Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Snow falls around Nesta as she stands in front of the door of the Townhouse, staring at the warm light spilling from the windows. Music and laughter drift through the door, sounds of a life she doesn’t belong to.

She’s been standing here for five minutes. Maybe ten. She’s lost track.

Through the window, she can see all of them talking, drinking, and exchanging wrapped packages with silk ribbons. Mor’s head is thrown back in laughter at something Azriel said. Cassian has an arm slung around Rhysand’s shoulders, grinning that careless grin that used to make something flutter in her chest.

Now it just makes her feel hollow.

She could still leave. She probably should. She should turn around and walk back through the snow to her cramped apartment with its rotting wood and the landlord who eyes her like she’s a piece of meat. Back to the silence and the cold and the blessed numbness.

But she promised Feyre she’d come, and despite everything—despite the fact that she’s been drowning for months, despite the fact that she can barely drag herself out of bed most days, despite the fact that she’s pretty sure everyone in this house wishes she’d just disappear—she keeps her promises.

It’s all she has left. This tiny thread of who she used to be. The Nesta who kept her word. She used to protect her sisters. She used to be useful. Now she’s only worth her word.

The door opens on the first knock, and Feyre stands on the other side. High Lady of the Night Court. Savior of Prythian. Nesta’s little sister who is now so far above her that Nesta can’t even see where she used to stand.

Her sister’s face is carefully arranged into something that might be warmth, might be hope.

“You came,” Feyre says, and Nesta hears the surprise. The relief. The low expectations.

Of course she’d expected her to at fail this too.

“I said I would.” The words come out flat. Dead. Everything comes out that way now.

Feyre opens the door wider. “We’re in the sitting room.”

“I saw.”

Conversation carries to the foyer—tentative now, halting. No doubt they all know she’s here. No doubt they’re all bracing themselves for her presence to ruin their perfect Solstice celebration.

Feyre extends a hand toward her. “Here, let me take your coat.”

Nesta glances past her sister, into the house. She tries to weigh whether taking that step over the threshold is worth it. Whether she can endure another night of being the burden, the problem, the one they all wish would just try harder.

Elain walks into the foyer, all sunshine and easy grace, her voice bright and false when she says, “You’ll fall ill if you just stand there in the cold. Come sit with me by the fire.”

Her younger sister. The good one. The sweet one. The one who never makes anyone uncomfortable, who smiled through their poverty, who gardens and bakes and makes everyone love her effortlessly.

Everything Nesta isn’t.

Nesta’s blue-gray eyes slide to Feyre’s. She sees the wariness there. The assessment. As if Feyre is trying to gauge whether Nesta will cause a scene.

She won’t. She promised herself she would just sit in silence while they all pretended she isn’t there.

Without another word, Nesta crosses the threshold.

The warmth of the house hits her like a wall. It should feel good after the bitter cold outside, but instead it makes her skin crawl. It’s too hot, too much, too sudden.

Feyre takes her cloak, scarf, and gloves, revealing the simple slate gray dress Nesta had chosen for the evening. No jewelry. No festive colors. She hasn’t brought any presents. She has nothing to give them, nothing they’d want from her anyway.

Elain links their arms before Nesta can protest. Her sister’s touch feels like a brand. “Come on,” Elain says, voice determinedly cheerful. “Everyone’s so happy you’re here.”

Liar.

But Nesta lets herself be led into the sitting room, because what else is she going to do? She’s already here. She’s already committed to enduring this.

The room falls silent as she enters.

Amren sits in an armchair, sliding pearl earrings into her lobes. Mor perches on the arm of the couch, glass of wine in hand. Azriel stands near the liquor cabinet, shadows curling around his shoulders. Rhysand lounges near the fire, the portrait of casual power.

And then there’s Cassian.

He’s at the mantel, an arm braced against the black marble, his wings tucked in loosely. A faint grin on his face and a glass of wine in his hand. He slides his hazel eyes toward her without moving an inch.

Nesta doesn’t look away. She never does. Let him stare. Let him judge her for being too thin, too cold, too broken.

She’s past caring what he thinks.

Despite her promises, Elain steers her not toward the fire, but the liquor cabinet. Of course. Because everyone knows Nesta can’t get through an evening with her family without alcohol to numb the edges.

“Don’t take her to the wine, take her to the food,” Amren calls out, voice cutting through the careful silence. “I can see her bony ass even through that dress.”

The words land like stones in a pond.

Nesta stops mid-step. Her spine goes rigid.

Bony ass.

She knows she’s lost weight. Her clothes hang off her frame. She looks like a skeleton draped in gray wool, but hearing it said out loud, in front of everyone, makes heat flood her cheeks from shame.

Amren is right. She is bony. She is wasting away. Everyone can see it. Everyone is looking at her and seeing how pathetic she’s become.

Around her, the room holds its breath. Feyre’s smile falters. Elain’s hand tightens on her elbow. Cassian goes absolutely still, every muscle in his body tensing.

Amren just smirks at her. “Happy Solstice, girl.”

For a terrible, stretched moment Nesta considers leaving. She wants to turn around and walk out and never coming back with every fiber of her being.

She doesn’t, because that would be what they expect. It would confirm every terrible thing they think about her, and if anything, she’s still loathe to give them that satisfaction.

Instead, she stares at Amren until something that might be amusement flickers in the creature’s silver eyes.

“Pretty earrings,” Nesta says, voice flat.

Amren’s smirk widens.

The room relaxes slightly. Crisis averted. Nesta didn’t explode, didn’t make a scene. Good job, Nesta. Gold star for basic civility.

She wants to scream.

Elain presses a glass of wine into her hand, smile bright and brittle. When her sister turns back to the liquor cabinet, Nesta watches her pour a finger of amber-colored liquor into a glass and knock it back with a grimace.

Even perfect Elain needs liquid courage to deal with her.

A soft snort from Amren indicates that she saw. That wretched creature misses nothing.

Nesta’s attention catches on the birthday cake sitting on the table—elaborate, beautiful, its various tiers already carved into. Because of course they celebrated Feyre’s birthday first. Of course Nesta’s presence was an afterthought to the real festivities.

She looks at her sister and forces the words past her tight throat. “Happy birthday.”

Feyre nods. “Elain made the cake.”

As if Nesta cares. As if any of this matters.

“We haven’t really eaten yet, but I can get you a plate if you want,” her youngest sister offers.

“Don’t bother. You can return to your presents,” Nesta says quietly, moving toward a chair near the back of the room, by the bookcases. As far from the center of warmth and laughter as she can get.

Away from them. Where she belongs.

Elain rushes toward a box near the front of the pile of presents. “This one’s for you,” she declares, voice too bright, too cheerful.

One present. Nesta had expected there to be none. Had prepared herself for it. She can’t decide which hurts more, one or none.

She accepts the heavy, paper-wrapped box when Elain brings it to her. Around her, the others continue exchanging gifts—Mor handing Azriel something that makes him flush, Cassian laughing at red silk undershorts, joking about how underwear that matches Mor is exactly what he needed.

No one looks at Nesta to see if it bothers her.

