.” Her fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck. “That one day you’ll wake up and realize I’m too much work.”

His hands slide up her back. “Nesta. Look at me.”

She does, meeting his hazel eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says firmly. “Not on the good days. Not on the bad days. Not ever.”

“But what if—”

“When you can’t get out of bed,” he interrupts gently, “I’ll lay with you. I’ll hold you until you’re ready to face the day, even if that takes hours.” One hand comes up to cup her face. “When the voices in your head are screaming that you’re worthless, I’ll keep talking until they’re just background noise. I’ll tell you every single day that you matter until you believe it.”

Tears prick at her eyes.

“When you’re drowning,” he continues, his thumb stroking her cheek, “I’ll be your air. When you’re lost in the dark, I’ll be your light. When you forget why you’re fighting, I’ll remind you.” His voice drops to barely a whisper. “I’ll remind you every day that you’re worth fighting for.”

“Cassian—” Her voice breaks.

“I love you,” he says. “On your worst days. On your best days. On the days in between. I love all of you, Nesta. The sharp edges and the soft parts and the broken pieces you’re putting back together.”

A tear spills over, and he catches it with his thumb.

“I’m so glad that you stayed. That you didn’t give up on me. That you keep showing me all these beautiful things,” she says softly.

“I’ll always show you beautiful things,” he promises. “For as long as you’ll let me.”

“What if it takes a long time? For me to be really okay?”

“Then it takes a long time. I’ll stay.” He leans forward, resting his forehead against hers. “I’m in this for the long haul, sweetheart.”

“Even when I’m difficult?”

“Even then. Though I prefer to think of it as passionate rather than difficult.”

She huffs a laugh. “That’s generous.”

“I’m a generous guy.” He pulls back slightly, his expression turning serious. “Nes, you don’t have to be better for me to love you. I love you now. Today. Exactly as you are. You’re exactly the right amount of everything.”

She can’t speak. Can’t find words for what his promises mean to her, how they fill up the hollow spaces with purpose.

So instead, she kisses him.

She pours everything into it—the gratitude, the fear, the hope, the love that’s been growing stronger every day. Her fingers tighten in his hair, and he responds immediately, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other spans her back.

The kiss is deep and slow and full of promise. His tongue traces her bottom lip and she opens for him, meeting every stroke with her own. She can feel his heartbeat racing against her chest, matching the rapid pace of her own.

When they finally break apart, both breathing hard, she stays close, her forehead pressed to his.

“I love you,” she whispers. “I’m not good at saying it yet, but I do. I love you.”

His smile is radiant. “You can practice. Say it as many times as you want. I’ll never get tired of hearing it.”

“I love you,” she says again, testing how the words feel. His hands are tracing patterns on her back now, soothing and warm, his expression tender.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She manages a watery smile. “You’re growing on me. Like a fungus.”

He laughs—loud and bright and full of happiness. “Most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“I’m working on my delivery.”

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect.” He kisses her then, soft and sweet and full of promise.

She settles more comfortably against him, her head tucked under his chin, her body pressed along the length of his.

“Can we just stay like this for a while?” she asks.

“We can stay like this all night if you want.”

So they do. They sit curled together on the couch, talking quietly about nothing and everything. When they finally move to bed, when they’re wrapped in blankets and each other, Nesta falls asleep feeling safe.

Cherished.

Loved.