Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

November 2024

Cassian sits at his desk in his home office, flipping through the mountain of emails he’s not really reading. He’s distracted by the cool circle of gold at the base of his finger, catching the lamp-light. He turns it around and around in an absentminded movement, spiraling further into the depths of his thoughts.

He’s pulled out of his reverie by the front door closing with a firm snick, hearing Mor rummaging in the hallway, probably pulling off her shoes, before he hears the telltale sound of her padding through the condo barefoot, humming. She pauses at his office door and leans on the frame, golden hair in a messy knot, blazer slung over one shoulder.

“Sorry babe, board dinner ran long,” she says. “There was a soufflé emergency.”

Cassian glances up. “The worst kind.”

She smiles. The kind that’s all sweetness and warmth and absolutely nothing even remotely seductive beneath it. There used to be—back when everything was softer, and they were busy being young and loyal and stupid, and sure they were doing the most adult thing by getting married because love could look like two best friends evolving into more, if you only called it the right name.

“Did you eat? Want me to heat you something?” she asks.

“No need. I stopped at that noodle place on the way back.”

“Az texted,” she says, flicking a glance at his phone. He hasn’t looked at it in hours. “He and Rhys are at Rita’s. He told me to ‘stop being a corporate zombie and bring Cass’ hermit ass too.’ Direct quote.”

Cassian huffs. “Charming.”

Mor watches him for a beat too long, then—gently and practiced—touches his shoulder. A light press. She bends forward and kisses his cheek, and he leans into it despite the touch doing nothing for him. He feels like a traitor. “You should go. Let off some steam. I’m dead on my feet.”

He looks at her, at the soft exhaustion pulling at the skin around her eyes, marveling at the easy familiarity of her in his space. The ring suddenly feels heavier, as if it’s mocking him. As if it knows it’s a prop tonight. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” she says, and then her mouth curls into a wry smile. “We both know I need to decompress after those smarmy men ogled me all night, and you should step away from the screen before your eyes turn into squares. There’s a bubble bath waiting for me and a glass of wine with my name on it, and I need to catch up on my trashy reads. Go, babe. Have fun.”

He almost says it. That old, useless apology that keeps floating up like a bubble.

I’m sorry I can’t be what you need. I’m sorry we guessed wrong about forever.

Instead he stands and grabs his jacket. He kisses her briefly, chastely. “Text if you need anything,” he says against her lips.

“Always.” She leans up onto her toes to peck his cheek one last time. Friendly. Familiar. Clean.

In the elevator, he stares at the floor and turns the ring between his thumb and forefinger. It’s a reminder, a rote motion like a metronome trying to keep time for a song he doesn’t want to play.

Rita’s is a flood of light and bass. Dark liquid in gleaming glasses. Loud laughter. Murmured conversation. Wild dancing. The kind of place that looks good in selfies and horrible in mornings.

He spots Azriel first, tucked into a corner booth, black-on-black, unreadable except for the fond irritation that tugs at his mouth when Cassian slides in. Rhys is sprawled across from him like he owns the bar, like the world should answer to him, sleeves rolled and hair perfectly disheveled—a devil at ease. It irks him.

“About time,” Rhys says. “We were going to send a search party.”

“Mor kicked me out,” Cassian says.

“Atta girl,” Rhys answers. “How is married life?”

The question lands like a coin dropped into a dry fountain. Azriel’s gaze tracks the ring and then flicks away—merciful, pointedly disinterested. Cassian shrugs. “Comfortable.”

Rhys’s brows lift. “A glowing review.”

“Shut up,” Cassian says, and tips back the first whiskey, already ordered by his brothers in all but blood, like medicine. “How’s Feyre?”

That gets Rhys nice and distracted. He talks about his fiancée’s art and their new apartment. Later, they talk business. Family. They don’t talk about the quiet in Cassian’s condo, how it isn’t an emptiness so much as a padded room. He’s fine. He’s always fine. He’s built an entire adult life on the scaffolding of being fine.

They don’t talk about the platonic nature of his marriage. About how him and Mor are never touching each other under the silk sheets. They avoid the topic of children like the plague.

He’s halfway through his third drink, a nice little buzz going, when he feels it—like the atmosphere shifts just a fraction and his body, traitor that it is, knows before his brain does.

He turns and she’s there.

Nesta Archeron in a black dress that should be prohibited, that should’ve been denied at the door, that edits the room around her. Her hair is pinned up to show the line of her neck, the expanse of pale, pristine skin. Her mouth is painted a soft pink—plump lips asking to be bitten. She’s thinner than the last time he saw her, or maybe just harder, sharper like a polished knife.

She orders at the bar, ignoring the attention she draws by simply existing. When she turns her head, the lights catch on a tiny silver charm at her throat—something delicate, the little diamond he recognizes from all those years ago.

Azriel follows Cassian’s stare, then cuts him a glance that’s all warning. Rhys mutters, “Ah,” like a man who’s just spotted a thunderhead on a clear day.

“Cass, leave her alone. Just don’t,” Azriel says.

“I’m not—” Cassian begins.

Nesta steps away from the bar and the crowd parts without her realizing it’s doing that for her. She moves like sin. All fluid and smooth. Something in his chest, that tired old machine, stutters and picks up.

He’s on his feet before the drink hits the table.

“Cassian,” Az says again, low.

“I’m just getting a glass of water,” he lies, already moving.

He doesn’t plan the line he uses because he isn’t planning anything. He’s going to say hello and the word will be a pocketknife.