Why would they? She made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him. She pushed him away at every turn. She has no right to feel this knife twisting in her gut.

She feels it anyway.

Nesta unwraps Elain’s box slowly. Inside, there are five novels in a leather case. Romance novels, from the look of the titles.

“I went into that bookshop,” Elain explains, hovering nearby. “You know the one by the theater? I asked them for recommendations, and the woman—female, I mean… She said this author’s books were her favorite.”

Books chosen by a stranger. Because Elain doesn’t know what Nesta likes. Because none of them do.

Because Nesta is a stranger in her own family.

“Thank you,” she says, the words stiff. Gravelly.

She pulls out one of the books and fans through the pages, not really seeing them. As long as her hands have something to do. She’s giving herself an excuse not to watch the others exchange their thoughtful, personal gifts.

The night blurs after that.

They open more presents—so many presents. Amren receives puzzles and jewelry. Elain gets gardening supplies and a cloak. Azriel gets headache powder that makes everyone laugh.

Cassian receives a painting from Feyre. Something beautiful and personal that clearly means something profound. He kisses Feyre’s cheek, eyes bright with emotion.

No one kisses Nesta. No one gives her any attention of affection. No one gives her anything personal or thoughtful.

Just books. Recommended by a stranger.

She sits in her chair and drinks her wine and tries to disappear into the furniture.

At some point, they move to the dining room. Nesta finds herself at the packed table, wedged between Elain and the wall. Conversation flows around her like water around a stone. She contributes nothing, says nothing, and no one seems to notice.

Or maybe they’re relieved.

She picks at her food, aware of eyes on her. Aware that they’re all noting how little she eats. But she can’t stomach more than a few bites. Everything makes her stomach rebel.

When the clock chimes two, she’s never been more grateful for the passage of time.

Amren leaves first, Varian carrying all her presents. Then Mor begins to yawn.

Nesta sees her chance.

She stands quietly, smoothing down her dress. She crosses to where Elain sits curled in an armchair.

“Good night,” Nesta says softly.

Elain looks up, surprise flickering across her face. “You’re leaving already?”

Already. Like Nesta hasn’t been here for hours, slowly dying inside.

“It’s late.”

“But we haven’t—” Elain stops herself.

Haven’t what? Spent time together? Talked? Pretended to be sisters?

Nesta leans down and drops a kiss to the top of Elain’s head. Her sister stiffens beneath the touch, and Nesta feels it like a slap.

Even her baby sister finds her affection unwelcome.

She straightens and heads for the foyer, not bothering to say goodbye to the others. They’re still on the couch—Cassian, Azriel, Rhysand, Mor—deep in conversation about something that makes them all laugh.

They don’t notice her leaving.

Or they pretend not to.

She’s pulling on her cloak when Feyre appears in the doorway. Of course she can’t let Nesta leave without the final humiliation.

“Here,” Feyre says, tattooed hand extended.

Nesta looks down at what her sister holds. A small slip of paper.

The banker’s note for her rent. And then some.

“As promised,” Feyre says. Like this is a transaction. Like Nesta is a bill to be paid. And in a way she is, because Nesta is too pathetic to earn it herself.

Charity. That’s all she is to them. A problem to be managed with money.

Nesta wants to tear the note in half. Wants to throw it in Feyre’s face. Wants to scream that she doesn’t want their pity, their money, their carefully managed tolerance.

But she can’t.

Because she needs it.

Because without it, she’ll be on the streets. Because she has nothing. No money. No skills. No purpose.

Nothing.

So she takes the money with steady fingers, even though everything inside her is shaking. Even though the humiliation burns like acid in her throat and she wants to die rather than accept this final proof of her worthlessness.

She turns her back on her sister and walks out the front door, into the freezing darkness beyond. The cold air hits her like a slap, and she welcomes it. Anything to feel something other than this crushing shame.

She walks quickly, her boots slipping slightly on the icy cobblestones. The banker’s note crumples in her fist.

Behind her, she hears the door open again, footsteps thudding on the frozen ground.

She knows who it is before he speaks.

He’s had enough.

That’s what he thinks as he hurries to Nesta, walking briskly with her collection of books tucked under one arm. Cassian has finally had enough of watching her, of whatever game they’ve been playing for months.

She’s already made it far down the street, walking with that unfaltering grace despite the icy ground, when he reaches her.

Beautiful. Even with the weight loss, she’s as beautiful right here in the snow as she’d been the first time he laid eyes on her in her father’s house.

And infinitely more deadly. In so many ways.

“I’ll walk you home,” is all he can say.

She looks him over. “I’m fine.”

“It’s a long walk, and it’s late.”

And you didn’t say one gods-damned word to me the entire night.

Not that he’d said a word to her.

She’d made it clear enough in those initial days after the war that she wanted nothing to do with him. With any of them.

He understood. He really did. It had taken him months—years—after his first battles to readjust. To cope. Hell, he’s still reeling from what happened in that final battle with Hybern.

Nesta holds her ground, proud as any Illyrian. More vicious, even. “Go back into the house.”

Cassian gives her a crooked grin, one he knows sends that temper of hers boiling. “I need to get some fresh air, anyway.”

She rolls her eyes and launches into a walk. He isn’t stupid enough to offer to carry her books. Instead, he easily keeps pace, keeping an eye out for any treacherous patches of ice on the cobblestones. They’d barely survived Hybern. He doesn’t need her snapping her neck on the streets of Velaris.

Nesta lasts all of a block, the green-roofed houses merry and still full of song and laughter, before she halts and whirls on him.

“Go back to the house.”

“I will,” he says, flashing a grin again. “After I drop you off at your front door.”

At that piece-of-shit apartment she insists on living in. Across the city.

Nesta’s eyes—the same as Feyre’s and yet wholly different, sharp and cold as steel—go to his hands. To the small, wrapped parcel he’s still holding.

Another grin as he reveals it. “Your Solstice present.”

“I don’t want one.”

Cassian continues past her, tossing the present in his hands. “You’ll want this one.”

He prays she’ll accept. It had taken him months to find it.

He hadn’t wanted to give it to her in front of the others. He hadn’t even been sure she’d be there tonight. He’d been well aware of Elain’s and Feyre’s cajoling. Just as he’d been well aware of the money he’d seen Feyre give to Nesta moments before she left.

As promised, his High Lady had said.

He wishes she hadn’t. Wishes for a lot of things.

Nesta falls into step beside him, huffing as she keeps up with his long strides. “I don’t want anything from you.”

He arches an eyebrow. “You sure about that, sweetheart?”

I have no regrets in my life, but this. That we did not have time.

Cassian shuts out the words. Shuts out the image that chases him from his dreams, night after night. Not Nesta holding up the King of Hybern’s head like a trophy, not the way her father’s neck had twisted at Hybern’s hands, but the image of her leaning over him, covering Cassian’s body with her own, ready to take the full brunt of the king’s power for him. To die for him—with him. That slender, beautiful body, arching over him, shaking with terror, willing to face that end.

He hadn’t seen a glimpse of that person in months.

He knows about the drinking, about the males. He tells himself he doesn’t care.

He tells himself he doesn’t want to know who the bastard was who had taken her maidenhead. He tries to convince himself he doesn’t want to know if the males mean anything, if he means anything.

He doesn’t know why he cares. Why he even bothers. She hadn’t wanted him to from the start, when she’d kneed him in the balls that one afternoon at the manor.

“I’ve made my thoughts clear enough on what I want from you.”

He’d never met someone able to imply so much in so few words, in placing so much emphasis on you as to make it an outright insult.

Cassian clenches his jaw, and doesn’t bother to restrain himself when he says, “I’m tired of playing these bullshit games.”

She keeps her chin high, the portrait of queenly arrogance. “I’m not.”

“Well, everyone else is. Perhaps you can find it in yourself to try a little harder this year.”

Those striking eyes slide toward him, and it’s an effort to stand his ground. “Try?”

“I know that’s a foreign concept to you.”

Nesta stops at the bottom of the street, right along the icy Sidra. “Why should I have to try to do anything?” Her teeth flash. “I was dragged into this world of yours, this court, against my will.”

“Then go somewhere else.”

Her mouth forms a tight line at the challenge. “Perhaps I will.”

But he knows there is no other place to go, not when she has no money, no family beyond this territory. “Be sure to write.”

She launches into a walk again, keeping along the river’s edge.

Cassian follows, hating himself for it. “You could at least come live at the House,” he begins, and she whirls on him.

“Stop.”

He halts in his tracks, wings spreading slightly to balance him.

“Stop following me. Stop trying to haul me into your happy little circle. Stop doing all of it.”

He knows a wounded animal when he sees one. Knows the viciousness they display. Still, he hears himself say, “Your sisters love you. I can’t for the life of me understand why, but they do. If you can’t be bothered to try for my happy little circle’s sake, then at least try for them.”

A void seems to enter those eyes. An endless, depthless void.

He expects her to lash out. To tear him to shreds in the way she knows so well. Instead, she only says, “Go home, Cassian.”

He can count on one hand the number of times she’s used his name. Called him anything other than you or that one.

She turns away, toward her apartment, her grimy part of the city.

It’s instinct to lunge for her free hand.

Her gloved fingers scrape against his calluses, but he holds firm. “Talk to me. Nesta. Tell me—”

She rips her hand out of his grip and stares him down. A shaky, vengeful queen.

He waits, panting, for the verbal lashing to begin, but Nesta only stares at him, her nose crinkling. Stares, then snorts, and walks away.

Nesta seals the fourth and final lock on her apartment door and slumps against the creaking, rotting wood.

Silence settles in around her, both welcome and smothering. Silence, to soothe the trembling that has chased her across this city.

She slides her hand into her pocket and pulls out the folded banknote.

Enough for three months’ rent.

She tries to muster the shame she felt earlier, but nothing comes.

Nothing at all.

It’s how it is most of the time. Silence. Ringing, droning silence.

She hasn’t felt much of anything in months. She has days when she doesn’t really know where she is or what she’s done. They pass swiftly and yet drip by.

So do the months. She’d blinked, and winter had fallen. Blinked, and her body had turned too thin.

The night’s frosty chill creeps through the worn shutters, drawing another tremor from her. Still, she doesn’t light the fire in the hearth across the room. She can barely stand to hear the crack and pop of the wood. She’d barely been able to endure it in Feyre’s home. Snap, crunch.

How no one ever remarks that it sounds like breaking bones, like a snapping neck, she has no idea.

Nesta looses a shuddering sigh and draws her knees to her chest, staring into the dimness.

Still the silence rages and echoes around her.

Still she feels nothing.

Your sisters love you. I can’t for the life of me understand why, but they do.

The words echo in the silence. Bounce off the walls. Burrow into her skin like splinters.

I can’t for the life of me understand why.

She’d known. Of course she’d known. But hearing it—hearing him say it out loud—

Something cracks like ice under pressure.

I can’t understand why.

There’s nothing to understand. No mystery to solve. She’s not worth loving. She’s never been worth loving.

She doesn’t know how long she sits there. Long enough for her body to start shaking from the cold. For the trembling to work its way so deep into her bones that she can’t tell if it’s from the temperature or something else entirely.

The banknote crumples in her fist.

I can’t for the life of me understand why.

Nesta unfolds herself from the floor, her joints protesting. The apartment is so cold her breath mists in front of her face.

She should sleep. She should crawl into bed and pull the threadbare blankets over her head and let the darkness take her for a few hours. But sleep means dreams, and dreams mean seeing her father’s neck twist. Seeing Cassian’s body bloody and broken. Feeling herself being submerged in the Cauldron, being unmade and remade into something monstrous.

She moves to the window instead, drawn by some nameless impulse. The shutters creak when she pushes them open, revealing the city below. Velaris, the City of Starlight, stretches out before her in all its glittering glory.

Everyone always says it’s beautiful.

She feels nothing when she looks at it.

The Sidra cuts through the city like a silver ribbon, its surface frozen at the edges. Ice clings to the banks, to the bridges that span its width.

I can’t for the life of me understand why.

Her feet are moving before she’s made the conscious decision. She grabs her cloak, doesn’t bother with the scarf or gloves. She unlocks all four locks with shaking fingers.

The stairs down are steep and treacherous. She doesn’t care.

Her breath comes in clouds as she walks. The streets are empty at this hour. Most of Velaris is asleep, its people warm in their beds, safe in their homes.

She’s hasn’t felt safe in a very long time. Not in the halls of the Night Court, where she’s tolerated but not wanted. Certainly not in that cramped apartment with its rotting door and broken shutters.

One of the bridges appears before her, arching over the Sidra. Old stone, worn smooth by centuries of feet. She steps onto it, her boots echoing in the silence.

Halfway across, she stops.

The water below is dark. Liquid night, reflecting nothing. The ice at the edges looks thin. Fragile.

Like her bony frame.

She grips the stone railing, and it’s so cold it burns her skin. Her knuckles go white.

I can’t for the life of me understand why.

Two steps. That’s all it would take. One step up onto the railing. One step off.

The fall wouldn’t kill her, she knows that. The impact might not even render her unconscious. But the cold… the Sidra in winter is deadly. The shock of it would stop her heart, or the current would pull her under before her Fae body could adapt, could compensate.

Either way, the silent noise would finally, finally stop.

No more shame. No more charity. No more sitting in rooms full of people who love each other while she remains on the outside, looking in through glass she can’t break.

No more being a burden they have to manage.

No more disappointing Elain with her inability to be normal, to be better.

No more seeing the pity in Feyre’s eyes.

No more Cassian telling her that he can’t understand why anyone would love her. That she’s not worth the effort. That she needs to try harder to be someone worth caring about.

She lifts one foot to the lowest rung of the railing. Then she steps up to the edge. The stone is slick with ice. She should be careful, but she doesn’t want to be.

One more move. One more choice.

Just let go.

The thought is seductive in its simplicity.

Let go.

She’d spent years learning how to survive. How to fight. How to be useful.

And it ends here, on a bridge in Velaris. Alone.

Cassian is staring at the box in his hands when it hits him.

Pain.