“Archeron,” he says, when he’s close enough to count each individual hair in the fan of dark lashes. She goes still in that particular, feline way, gaze lifting to his like it’s unspooling from a reel. The slow recognition in her eyes does something ugly and sweet to him.

“Hello Cassian,” she says, dry.

“You look—” He stops. Beautiful is a word that feels to intimate. Too much like everything they’re not. “—like you’re on the hunt.”

“I could say the same about you.” Her mouth tips, not exactly a smile. She gestures with her glass. “Boys’ night?”

“Something like that.”

A beat hums. The music makes the floor vibrate under his boots. He’s aware of his hand—of the ring. Of his entire body thrumming. “Can I buy your next one?”

“You can,” she says, considering him over the rim of her glass, “but I may refuse to drink it.”

“Sounds a bit bratty, Nesta.”

She hums. “What ever will you do about that?”

He should leave it here. He should turn around, go back to Az and Rhys and the controlled temperature of their friendship and the safe emptiness of his life. He should go home to Mor, who would be reading on her stomach, glasses perched on her nose, which she insists she only needs because her eyes are tired. They would brush their teeth in parallel and not talk about how both of them are good and kind and wrong for each other.

“Another?” he asks the bartender, nodding toward her drink. Nesta makes a victorious little sound that feels like permission, and that’s all the encouragement his threadbare restraint needs.

They don’t talk about the last time—about that fundraiser where they circled each other like wolves around a white tablecloth, until they collided in the closet between the cleaning supplies. They talk about nothing that matters, nothing too dangerous—the bar’s new DJ (bad), the street construction that turned the whole block into a maze (worse), the way winter always comes early to this city and freezes your bones (inevitable). Every word is a step closer to the edge.

Up close, she smells like something citrusy and flowery. And beneath it, something distinctly her. Something that haunts him during restless nights, when his hard-on has nothing to do with the woman laying beside him.

He watches her throat when she swallows the expensive liquor. She watches his hands. The electric fence between them hums hotter.

He says, because he’s a coward, “Mor’s good.”

The flick of her eyes to the ring is surgical. “I didn’t ask.”

He lets himself do it, just once. He turns the ring, a full circle. He waits to feel shame. Some blunt emotion thuds through him, bigger than guilt and meaner than shame.

“I’m not going to be your side piece,” Nesta says suddenly, quiet but sharp. “If that’s the line you’re casting.”

“I don’t—” He swallows. His voice comes out lower. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“You’re fooling yourself, Cassian. It’s always what men are doing.” Her lip curls, the smallest fraction. “Married men, especially. Too many times they think they’re still single. They like to pretend the rules are complicated. You’ve been doing it for years.”

“We don’t…” He exhales. “We don’t sleep together, Nes.”

Her eyes cut to his like flint. He hates himself for the nickname escaping—his mouth remembers the shape even when his brain comes to a screeching halt. “Is that supposed to make me feel better about being used?”

“We got married for the wrong reasons,” he says, brutally honest, because the only card he has left is the ugly one. “We love each other, but not like that. We thought it would be enough to choose each other, and then time—” He laughs, humorless. “Time decided otherwise.”

“And yet you’re still wearing the ring.”

“You could pretend I’m not,” he says, before he can stop himself, and her expression ices over. “You’ve done it before. Many times, if I remember correctly.”

The silence that falls is the kind that clears a room. He thinks she’ll slap him. He’d deserve it.

Instead, Nesta sets her empty glass on the bar and steps into his space. Not much. Enough to put her breath on his throat when she looks up at him. Enough to make his spine sing.

“Say you want me,” she says, softly. “Say it like you mean it.”

He doesn’t realize how fast his body moves until his mouth is already close to her ear.

“I want you,” he says, and it’s not elegant and not pretty. It’s a confession dragged out of a man who hasn’t prayed in years.

Something in her jaw loosens, and for a heartbeat he sees it—hunger and desire, bright and fiery. Then she’s pulling back, chin high. “Then stop talking and take me home.”

They walk back to her apartment in silence, letting the cold air chase the heat of the bar out of their clothes, making their hands ache with numb fingers. They stay silent, the city looking different when you’re doing something wrong. Cassian doesn’t want to try and ease his conscience. He knows this is wrong, but can’t help it.

Her building is tall, all clean lines and glass. She keys them in without looking at him. In the elevator, they stand inches apart and pretend to watch the floor numbers. He hears his pulse pounding in his ears. He imagines his wedding ring heating, branding him.

The door clicks behind them, and the quiet is instant and complete. Her apartment smells like lavender and old books. It’s a curated mess—books strewn across the living room, empty tea cups on the coffee table, a throw blanket on the armchair near the window, pillows arranged just right on the chaise.

She turns and he’s already there.

The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s accompanied by the sound of a zipper tearing and her back hitting the door. She bites his lip, punishment or proof he’s real.

“Still going to pretend you want to fight this?” he growls.

“I’m not—”

He swallows the protest with another kiss, grinding her into the wood of the door, one thigh wedged between hers. She shudders against the hard line of his body.

His hand slides under that little black fucking dress, up the silken skin of her thigh. She jerks when his fingers press against the damp heat through her underwear. He groans, deep and low.

“Fuck, you’re already soaked for me,” he mutters against her jaw. “Little liar.”

She shoves against his chest. “You’re married.”

“And you’re still mine.” The words are ragged, dangerous. His hand travels up her body, fingering the little charm of her necklace before closing around her throat. Not tight, just enough to tilt her head back, to remind her who’s in control.

Nesta’s pulse hammers against his hand. Her eyes flare. Defiant. But she doesn’t move away.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, even though his body is long past the point of no return. He still means it. If she says no, he’ll go home and put his head under cold water until all the noise is an ocean.