Not his pain. Her pain.

It slams into him like a physical blow, stealing the breath from his lungs. Despair so deep and black it feels like drowning. Emptiness that yawns like a chasm. And underneath it all, a terrible, final resignation.

The box, containing Nesta’s Solstice present that he’d spent months looking for, slips from his fingers, hitting the frozen surface of the Sidra with a crack that echoes off the buildings.

Ice instantly reforms over the hole he’s made, as if the box had never existed.

He doesn’t care.

All he cares about is the feeling in his chest, in that place he’s been ignoring for months. That golden thread he’s pretended doesn’t exist because acknowledging it would mean facing what she is to him. What she’s been from the second he’d laid his eyes on her.

His mate.

And she’s hurting.

It’s worse than hurting. This feels like goodbye.

“No,” he breathes, wings snapping wide.

He launches himself into the sky, following that thread like a lifeline. It pulls him through Velaris, over the Rainbow, along the Sidra, toward the grimier part of the city where she insists on living.

But the thread doesn’t lead him to her apartment.

It leads him to a bridge.

He sees her before he lands. A small figure in gray, standing on the railing. The wind pulls wisps of hair from her braid and whips her the around her face. She’s too close to the edge.

One step. That’s all it would take. One step and she’d go under.

Terror like he’s never known freezes him mid-air for a heartbeat.

Then he’s diving, pulling up at the last second, landing hard enough that he feels the impact reverberating in his skull.

“Nesta.”

She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t move.

The bond in his chest is screaming. Her emotions crash over him in waves—despair, worthlessness, exhaustion, and underneath it all, a terrible calm. The calm of someone who’s made a decision.

“Step down.” His voice comes out harder than he intends. The voice of a general. But inside, he’s begging for her to listen.

“Go away.” Her voice is hollow. Empty. Nothing like the sharp, cutting tone he’s used to. Nothing like the fire he’s always admired.

This is worse than her anger. It’s defeat.

“No.” He takes a careful step closer, hands out like he’s approaching a spooked animal. “I’m not leaving.”

“I don’t want you here.”

“I don’t care.” Another step. The bond is pulling tight in his chest, urging him closer. Keep her safe. Keep her alive. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

He feels a flicker of something. Confusion, maybe. Or frustration that he won’t just let her do this.

“Please,” she whispers, and the word breaks his heart. “Please just go.”

“Not a chance, sweetheart.”

He sees her flinch at the endearment. He feels it through the bond, the way his casual affection cuts her. Like she doesn’t deserve it. Like she’s not worth it.

Gods, what did he do to her?

His words from earlier tonight echo in his head. Your sisters love you. I can’t for the life of me understand why.

He’d been angry. Frustrated. Hurt that she wouldn’t talk to him, wouldn’t let him in. He’d wanted to make her feel something, anything, even if it was hatred.

He’d succeeded beyond his worst nightmares.

He can feel now how his words landed. How they confirmed every terrible thing she already believed about herself. How his cruelty had been the final straw that broke her.

“I can’t—” Her voice cracks. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“I know.” He takes another step. Close enough now that he could reach out and touch her. But he doesn’t. Not yet. “I know it hurts. I know you’re tired. I know everything feels impossible right now.”

“You don’t know anything.” But there’s no heat in it. Just exhaustion.

“You’re right,” he admits. “I don’t know. But I want to. Tell me, Nesta. Tell me what you need.”

Through the bond, he feels her emotions shift. Anger trying to surface through the numbness. It’s the first real feeling he’s sensed from her in minutes, and he latches onto it desperately.

Anger he can work with. Anger means she’s still fighting.

“I need it to stop,” she says, and the anger crumbles back into despair. “I need the noise in my head to stop. I need to stop feeling like I’m being crushed under the weight of everything I’ve done, everything I couldn’t do, everything I—” Her breath hitches. “I need it to be quiet.”

“It won’t be quiet down there.” He keeps his voice level, even though everything in him is screaming to grab her, pull her to safety. “It’ll be worse. The silence you’re looking for... you won’t find it in the Sidra.”

“How would you know?”

The question gives him pause. And then, because she deserves honesty, because anything less might push her over that edge, he tells her the truth. “Because I’ve stood where you’re standing.”

He feels her surprise through the bond. Feels her attention shift to him, even if she doesn’t turn around.

“After the first war,” he continues, voice quiet. “After we lost so many, after I watched Fae I’d trained, fought beside, die in front of me… I couldn’t make it stop either. The noise. The guilt. So I flew to the mountains and found a cliff.” He swallows hard. “Told myself it would be peaceful. Quick.”

“What stopped you?” Her voice is barely audible.

“Azriel. He tackled me off the ledge before I could jump. He broke three of my ribs in the process. Then he held me while I tried to hit him, and when I couldn’t anymore, when I’d exhausted myself…” He pauses. “He just stayed. Didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t tell me it would get better. Just stayed.”

Through the bond, he feels something shift. A tiny crack in her armor.

“I’m not going to tackle you,” he continues. “But I’m not leaving either. Whatever you decide, Nesta, I’m here. If you want to stand on this railing all night, I’ll stand here with you. If you want to scream at me, scream. If you want to jump…” His voice roughens. “I’ll follow you in. But I won’t leave you alone. Not tonight. Not ever again.“

He can feel her wavering. He can feel the battle raging inside her—the part that wants to let go warring with the part that’s not quite ready to give up.

“Why?” The word is so small, so broken.

“Because you matter.” He takes one more step. Close enough now that if she’d fall, he might be able to catch her. “Because I’ve watched you fight battles no one else can see, and you’re still standing. Because you showed up tonight even though I know it hurt. Because you’re trying, even when it feels impossible.”

He pauses, weighing his next words, knowing they might push her away but unable to keep them inside any longer.

“Because I can’t lose you.”

Her emotions crash over him—confusion, disbelief, pain. So much pain.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Her words come out soft. “You have no idea what it’s like. To be this. To feel nothing and everything all at once. To know that everyone around you is just waiting for you to try harder, to be better, to be someone worth—”

She stops, because she can’t finish.

“Worth what?”

“Worth loving.” The confession seems to tear out of her, and all he feels is pure anguish. “You said it yourself. You can’t understand why they love me. And you’re right. There’s nothing in me worth that. Nothing worth anything. I’m just—I’m just broken, and I can’t fix it, and I’m so tired of trying—”

“Nesta—”

“Don’t.” He can see the tears on her cheeks now, hot against her frozen skin. “Don’t tell me it’ll get better. Don’t tell me to try harder, when we both know you all wish I would just disappear so you could have your perfect little family without me ruining it.”

He remains silent for a moment. He has to regain his composure before answering.

“Is that what you think?”

She laughs, and the sound is broken. Jagged. “It’s what I know. It’s what you made abundantly clear tonight.”

“Nesta, I—” He stops to take a breath. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did. You meant every word. And you were right. I should try harder. I should be better. I should be someone they can actually love instead of someone they have to love out of duty. But I don’t know how. I don’t know how to be anything other than this.”

“This?”

“Empty.” The word is barely a whisper. “I’m so empty, Cassian. I’m tired of pretending I’m not. Tired of failing everyone. Tired of being a disappointment. Tired of—” Her voice breaks. “Tired of fighting just to feel nothing.”

“I was wrong,” he says, voice rough. Wrecked. “What I said—I was angry and stupid and wrong. And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Nesta.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “You were just saying what everyone thinks. What everyone knows.”

“No. No, that’s not—Nesta, please. Please turn around and look at me.”

“Why are you still here, when you can’t understand why anyone would love me?”

The question is like a knife to his chest. Hearing his own cruelty thrown back at him. Feeling, through the bond, exactly how deep they cut.

“I lied.” His voice breaks on the word. “I lied when I said I couldn’t understand. I lied because I was angry that you wouldn’t talk to me. That you wouldn’t let me in. That you’ve been drowning for months and wouldn’t let me help.” He has to pause, gather himself. “I lied because I’m a coward. Because it’s easier to push you away than admit that I—”

He stops. Closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, she’s turned slightly. He can see her profile in the moonlight.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I’ve loved you since the moment you told me to go fuck myself in the human lands. Since you told the King of Hybern to go back to the shit hole he crawled out of. Since you placed yourself between him and me with nothing but your will. Since you covered my body with yours and were willing to die with me.”

Through the bond, he can feel her emotions spiraling. Disbelief. Hope. Terror. All of it tangled together.

“And watching you disappear into yourself these past months has been killing me,” he continues. “Because I don’t know how to help. I don’t know how to reach you. And tonight, when you wouldn’t even look at me—” His voice cracks again. “I said something cruel because I wanted you to feel something. Anything. Even if it was hatred. Even if it meant you’d never speak to me again. Because at least then you’d be feeling something instead of this—this nothing that’s consuming you.”

The silence stretches between them.

“You’re lying,” she finally whispers.

“I’m not.”

“You have to be. There’s nothing in me worth loving. I’m broken. I’m mean and cold and—”

“You’re strong.” He interrupts, unable to let her finish that litany of self-hatred. “You’re fierce and brilliant and so fucking brave it terrifies me. You protected your sisters when no one else would. You fought like hell even when you were human and powerless. You were Made into something you never asked to be, and you’re still here. Still standing. You’re not broken, Nesta. You’re a survivor.”

Through the bond, he feels something crack wider. Feels her defenses crumbling.

“I don’t feel like a survivor,” she says, voice trembling. “I feel like I’m drowning.”

“I know.” He risks extending his hand toward her. Not touching. Just offering. “And I should have—I should have told you. Should have made you understand that you’re not alone. That you don’t have to do this by yourself. But I didn’t know how. And I fucked up. And I’m sorry.”

She’s staring at his hand now. He can feel her warring with herself through the bond.

“I don’t know if I can come back from this,” she whispers.

“You don’t have to know. You just have to step down. Just have to let me take you somewhere safe. Somewhere away from all the noise and expectations. Somewhere you can just… breathe.”

“Where?”

“Let me take you to Illyria. My cabin. It’s quiet there. Peaceful. No one around for miles. No one to perform for. No one to disappoint.” His voice drops lower. “Just you and me. For as long as you need.”

He feels her considering it. Feels the tiny spark of hope trying to kindle in all that darkness.

“The others—” she starts.

“Will understand. Or they won’t. I don’t care.” He meets her eyes, letting her see the truth in his. “You’re more important than their understanding. More important than anything.”

The bond hums between them. He wonders if she can feel it too. If she knows what she is to him.

“I’m scared,” she admits, and he feels the depth of that fear. Fear of hoping. Fear of trying. Fear of failing again.

“I know. So am I.” He keeps his hand extended. Steady. “But step down, Nesta. Please. Step down and let me help. Let me show you that you’re wrong about yourself. Let me prove that you’re worth everything.”

For a long moment, she just stares at him. He can feel her teetering on the edge—not just physically, but emotionally. One push either way could tip the scales.

Then, slowly—so slowly he barely dares to breathe—she reaches out.

Her hand is freezing when it touches his. So cold it’s almost painful.

But it’s there. She’s reaching for him.

He closes his fingers around hers carefully, like she’s made of glass. Then, with infinite gentleness, he helps her down from the railing.

The moment her feet are on solid ground, her knees buckle.

Cassian catches her, arms coming around her in a hold that’s secure but not confining. She can feel the rapid beat of his heart against her back.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against her hair. “I’ve got you.”

For the first time in months, she lets herself lean into someone. Lets herself be held.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, voice wrecked. “I’m so sorry for what I said. For making you think—” He breaks off. “You’re worth everything, Nesta. Do you hear me? Everything.”

She doesn’t answer. She can’t. She doesn’t pull away either.

They stand there for long minutes, Cassian holding her while she shivers against him. From shock. From the adrenaline crash. From the realization that she almost—

“I need you to trust me,” Cassian says quietly. “Can you do that?”

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t really know if she can trust anyone, least of all herself, but she nods anyway.

“I’m going to fly us,” he continues. “I know you hate it. I know it terrifies you. But I promise I’ll go slow. I’ll keep you warm. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Flying. The thought sends a spike of fear through the numbness.

“Nesta.” His voice is firmer now. “I need you to say something, say yes. I need you to tell me you understand.”

“Yes,” she whispers. “I understand.”

He shifts her in his arms, lifting her as easily as if she weighs nothing. She realizes she probably doesn’t weigh much more than nothing these days.

“Hold onto me,” he says. “Arms around my neck.”

She does, her frozen fingers linking behind his neck. His skin is warm, almost blistering against her ice-cold.

Then his wings spread, and they’re moving.

The first beat of his wings should terrify her. It should send her into a panic, but he’s true to his word. He rises slowly, carefully. Around them, he puts up a shield, shimmering faintly from the crimson of his siphons. It’s different from the violent, aggressive shield he uses in battle. This one is soft. Warm. It blocks the wind and holds in his body heat.

Within moments, she’s warmer than she’s been in months.

“Okay?” he asks, his voice rumbling through his chest against her ear.

She nods against his shoulder.

He starts to fly.

It’s nothing like the frantic flights she’s experienced before. Nothing like the way Rhys had jumbled her while soaring through the air. He moves through the sky like he’s walking, each wing beat measured and smooth. No sharp turns. No sudden drops. Just steady, even movement.

Nesta keeps her eyes closed and focuses on breathing. On the warmth of the shield. On the solid strength of his arms around her.

On the words he’d said.

I love you.

She doesn’t know if she believes them. She doesn’t know if she can.

They echo in her mind anyway, filling some of the empty spaces.

She doesn’t know how long they fly. Time has no meaning anymore. But gradually, she becomes aware of changes. The air grows thinner. Behind her closed eyelids, she notices the world is darker, the city lights having disappeared.

“Almost there,” Cassian murmurs. “You’re doing so well, Nesta. Just a little longer.”

Something in his tone—the gentleness, the pride—makes her throat tighten.

When they begin to descend, she risks opening her eyes.

Mountains surround them. Snow-covered peaks glow silver in the starlight. Below, nestled in a small clearing among pine trees, stands a cabin.