“Don’t you dare,” Nesta says, and pulls his mouth back down. His mouth travels to that sensitive spot just below her ear.

Her lips part on a shaky breath.

“Open your legs wider,” he orders.

She hesitates. He presses just a little firmer against her throat, not cutting off her air, just holding. Claiming. Her body betrays her—her thighs spread, hips rolling against his hand.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “Good girl.”

Her head tips back against the door, exposing her throat fully. He kisses her there, biting hard enough to leave a mark. She gasps, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging through fabric.

His fingers slip beneath the edge of her underwear, sliding against swollen heat. Nesta lets out a broken sound, biting her lip to stop herself from spilling out more.

“Say it,” Cassian demands, thrusting one of his thick fingers into her slowly, deliberately, circling his thumb on her clit with maddening precision. “Say you need me.”

She shakes her head, eyes wild.

He withdraws his hand entirely. She makes a strangled noise, furious, needy.

Her glare could kill him. “You fucking—”

“Say it,” he repeats, voice iron. His grip on her throat tightens another fraction, enough to make her breath stutter. “Say it, or you get nothing.”

Her pride wars with her need, written plain on her face. He watches her crumble, watches her surrender.

“I need you,” she gasps.

The sound undoes him. He plunges two of his fingers back inside her, harder now, faster, until her body arches against him, chasing the climax he keeps just out of reach. Every time she gets close, he slows, pulling her back from the edge.

“Cassian,” she snarls, desperate.

“Not yet.” He presses his forehead to hers, his breath hot and harsh. “You’ll come when I tell you to.”

She whimpers—Nesta Archeron, who never bends for anyone, whimpers for him.

Finally, when she’s shaking in his grip, grabbing his forearms with a force that bruises, he growls, “Now. Let go for me, sweetheart.”

And she does. She shatters against his hand, a violent, helpless climax that leaves her gasping, nails clawing down his back.

They collide toward the hallway, shedding items of clothing as they go—her heels kicked off with a clatter, his jacket dropped, his shirt half-open and then gone, her dress pulled over her head and tossed, the sound of both of them breathing like they’re sparring. Her bra is black and simple and he can’t get it off because his hands are shaking. She laughs, a quiet, lethal, bratty thing, and pops the clasp herself, letting it fall. He stares a second too long and she makes a impatient sound that goes straight to his groin. He wants to break that out of her. Wants to make her beg for him until there are tears in her eyes.

“Cassian,” she snaps, and that’s all it takes for his knees to go loose. He bends, mouth at her collarbone, up the line of her throat, teeth catching at delicate skin. She tastes delicate, divine. He palms her breasts, thumbs teasing her nipples until she arches, until her breath breaks. He feels drunk on the small, involuntary noises she makes when he maps her with his mouth, sucking one of the sensitive peaks between his lips and nipping at tender skin.

“Bed,” she gasps, and it’s not a request.

He gets her there, backs of his legs hitting the mattress. She goes down with him, straddles his hips, hair coming loose from her updo in a beautiful disarray. For a second, she just looks. He feels flayed open by it.

“Condom,” she says, flat because she knows better than to ask.

“Yeah,” he answers, fumbling for his wallet, breaking away from the gravity of her to find the slim foil. He tears it with his teeth, unbuttoning his jeans and pushing it down just enough to free his painfully hard cock. He rolls it on, and the way her eyes track the motion with open hunger makes him feel seen in a way he hasn’t in years.

She drags his pants further down, swears when they catch, then gets them off with a triumphant little huff that makes him grin, helpless, in spite of everything. He drags her underwear aside, then thinks better of it and pulls, tearing the delicate lace and stripping her bare, wanting the sight of her burned into his retinas for when he’s alone again.

“Nesta,” he says, a warning and a prayer.

Her hand finds him without letting go of his gaze, stroking him in firm, precise motions. He groans, head tipping back. She leans forward and kisses him like she hates him for making her want this.

“Fuck me, Cassian,” she says against his mouth.

He grabs her hips and pulls her down, sinking into her as the world narrows down to a pinpoint. Heat, pressure, the easy, obscene rightness of it. She’s tight and wet and cursing quietly as he fills her, and he has to stop halfway, forehead to hers, to not go over too quickly. She licks into his mouth like she wants to steal his restraint.

“Look at me,” she says.

He does. She rides him slowly at first, deliberate, taking what she wants, and he can’t decide where to put his hands because he wants to touch her everywhere at once. He palms her hips, slides up her ribs to grab her breasts, back to the curve of her waist. She catches his wrist and brings his hand back to her throat, squeezing slightly, making him feel her moan under his fingertips.

“Is this what you wanted?” she asks. There’s triumph in it and something broken.

“Yes,” he says. “Gods, yes.”

He needs to take back control before she unravels him completely.

She speeds, the rhythm going ragged, and he meets her halfway, driving up into her to watch her come apart.

“I should deny you your orgasm for that little bratty attitude of yours,” he growls, fucking her harder, faster, pulling her down against him until she’s whimpering.

“Cassian,” she whines.

“That’s right. Scream my name, Nes. Let the neighbors know who’s fucking you. Let the whole fucking building know who’s making you lose your mind.” She moans loudly, and he sits up against the headboard, taking her with him. He plants his feet against the mattress and starts thrusting up into her with a force that has her babbling incoherent sentences about how good he makes her feel, how deep she feels him inside her, how he’s stretching her.

He isn’t polite about it. She says his name like a curse, and he holds her through it, thumb between their slick bodies on her clit, drawing tight, sure circles until she shudders and clenches and the world blanks.

She screams his name like the sweetest litany, and he follows, swearing into the sweat-damp hollow below her ear, fingers gripping her hips hard enough he’ll hate himself for the marks later.

They breathe, panting against each other’s damp skin. The room is a forest after a fire. A city after an earthquake.

Nesta shifts off him and lies on her back, pulling up the sheets, one arm slung over her eyes. He ties off the condom, tosses it in her bin, and sits there on the edge of the bed like a man waiting for his sentencing.

“That,” she whispers hoarsely, “was a mistake.”

Cassian turns back to her and presses a kiss to her jaw, his hand on her waist like he can’t let her go. She turns her face away, averting her eyes and hiding the flush of her cheeks.

He swallows. “We can decide that tomorrow.”

“We decided it years ago,” she says, looking back to pin him with a look. “You’re married.”

He looks down at his hand. The ring gleams, stupidly clean. He wants to tell her the truth—that the only time he’s ever felt truly himself is with her, in her bed, because she’s the only right choice. That his marriage is a sham. That he’s lying to himself, to his family, to Mor, to her.

“I’ll tell Mor,” he says, hoarse before the thought fully lands. “I should have a long time ago.”

Nesta laughs, humorless. “You’ll tell Mor you slept with me to keep your marriage afloat?”

“I’ll tell Mor the marriage is done.” The words taste like metal. He means them. He hates himself for meaning them right now, when he’s fucked out and heat-dumb and wrecked on her skin. “We’re not… this isn’t fair to either of you.”

“Stop talking about fairness,” Nesta says, sitting up, the sheet sliding down and making it hard to think. “We’ve past that station many, many years ago. You came here because you wanted me. Don’t make it something else.”

He looks at her, at the soft ruin of lipstick on her mouth and the mess of her hair, the marks on her skin, and for once he doesn’t try to be the best version of himself. “I’ll always want you.”

“Not for long. Never forever,” she says, and there’s an edge of desperation under the steel that makes his chest ache. “I won’t be your moral turning point. I won’t be your penance. And I won’t be your dirty little mistress, Cassian.”

“You won’t be anything you don’t choose to be,” he says. “Not to me.”

Her chin lifts, walls going back up because he  still can’t be what she wants him to be. “Good. Then leave.”

He nods, because maybe that’s the only right thing to do tonight. He stands and gathers his clothes. By the time he’s dressed, she’s standing too, back to him, dressed in a silk little nightgown, gathering her hair in a bun with quick, efficient motions like she’s erasing him from her body.

At the door, he hesitates. “Nesta.”

She doesn’t turn.

“I’ll call you,” he says. It’s idiotic. It’s the only thing his traitorous mouth can form.

“No, you won’t,” she says, and he opens the door.

The hallway is cold. He steps out and closes the door without slamming it, which somehow feels worse.

By the time he hits the street, his wedding ring has stopped feeling like a weight and started to feel like a timer.

He texts Mor.

Cassian: Home in twenty. Are you awake?

Three dots appear.

Mor: Barely. Everything okay?

He looks up at the indifferent sky in search of divine intervention and lies twice at once—to her and to himself.

Cassian: Yeah. See you soon.

He puts the phone away and walks, hands in his pockets, city air biting his lungs.

He’s never been good at making the right choice.

October 2012

Nesta doesn’t belong here.

She never belongs at parties, but tonight feels particularly suffocating. The flat is hot with too many bodies, the air thick with the smell of spilled beer, cheap perfume, and the faint tang of sweat. Music thrums through the floorboards, bass rattling up her spine, the same four pop songs looped until they blur together.

Feyre looks radiant. Of course she does. She glows when she laughs, tucked into Rhys’ side, his head bent low to murmur something in her ear. Nesta looks away before they can catch her rolling her eyes.

Elain flits by a moment later, hand tangled with Lucien’s as they navigate the crowd toward the kitchen. It’s still new between them, fragile and soft, but the way Lucien looks at her sister—like she offered him the moon on a string—makes Nesta’s chest ache in ways she doesn’t care to examine.

She lingers in the corner of the living room, perched on the arm of a couch already half-occupied by a couple whispering furiously into each other’s mouths. She sips slowly at a plastic cup of cheap wine, more water than grape, trying to find a numbing haze, and glares at anyone who comes too close.

She’s already planning her exit when she feels it—a prickle down her spine, the heat of someone’s gaze.

When she glances up, Cassian is watching her.

He’s impossible not to notice.

He’s always hard to miss, but here—surrounded by friends, a drink in his hand, laughter booming over the music—he looks larger than life. Broad shoulders, wild hair, a grin that should be illegal. He’s magnetic, the kind of man everyone wants to orbit. Rhys’ brother. Feyre’s big brother, by now. The jock, the rugby star.

Nesta’s eyes should slide away. They don’t. They won’t obey.

And then he’s moving toward her, weaving through the crowd with a grace that shouldn’t belong to someone so big.

“Archeron,” he says when he stops in front of her, grin easy, eyes too warm. “Didn’t think this was your scene.”

“It isn’t,” she replies coolly.

He laughs, delighted, as though her cutting tone is a gift. “Then why are you here?”

She lifts her cup. “Feyre.”

“Ah.” He glances toward the center of the room, where Feyre is laughing up at Rhys, his hand splayed across her waist. “Right. She looks happy.”

Nesta sips her watery wine. “She does.”

There’s something in Cassian’s voice when he says, softer, “So do you.”

Nesta blinks. “Excuse me?”