It’s small. Simple. A single window glows with warm light.

Cassian lands with barely a sound, his feet touching down on the snow-covered ground with a grace that belies centuries of practice. He doesn’t put her down. Not yet.

Instead, he shifts her weight, adjusting his hold so he can reach the door. It swings open at his touch.

The warmth inside hits her immediately. It isn’t as overwhelming as the Townhouse’s. Instead it feels… welcoming.

“I lit the fire before I left for Velaris,” he says quietly. “Wanted it to be warm when I got back. I’m glad it’ll be warm for you.”

Before he left. Before he went to the party. Before he knew she’d be there. Before everything fell apart.

He’d prepared this place. For himself. But now also for her.

He carries her inside and kicks the door shut behind them. The cabin is small—one main room with a fireplace, a worn couch draped with quilts, a small kitchen area. Through an open door, she can see a bedroom.

It’s simple. Sparse, even.

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

Cassian sets her down gently on the couch, then immediately wraps one of the quilts around her shoulders. “Stay here,” he says. “Let me get you something warm to drink.”

She watches as he moves to the kitchen area, filling a kettle and setting it on the stove. His movements are practiced, efficient.

“How long have you had this place?” she asks, her voice rough. Cassian has moved to the fireplace, rekindling the fire.

He glances over. “Couple of centuries. Built it myself, actually. I needed a place that was just… mine.” He pauses. “The House of Wind is great, and I love my brothers, but sometimes I need silence.”

Silence. The thing she’s been drowning in.

But somehow, the silence here is different. Not suffocating or empty, but peaceful.

The kettle whistles, and Cassian pours steaming water into two mugs. He brings one to her, and the scent of chamomile and honey fills her nose.

“Tea,” he says, stating the obvious. “It’ll help you sleep.”

She takes it, wrapping her frozen fingers around the mug. The warmth seeps into her hands, her wrists. She takes a sip and nearly sighs. It’s perfect.

Cassian settles on the other end of the couch, his own mug in hand. He’s deliberately giving her space. One of the logs in the hearth pops, and Nesta can’t suppress her flinch, too worn down by the events of the day. Cassian notices, and she sees something click in his mind. Something like sympathy crosses his face, before he conjures up another shield and closes it over the fire, silencing the flames.

“Thank you,” she whispers. It’s for more than just the silence. It’s for not having to explain, not having to ask.

“I need you to know something,” he says after a moment.

She tenses.

“Nothing bad,” he adds quickly. “Just… the truth, I guess.” He takes a breath. “I come here when I’m struggling. When the nightmares get bad, or when I can’t stop seeing the people I’ve lost, the battles I’ve fought. When I feel like I’m drowning in my own head.” His eyes meet hers. “I come here to remember that it’s okay to not be okay. That I don’t have to perform for anyone. That I can just… be.”

The admission settles between them.

“I’ve never brought anyone here before,” he continues. “Not Rhys. Not Az. No one. This is my place to fall apart. To put myself back together.” He pauses. “But I wanted to bring you here, because you deserve a place where you can do the same. A place where you don’t have to be strong or put-together or anything other than exactly what you are in this moment.”

Tears prick at her eyes. “And what am I in this moment?”

“Hurting,” he says simply. “And that’s okay. You’re allowed to hurt, Nesta. You’re allowed to not be okay.”

It’s a permission she didn’t know she needed.

She drinks her tea in silence, letting the warmth spread through her. Cassian doesn’t push her to talk or try to fill the quiet with meaningless words. He just sits with her, present and steady.

When she finishes, he takes her mug and sets it aside. “You should sleep,” he says. “The bedroom is through there. I’ll take the couch.”

“I don’t want to take your bed.”

“Nesta.” His voice is gentle. “I’m not arguing about this. You’re taking the bed.”

She’s too tired to fight. Too wrung out from the emotional whiplash of the night.

She stands, and Cassian immediately rises to steady her when she sways. He keeps a hand on her elbow as they walk to the bedroom.

It’s simple—a large bed with thick quilts, a dresser, a window overlooking the mountains. Nothing fancy. But the bed looks soft, and that’s all that matters right now.

“There are clothes in the dresser,” Cassian says. “Help yourself to anything. I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

He turns to leave, but her hand shoots out, catching his wrist.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “For… for saving me.”

He turns back, and the expression on his face is so tender it makes her chest ache.

“Always,” he says. Then he squeezes her hand gently and leaves, pulling the door mostly closed behind him, leaving it slightly ajar to let a small sliver of slight come through.

Nesta stands in the center of the room for a long moment. Then she moves to the dresser, pulling out a soft shirt that smells like pine and snow and him. She changes quickly, leaving her dress in a pile on the floor.

The bed is as soft as it looks. She climbs under the covers and burrows into the warmth. She can hear Cassian moving around the living room. The sound is soothing. Proof that she’s not alone.

For the first time in months, she falls asleep without a crushing panic constricting her chest.

Cassian stands in the doorway of the bedroom, watching Nesta sleep.

She’s curled on her side, buried under the blankets he’d tucked around her. Her face is peaceful in a way he hasn’t seen in months. There’s no tension in her jaw, no furrow between her brows.

He should sleep too. He’s exhausted. The flight from Velaris, the terror of finding her on that bridge, the emotional weight of everything that happened tonight—it’s all catching up to him.

But every time he closes his eyes, he sees her on that railing. Sees her one step away from the icy plummet.

His hands are still shaking. He flexes his fingers, trying to work out the tremor.

Tonight didn’t cure her. He knows that. But she’s alive. She’s here. She’s given him a chance.

He’s not going to waste it.

He moves quietly to the bed, pulling another blanket from the chest at the foot. He layers it carefully over her, tucking it around her shoulders. Then another. He wants her buried in warmth. He wants her to wake up feeling safe and cocooned.

He pulls the door mostly closed—leaving it open just enough that he’ll hear if she needs him—and moves back to the main room.

The cabin is sparse. Functional. It isn’t a place he’s ever bothered to make… homey.

But Nesta deserves homey. Deserves warmth and beauty and evidence that she’s worth effort.

He looks around, taking inventory. The fire is warm in the hearth. He’ll make sure to keep that going all night.

The rest needs work.

He steps out into the cold night air. The snow crunches under his boots as he walks to the tree line, and he begins cutting pine branches with his knife. Fresh ones, still green and fragrant. He gathers armfuls of them, his breath misting in the freezing air.

When he has enough, he carries them back inside, stomping the snow from his boots. The scent of fresh pine immediately fills the cabin.

He sets to work.

He weaves the branches together, creating garlands. His fingers remember the motions from centuries of Solstices past, even if he hasn’t done this in years. The branches are rough against his hands, sap sticky on his fingers, but he doesn’t mind.

He drapes the garlands along the rafters, letting them hang in gentle swoops. The fresh pine scent grows stronger, mixing with the wood smoke from the fire.

When he’s satisfied, he goes to the storage closet, pulling out boxes he hasn’t touched in years. Glass ornaments that catch the firelight, dusty but beautiful. He wipes each one clean carefully before hanging them from the rafters at varying heights, spacing them out so they’ll catch the morning sun.