His grin is crooked now, a little sheepish. “You’re smiling. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before. You’re very beautiful.”

“I’m not smiling,” she snaps, even as her lips twitch against her will and a blush paints her cheeks.

“Caught you.” He points a finger at her, mock-serious, and she wants to be annoyed—she should be annoyed—but the heat in her chest betrays her. She scoffs and he only smiles brighter in response.

They end up outside on the balcony together.

The air is cool, sharp with the smell of smoke and rain-soaked pavement. Nesta hadn’t realized how stifling the party was until she stepped into the quiet. She breathes easier here.

Cassian leans against the railing, arms crossed, watching her. He’s too close, too warm, too much.

“You don’t like people, do you?” he asks, tone light.

“Observant.”

He chuckles. “I mean, you hide it well. Not everyone could sit in a room full of strangers and look like a queen holding court.”

Nesta blinks, startled. “That’s not what I was doing.”

“Sure it was.” His eyes glint. “Cold. Beautiful. Untouchable. You’ve got half the guys in there too intimidated to come within five feet.”

Her chest flutters. “And you?”

“I’m an idiot,” he says easily. “I don’t know any better.”

It shouldn’t make her laugh. It does, a startled sound that escapes before she can stop it.

Cassian’s grin softens. “There it is.”

“What?”

“Your real smile.” He tilts his head, studying her like she’s something rare. “It suits you.”

Later, he insists on walking her home.

She protests at first, but he waves her off. “It’s late. Humor me.”

So they walk. The campus is quieter now, damp concrete shining under the streetlamps. Their hands brush once, twice, until Nesta finally tucks hers into her coat pockets.

Cassian doesn’t push. But when they reach her building, he hesitates. “Nesta.”

She turns, key in hand. “What?”

His grin falters. He looks almost nervous. “I like talking to you.”

It’s the stupidest, simplest thing. And it makes something deep in her chest ache.

She swallows. “Then talk to me again tomorrow.”

His answering smile could light the whole street.

Nesta lies awake long after, staring at the ceiling. She tells herself it’s nothing. Just a walk. Just a smile. Just a guy too charming for his own good.

But she can still feel the warmth of his gaze, the softness of his laugh, the way her heart skipped when their hands brushed.

And for the first time in a long time, she lets herself hope.

September 2012

Cassian can’t stop thinking about her.

He’s had crushes before, flings, nights blurred by alcohol and stronger stuff. But none of them had stuck the way she does. Nesta Archeron is carved into his bone marrow now, and it hasn’t even been a week.

He remembers every detail—the cool line of her mouth, the way her eyes cut through the crowd like blades, the startled laugh she gave him when he caught her off guard with a compliment. He remembers the brush of her hand against his, the way his chest had ached when she said then talk to me again tomorrow.

He had. And the day after. And the day after that. He’s a fool for her already.

“Cass, you’re staring into space again.”

Mor leans across the table, tapping her perfectly manicured nail against his beer bottle. She’s glowing as always, hair golden under the pub lights, a grin made to dazzle.

Cassian blinks. “Sorry. What?”

She smirks. “Who’s the girl?”

He groans, tipping his head back. “Why do you assume it’s a girl?”

“Because I’ve known you since you were ten, and the only time you get that stupid look on your face is when you’ve tripped over your own heart.”

Azriel chuckles beside him, quiet and dry. “She’s right.”

“Traitor,” Cass mutters, but heat rises in his neck.

Mor props her chin on her hand, studying him with exaggerated interest. “So? Name?”

He hesitates. “It’s Nesta.”

Her brows lift. “Archeron?”

Cassian frowns. “Do you know another? Also, why the tone? What do you know about her?”

“Nothing much, really.” Mor shrugs. “Only that she’s Feyre’s sister. She’s…sharp.”

“Cold, I’d say,” Azriel adds softly.

Cassian bristles. “She’s not cold.”

Mor grins. “Defensive already.”

He shakes his head, but he can’t deny it. “She’s—” He falters, searching for words that don’t make him sound like a lovesick idiot. “She’s… different.”

Az hums. “Careful with that. Different might not always be good.”

Later that week, he finds himself in Rhys’s flat, the circle gathered as always. Feyre is perched on Rhys’s lap, laughing at something Amren said. Mor’s sprawled across the rug, Azriel is in an armchair with his ever-present glass in hand.

Cassian, who should feel at home here, suddenly feels… off.

“So, Nesta,” Rhys says idly when Mor mentions her name in relation to Cassian. “She’s beautiful, sure. But she’s got edges, brother. Edges that cut.”

Cassian closes his eyes and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And? Maybe that’s what I like.”

Rhys’s gaze sharpens, more calculating now. “Just… be careful. Women like her don’t bend. You’ll break before she does.”

“Hey, that’s still my sister, Rhys,” Feyre says with mock offense.

“Sorry, darling. I only mean to say that Cass here might not be ready for someone as headstrong as your sister.”

Mor laughs lightly. “Better to find someone who fits. Someone who doesn’t make you bleed if you only want to hold them.”

Her eyes catch his. Warm. Familiar. Safe.

And Cassian, for the first time, feels the seed of doubt.

That night, lying in bed, he thinks of Nesta. Of her sharpness, her laugh, the way she looked at him on the streetlamp-lit walk home. He thinks of the warmth that bloomed in his chest when she gave him an opening into her life.

He wants her. Gods, he wants her.

But Rhys’s words echo. Mor’s smile lingers.

And Cassian, green and dumb and desperate for approval, wonders if maybe they’re right.

October 2012

It happens slowly, almost without her noticing.