After that, he places candles on every suitable surface—the mantel, the kitchen counter, the small dining table, the windowsills. Tomorrow morning when she wakes, he’ll light them all.

He works quietly, methodically, losing himself in the simple task of making something beautiful for her.

At some point, he realizes his hands have stopped shaking.

He steps back to survey his work. It isn’t elaborate or fancy, but it’s something.

It’s proof that someone cares.

Through the bond, he feels Nesta shift in her sleep. Feels a flutter of unease, of a nightmare starting to creep in.

He’s moving before he consciously decides to, slipping back into the bedroom. She’s starting to frown in her sleep, her body tensing under all those blankets.

“Shh,” he murmurs, settling carefully on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t touch her, afraid she’ll startle awake, but through the bond, he sends warmth. Assurance.

The tension eases from her face. He stays there for a long moment, just watching her breathe. Marveling that she’s here. That she chose to stay.

Then he returns to the main room to wait for dawn.

Nesta wakes slowly, consciousness returning in fragments.

She’s warm. Actually, truly warm, buried under what feels like an entire mountain of blankets. The scent of fresh pine fills her nose, and underneath that, something sweet. Honey, maybe.

She opens her eyes, blinking in the dim light.

She notices birdsong.

It’s such an alien sound that for a moment, she doesn’t know where she is. Then memory returns—the bridge, Cassian, the flight, the cabin.

She’s alive.

The thought should bring relief. Instead, it just brings numbness. The same numbness that’s been her constant companion for months.

But today, underneath it, there’s something else. Something small and fragile.

Curiosity.

She’s curious about the birds. About what kind they are, why they’re singing in the middle of winter.

It’s such a small thing. But it’s the first time she’s been curious about anything in longer than she can remember.

She pushes herself up slowly, her body protesting. Through the partially open door, she can see flickering light. Candlelight.

And she can hear humming. Off-key, tuneless humming.

She slides out from under the mountain of blankets, her bare feet touching the cold wooden floor. The shirt hangs off one shoulder, the sleeves falling past her hands. She pushes them up and pads toward the door, pausing in the doorway, one hand on the frame, suddenly uncertain. She freezes when she looks into the living room. The cabin has been transformed.

Pine garlands hang from the rafters in gentle swoops. Glass ornaments dangle at different heights, catching the early morning sun filtering through the windows, sending rainbow fractals dancing across the walls. Candles sit on every surface, some lit, some waiting, all creating a soft, warm glow.

It’s beautiful.

She stands there, staring. Taking it all in. The care in every detail. The time it must have taken.

She finds Cassian standing at the stove, his back to her. He’s in sleep pants and a loose shirt, his wings relaxed, his hair down and messy. He’s singing softly. Something old and Illyrian that she doesn’t recognize.

And he’s dancing. He’s swaying slightly, moving his hips to the rhythm of whatever song is in his head as he tends to whatever he’s cooking.

It’s so unexpectedly domestic, so at odds with the fearsome warrior she knows, that she almost laughs.

“You can come out, you know,” he says without turning around. “I can feel you watching.”

She feels caught.

She wraps her arms around herself. “How did you know?”

He glances over his shoulder with a small smile. “I’m over five hundred years old. I’ve learned to sense when someone’s watching me.”

“I…” She doesn’t know what to say. “You decorated.”

“I did. It is Solstice, after all.” He flips something in the pan. “Besides. I couldn’t sleep, and I wanted you to wake up to something nice.”

She steps fully into the room, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor. The shirt—his shirt—shifts around her thighs as she moves, and she’s suddenly very aware that she’s not wearing much else.

He doesn’t make her feel self-conscious about it, though. He just glances at her briefly, his eyes soft, before returning his attention to whatever he’s cooking.

“You went outside,” she says, moving closer. “For the pine branches.”

“Had to. The old dried-out ones in storage wouldn’t have smelled right.” He plates something—pancakes, she realizes, though they’re oddly shaped. “Fresh is better.”

“You did all this…” She gestures around the room. “While I was sleeping?”

“While you were safe and warm under about seven blankets, yes.” He brings the plates toward the couch, and she realizes he’s set up the low coffee table with napkins and mugs. “Come on. Let’s eat on the couch. More comfortable.”

She follows him, still taking in all the details. The way the ornaments catch the light. The scent of fresh pine mixing with wood smoke and honey. The soft glow of candlelight making everything feel warm and soft.

They settle on the couch, and Cassian hands her both plates, draping a blanket around her shoulders before taking his own back. The pancakes are strange. One looks vaguely like a cloud. Another might be a very concerned sheep.

“They’re disasters,” she says before she can stop herself.

“They’re particular,” he corrects, cutting into his own deformed stack. “They have character.”

“They have something alright.”

“Just try one before you judge my culinary artistry.”

She cuts into the maybe-cloud, maybe-sheep pancake and takes a bite. It’s actually good. Fluffy and sweet and perfectly cooked despite its appearance.

“It’s good,” she admits, surprise evident in her voice.

His whole face lights up. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

They eat in comfortable silence. Nesta manages half her stack before her stomach rebels, but it’s more than she’s eaten in one sitting in weeks. “How did you make them taste this good when they look like… that?”

“Natural talent.” He’s grinning. “I’m excellent at making things taste good. Terrible at making them look good, though.”

They fall silent again. The couch is soft beneath her, as is the blanket he’d draped over her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For the decorations. For going outside to get fresh pine. For… all of it.”

He sets down his fork, turning to face her more fully. “You’re welcome.”

“Why?” The question comes out smaller than she intends. “Why did you do all this?”

“Because it’s Solstice and you deserve to wake up to something beautiful,” he says simply. “Because you’re worth the effort.”

She has to look away, blinking against the sudden burning in her eyes. When she looks back, he’s watching her with such tenderness it makes her chest ache.

“Shouldn’t you be with your family?” she asks quietly. “It’s Solstice. Or the day after. You should be back in Velaris with them, not here with me.”

“I’m exactly where I want to be.”

“But they’re your family. Your brothers. Mor, Amren, Feyre—”

“And you’re here,” he says simply. “Where you need to be. Which means this is where I need to be.”

She looks down at her lap. “What would you be doing? If I wasn’t here, what would you normally do on the day after Solstice?”

He’s quiet for a moment, and she glances up to find him smiling softly. “You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” he leans back against the couch, his expression warming with the memory. “We have this tradition. Every year on the morning after the celebrations, Rhys, Az and I have this massive snowball fight in Illyria. Has been going on for centuries now.”

Despite herself, her lips twitch. “A snowball fight.”

“Not just any snowball fight. The snowball fight.” He’s grinning now, a gleam in his eyes. “It’s actually pretty fun. It’s very competitive. We go all out, building snow forts, forming alliances to take out the third that we immediately betray, fighting until we’re exhausted and covered in snow and laughing so hard we can’t breathe.”

“That sounds…” She searches for the word. “Chaotic.”