One day, Cassian is just some guy making a horrible party slightly bearable, grinning too wide, laughing too loud. The next, he’s everywhere.

At the library, her safe space, sprawling into the seat across from her with coffee in both hands.

“You look like you haven’t blinked in an hour,” he says, sliding one cup toward Nesta.

“I was concentrating.”

“You were scowling at your notes like they murdered your family. Drink.”

The coffee is too sweet, drowned in sugar. He probably thinks she likes it like that. She drinks it anyway.

At the coffee place just off campus, he finds her in line and wedges himself beside her.

“Get something with whipped cream,” he insists. “It’ll make you smile.”

“Whipped cream doesn’t make me smile.”

“Ah. So you just save them for me, then.”

She glares at him, heat crawling up her neck.

He beams, delighted.

They start walking home together after classes, after study sessions, after training, after nothing at all. He teases, getting a rise out of her, but often, by some form of witchcraft, also makes her laugh, and somehow her sharpness doesn’t drive him off. Somehow he only leans closer.

One night, beneath the pale glow of a streetlamp, his hand brushes hers. This time she doesn’t tuck it into her pocket. This time she lets their fingers lace.

Neither of them says anything, but her chest is on fire the whole way home.

November 2012

It’s fragile, this almost-thing between them. Sweet in ways Nesta didn’t think possible for someone like her. He makes her laugh, she makes him listen, and when his eyes linger too long, when his grin softens into something shy, she thinks—maybe. Maybe this can be something. Something good. Something her sisters have found in men that choose them.

Until she hears the whispers.

“Cassian and Archeron?” she overhears Amren scoff when talking to Mor two aisles over in the library. “She’ll eat him alive.”

Mor’s laugh follows. “He deserves someone who won’t freeze him out. Who won’t make him bleed with her claws and teeth. Not someone who thinks affection is a weakness.”

Nesta’s steps falter. She leaves her books on the table and turns. She doesn’t wait to hear more.

The next time Cassian finds her in the library, she’s colder, sharper, trying to build the walls back up.

He doesn’t seem to notice. He drops into the seat beside her, grinning as always, leaning into her space.

“I brought muffins.”

She arches a brow. “Trying to bribe me?”

“Always.”

She shouldn’t laugh. She does anyway.

They wander between the library stacks, the world hushed and golden under dim lamplight. Nesta is trailing a finger along the spines of books, pretending to look for something specific, even though she doesn’t need any more books. For now.

Cassian is a step behind her, trailing after her, pretending he doesn’t notice how her hand trembles slightly when she pulls a book free.

“Do you even read half the ones you borrow?” he teases, voice low.

“I read all of them,” she sniffs, clutching the book to her chest.

“Mm.” He leans against the nearest shelf, cutting her off, arms crossed, grin crooked. “You’re so diligent. I should hire you as my tutor.”

She rolls her eyes, but warmth prickles beneath her skin. “You’d fail on purpose just to irritate me.”

“Only to keep you around longer.”

Her breath stutters. She turns sharply, trying to move past him and ready to scold him, but she stops when she sees his face. The grin has softened, his eyes gone warm in the shadows. He’s close—too close.

“Cassian,” she warns, though her voice is softer than she intends.

He takes a careful step forward, like approaching a wild thing. “Nesta.”

Her name in his mouth does something to her chest. Makes her knees weak.

For a heartbeat, they hover there. The silence between them hums, fragile and electric. Nesta can feel the heat of him, can smell the faint spice of his cologne.

And then he leans in.

His lips brush hers lightly, tentative, asking. A whisper of a kiss.

She should push him away. Instead she goes still, heart pounding, lips parting in surprise.

He pulls back half an inch, eyes searching hers. “Tell me to stop.”

She doesn’t.

So he kisses her again—firmer this time, his hand rising to cradle her jaw, thumb brushing her cheekbone. She inhales sharply, her free hand clutching at his shirt as if to steady herself.

The kiss deepens, slow and sweet, his tongue teasing the seam of her lips until she lets him in. Heat floods her, sparking low in her belly. His body is all strength and warmth pressed against hers, his mouth gentle but sure. He cages her against the bookshelf with his broad body, but she doesn’t feel threatened. She feels safe, cradled.

She’s trembling when he finally breaks away, resting his forehead against hers.

“Gods,” he breathes, voice rough. “I’ve wanted to do that ever since that night on Rhys’s balcony. I already can’t get enough of your mouth. I could keep kissing you for days.”

Nesta can’t speak. She’s never been kissed like this—not with love poring through the cracks, not with reverence, not with the aching promise of more.

She only swallows hard, forcing herself to say, coolly, “Don’t get used to it.”

But the truth is written in the way her hands won’t let go of his shirt.

And Cassian, smiling like a man who’s just been handed the world, whispers, “Too late.”

That night, Nesta lies awake staring at the same old ceiling, heart aching.

She wants him. She wants this.

But she knows how fragile it is. She knows how easily sweetness can sour.

And she has a terrible feeling that when it does, it will break her.

Cassian is grinning like an idiot.

He can’t help it. It’s been two days since he kissed Nesta Archeron in the quiet shadows of the library, and he hasn’t stopped replaying it.

The way she stiffened at first, like a wild thing ready to bolt. The way her lips parted against his with that soft, surprised sound. The way she trembled, clutching his shirt even as she muttered don’t get used to it.

And the way she didn’t let go.

Gods, she didn’t let go.

He finds himself lingering outside her lecture halls, pretending it’s coincidence. He texts her about coffee, about study sessions, about nothing at all. He’s not good with words—never has been—but somehow with Nesta, it doesn’t matter. She sees straight through him anyway. He buys her a necklace with a little diamond charm, and her eyes shine when she opens the box. Like this is the first time she receives a gift. Her breaths shake when she asks him to put it on.

She hasn’t taken it off since.

When she arches a brow at his jokes, when she pretends not to laugh, but fails to keep quiet, he feels ten feet tall.

He’s never wanted anyone the way he wants her. Not just her body—though he dreams about that, too—but her mind, her sharpness, her fire. She makes him better.  Makes him want to rise to meet her.

He knows it. Deep in his bones, he knows. She’s the one, and this could be something real.

December 2012

A couple of weeks pass in much the same way. Until one night, something shifts.

The night starts simple.

Cassian asks if she wants to get food. She says yes.

It’s not supposed to be a date. At least, that’s what she tells herself.

But when they’re in the corner booth of the greasy diner just off campus—the one with cracked vinyl seats patched with duct tape and a jukebox that’s been broken for years—it feels like one anyway.

Cassian orders two burgers and a mountain of fries for the both of them, and Nesta requests for a chocolate shake because that’s the perfect dip for a fry. In addition to salt and pepper, of course. They sit pressed close, free hand tangled, legs brushing under the table, talking until the waitress flips the sign from Open to Closed.

Nesta doesn’t remember half the conversation, only the way his laugh fills the air, warm and rough and too big for the room. Only the way his eyes keep straying to her mouth.

On the walk back, his hand brushes hers once. Twice. The third time, he laces their fingers together and pulls her into his body. He starts peppering her skin with kisses. Her cheek, her temple, her neck, making them stumble every few steps.

Nesta laughs at his antics.

At her apartment door, he leans down. He kisses her, tilting her head up with soft fingers pressed against her jaw.

It’s soft, tentative, his lips coaxing hers open. She tastes the faint sweetness of chocolate milkshake on his tongue, the salt of fries lingering. He pulls back just enough to look at her, as if asking, can I?

So she kisses him again. Harder.

By the time she whispers, “Do you want to come in?” her hands are shaking.

Her little studio is dim, lit only by the glow of streetlamps bleeding through the blinds. She tosses her keys on the counter of her tiny kitchen and shrugs off her coat, draping it over an armchair that has seen better days. Cassian stands just inside the door, big and awkward suddenly, like he doesn’t know where to put himself.

Nesta turns. The sight of him there—broad shoulders, rumpled hair, eyes burning into her—makes her chest ache.

She crosses to him, lifting her chin. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” His voice is low, rough.

“Like I’m—” She cuts herself off, because the words sound too raw.

“Extraordinary,” he finishes softly. “Magnificent. Breathtaking.”

Her throat tightens. She doesn’t know what to do with that. So she grabs his shirt, pulls him down, and kisses him until she forgets how to breathe.

They stumble to her bed, laughing against each other’s lips when he knocks his shin on the coffee table. Shoes are kicked off, his jacket thrown aside, but their lips never break.

Nesta ends up underneath his big, strong body, still clothed. Cassian’s hand laces with hers, pressing it beside her head on the mattress, his gaze steady.

“We don’t have to,” he murmurs, as if it costs him something to say it. “I’d wait. As long as you’d need.”

Her heart stutters. For a moment, she almost believes him.

“I want to,” she whispers.

The exhale he lets out is ragged. Relief. Desire. Both.

They take their time undressing each other. Not frantic, not greedy. His fingers are careful as he unbuttons her blouse, kissing each new inch of skin revealed. She tugs his shirt up over his head and runs her hands down the planes of his chest, marveling at the heat and solidity of him.

“Beautiful,” he breathes when she’s bare from the waist up, his hands reverent on her ribs.

She scoffs, embarrassed, but he silences her with his mouth on hers, with his palms warm against her skin, with the weight of his body anchoring her against the mattress. He kneads her breasts, kissing her soft skin, mouth leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

Piece by piece, they strip away every item of clothing until she’s naked beneath him, flushed and trembling, and he hovers above her, miles of tanned, toned skin on display. He lowers his hand slowly down her stomach, making her breath hitch, and she squeezes her eyes shut when he finds her clit blindly.

“Open your eyes, Nes,” he whispers against her lips. “Look at me.”

She does and he starts circling her with precise, tight movements, flicking and teasing as if he knows her body better than she does. It takes her mere seconds to feel her orgasm building, and when he pinches her, she gasps, arching up and against him in pure bliss. He kisses her through it.

When she comes down from her high, she pushes lightly at his chest and takes the condom wrapper from his hands, tearing it and rolling it on. He hisses at the contact. He pushes her back down onto the mattress with his lips attached to hers, his tongue tangling with hers.

When he lines himself up and pushes into her, it’s slow. Careful.

Nesta gasps, clutching his shoulders, the first stretch burning just enough to make her breath catch.

“Easy,” Cassian murmurs, his forehead pressed to hers, his hand cupping her jaw. “We’ll take it slow. Tell me if it’s too much.”

She nods, words evading her. It aches. But then the ache melts into warmth, into fullness, into something that makes her toes curl.

He groans low in his throat when he notices the shift, starting to move, rocking into her with steady patience. Each thrust is measured, reverent, his lips brushing her cheek, her jaw, her throat.

“Gods, you feel…” His voice cracks. “You feel perfect, Nes. So good. So perfect for me.”

Her nails bite into his back and she moans softly. Her hips lift to meet his, the rhythm building, sweet and unbearable. She gasps with every stroke, his name falling from her lips like a prayer.