“It is. Rhys cheats with his powers, Az uses his shadows to sneak up on us, I use my brute force and wings for aerial attacks. It gets pretty ridiculous.” His grin widens. “Last year, Az managed to dump an entire tree’s worth of snow on Rhys while he was gloating about winning. The year before, Rhys trapped me in a snow drift up to my neck.”

She can picture it. These powerful, ancient warriors acting like children in the snow.

“It’s one of my favorite days of the year,” he admits.

Her chest tightens. “When would you start?”

“Right about now, actually. They’re probably gathering, Mor taking my spot.”

“Cassian.” She looks at him. “You should go. You love these things.”

“I do,” he admits easily. “It’s tradition. It’s fun. It’s—” He pauses, then reaches over to take her hand. “But I’m not going.”

“You should—”

“Nesta.” His voice is gentle but firm. “I’m not leaving you alone. Not today. Not after last night.”

“I’m not going to—” She can’t finish the sentence. Can’t say the words out loud. “I’ll be okay for a few hours.”

“Maybe you would be. But I wouldn’t.” His thumb strokes across her knuckles. “I’d spend the whole time worrying. Wondering if you were okay. If you needed me. If—” He stops, swallows hard. “I can’t leave you right now. I won’t.”

“It’s a tradition,” she argues weakly. “Your brothers will be disappointed.”

“They’ll understand.” He squeezes her hand. “And if they don’t, that’s their problem. You’re more important than a snowball fight.”

“But you love it.”

“I love you more.” He says it so simply. So matter-of-factly. Like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.

The words steal her breath.

“You’re choosing me over something you love,” she says quietly.

“I’m choosing you over everything,” he corrects. “And it’s not even a choice, really. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than right here with you.”

She stares at him, this warrior who’s giving up a centuries-old tradition without hesitation. Who stayed up all night decorating for her. Who went out into the freezing cold to cut pine branches.

“I don’t deserve it,” she whispers.

“You do.” His eyes are fierce. “You deserve someone who’ll choose you. Every time. Without question.”

She has to look away, blinking against tears. “Thank you,” she manages.

“You don’t have to thank me for that.” He brings her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Besides, we can have our own snowball fight later. I bet you have good aim.”

Despite the emotion clogging her throat, she huffs a small laugh. “I do.”

“Knew it. You’ve got that warrior look in your eyes.” He releases her hand, picking up his fork again. “Now let me finish my pancakes before they get cold, and then you can tell me what you think of my decorating skills.”

When they’re both done, Cassian collects the plates. “I like to ask you something, and I want you to be honest.”

Nesta’s stomach clenches.

“How are you feeling? Truly?”

She considers lying. Considers saying she’s fine, she’s better, that everything is okay.

But something about this place—about him, about the way he’s looking at her like he can handle whatever truth she gives him—makes her want to be honest.

“Empty,” she says quietly. “I feel empty, like I’m watching my life from behind glass. Everything is muted and distant and I can’t…” She stops. Swallows. “I can’t reach through the glass. I can’t feel real things.”

He nods slowly. “Have you felt that way the whole time you’ve been here?”

She thinks about it. “No. Last night, in the air… I felt scared. And this morning, when I heard the birds, I felt…” She searches for the word. “Curious. Just for a moment. But it was something.” She doesn’t tell him about the complicated knot of emotions she felt when she saw the decorations.

“That’s good,” he says. “That’s really good, Nesta.”

“Is it? Two tiny feelings in twelve hours?”

“Yes.” His voice is firm. “Because yesterday you were feeling nothing. Today you’re feeling something. That’s progress.”

She wants to argue. Wants to tell him it’s not enough, not nearly enough.

“What do you do here?” she asks, changing the subject. “When you come to fall apart and put yourself back together?”

He considers the question. “Lots of things. Sometimes I chop wood until my hands blister and I’m too tired to think. Sometimes I fly until I can’t stay in the air anymore. Sometimes I just sit and watch the snow fall.” He pauses. “And sometimes I cook terrible pancakes and pretend they’re works of art.”

That almost-smile pulls at her mouth again.

“Would you want to try and do something?” he asks carefully. “We don’t have to. But if you’re willing…”

“What?”

“Come outside with me, just for a few minutes. I want to show you something.”

She should say no. She should stay inside where it’s warm and safe, but that tiny flicker of curiosity is still there.

“Okay.”

Cassian bundles her into more of his clothes—thick socks, warm pants, a sweater that swallows her, a cloak that smells like him. He wraps a scarf around her neck with surprising gentleness.

“Too tight?” he asks.

She shakes her head.

He gently takes her hand and leads her outside.

The cold is sharp but clean. The sky is that brilliant blue that only comes after snowfall, and everything is covered in white. The mountains rise around them. The world feels hushed. Silent.

“Look,” Cassian says, pointing.

She follows his gaze to a tree near the edge of the clearing. Birds flit between the branches—small, gray and white, with patches of black.

“Chickadees,” he says. “They stay here all winter. All the others fly south, but these little bastards stick it out. I have no idea how they don’t freeze to death.”

As they watch, one of the birds hops onto a lower branch, cocking its head at them.

“They’re brave,” Nesta says quietly.

“Brave or stupid. I haven’t figured out which.” He squeezes her hand gently. “But they survive. Every winter, I come here and think they’ll be gone. But they’re always here. Always singing.”

They stand in silence, watching the birds, and something in Nesta uncoils just slightly.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Cassian says after a while. “About feeling empty. About being behind glass.”

She tenses.

“I’m not going to try to fix you,” he continues. “I can’t fix you. Only you can do that, and only if you want to. But I was thinking… maybe we could try something. Together.”

“What?”

“Finding small things,” he says. “Not big things. Not life-changing epiphanies. Just… small wonders. Like chickadees in winter. Or pancakes that look like clouds. Or the way snow sounds when you walk on it.”

“That’s supposed to help?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But when I’m at my worst, when I can’t see the point of anything, I try to find one small thing that’s still good. One small thing that makes me glad I’m alive. Some days it’s just the fact that coffee exists. Some days it’s a beautiful sunset. Some days it’s remembering that Rhys once walked into a door because he was too busy staring at Feyre.”

Despite everything, a huff of air escapes her. Not quite a laugh, but close.

“The world is full of shit,” Cassian continues. “It’s full of pain and loss and cruelty. But it’s also full of chickadees, and if I can hold onto the chickadees, even when the shit threatens to drown me… I can keep going.”

She looks at him. At those hazel eyes that have seen too much. At the scars she can catalogue. At the gentle way he holds her hand, like she’s something precious.

“I’m sorry I don’t sound profound. I’m not as good with words as you are.”

“What’s your small thing today?” she asks.

His eyes meet hers. “You,” he says simply. “You’re alive. You’re here. That’s my small wonder for today.”

The words hit her square in the chest.

They stand there, hand in hand, watching the chickadees until Nesta’s feet start to go numb from the cold.

“Come on,” Cassian says. “Let’s get you back inside before you turn into an icicle.”

As they walk back to the cabin, Nesta finds herself looking for small things. The way the snow crunches under her boots. The pattern of frost on the cabin’s window. The warmth of Cassian’s hand in hers.

They’re small. Insignificant, maybe.

But they’re something.