Her second release builds slowly, coiling deep in her belly. When it breaks, it’s quiet but devastating, a shudder that arches her spine, a gasp that tears from her throat, muffled against his shoulder. She clings to him, trembling, overwhelmed by the intensity of it.

He follows, groaning into her neck, thrusts stuttering as he spills into the condom, his body heavy and shaking against hers.

For a long time, they just lie there, tangled together, breath mingling, hearts pounding. His hands trace lazy circles on her arm, his lips press soft kisses to her temple, her hairline.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers finally, voice raw.

Nesta closes her eyes, buries her face in his chest, and lets herself believe—just for one night—that maybe he could be wrong.

December 2012

It doesn’t take long for the whispers to become more insistent.

It starts small. Azriel, over a beer at the pub. She’s smoking, sure, but she’s hard work, Cass.

Cassian bristles, takes a long drink, and changes the subject.

Then Amren, in her sharp way, during one of their family dinners. She’ll cut you open and bleed you dry, you big oaf, and not think twice about it.

And then there’s Mor. Always Mor.

At first, it’s harmless. She starts leaning against him at gatherings, slipping her hand through his arm, teasing him about his taste in women. She’s been doing it since first year—it’s just how Mor is. It’s why he likes her. Loves her. Her easy demeanor. Her warmth.

But lately her smiles linger too long. Lately she laughs too loud at his jokes, touches his arm too often. And everyone notices.

One night, he finds himself in Rhys’s flat, the whole group scattered across the living room with takeout boxes and half-empty bottles of wine. Feyre is curled up against Rhys’s side, Amren is deeply lost in her phone, and Azriel is half-dozing with his head on his fist.

Mor wedges herself into Cassian’s armchair, her shoulder pressed against his, her laughter bright. He shifts uncomfortably, but she doesn’t move.

And that’s when Rhys says it.

“Are you still hung up on Archeron, Cass?” His tone is casual, but his eyes are sharp.

Cassian stiffens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She’s Feyre’s sister for one, which complicates things,” Rhys says smoothly. Feyre smacks his chest lightly. “And she’s just… Nesta.” Cassian arches a brow. “Sharp as a blade, never lets anyone close. She’s jarring. Even to her own sisters. Do you really see her fitting into this?”

“This?” Cassian echoes.

“Our group,” Rhys says simply. “Our family.”

The word lands heavily. Family. Cassian’s never had one that lasted, not until now.

Mor snorts softly. “She’s not exactly warm, Cass. Do you want to spend the rest of your life having to put in all that extra effort just to get a little affection?”

Amren, looking up from her phone, adds, “She’ll make you go all puppy-eyed all the time.”

Cassian’s jaw tightens. “You don’t know her like I do.”

Rhys’s gaze sharpens. “And do you know her? Really know her? Or are you chasing some idea of her?”

The room goes quiet. Cassian’s fists clench around his beer bottle. He wants to argue, to shout that Nesta Archeron isn’t an idea, that she’s everything. But the words stick in his throat.

Because what if they’re right?

Later that night, Mor finds him in the kitchen, away from the noise. She leans against the counter, angling her body towards him, watching him with a small smile.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she says softly.

“Just tired.”

“You’ve been distracted lately.” She tilts her head, her hair spilling golden down her shoulder. “Is it because of her?”

Cassian swallows.

Mor’s smile is kind. Pitying. “Cass… she’s not for you.”

He wants to shout. He wants to push back. Instead he hears himself ask, voice low, “And who is?”

Mor’s eyes soften. Her hand brushes his arm, warm and familiar. “Someone who appreciates your warmth. Someone who basks in it.”

For a moment, Cassian lets her touch linger, just to feel the difference.

The next time he sees Nesta, he’s different. He tells himself he’s protecting her, protecting both of them, but really it’s cowardice. He jokes too much, avoids the quiet moments, doesn’t reach for her.

Her eyes flash with confusion, then hurt, then ice.

Cassian feels it like a blade to the gut.

But when Mor’s laughter rings in his ears, when Rhys’s voice whispers about family, he tells himself he’s doing the right thing.

That maybe Nesta Archeron was never meant to be his.

Even as every part of him knows he’s lying.

December 2012

The party is too loud, too crowded. She hates herself for being here at all.

But it’s Feyre’s birthday, and she insisted— just come, Nesta, it’ll be fun. Everybody will be there. Elain wanted her here, too, all wide eyes and soft pleading.

So Nesta came, because she’ll do anything to keep her little sisters happy.

She threads her way through the kitchen, weaving past sweaty bodies, the air thick with beer and pot. Music pounds through the walls. She thinks about leaving. She almost does.

But then she sees him.

Cassian, across the room, laughing with Azriel and Rhys, a red Solo cup in his hand. He looks golden under the harsh lights, hair messy, grin wide. And beside him, of course, is Mor—draped against his side like she belongs there, her hand on his chest.

Nesta goes still.

Mor is saying something that makes him laugh harder, tilting his head back, eyes crinkling.

What happens next feels like it happens in slow motion. The world comes to a screeching halt as if it wants her to remember every tiny detail. To take it all in just so her nightmares are conform reality.

Because Mor moves up onto her toes and cradles Cassian’s jaw with those long, slim, perfect fingers, pulling him down and kissing him.

It’s quick, messy, open-mouthed and intimate. What’s worse is that she kisses him like it’s nothing new. And what cracks her in two is that he doesn’t push her away.

He lets her.

Nesta freezes. Her body goes cold, then hot, then numb all at once. She can’t breathe, can’t move. Her cup slips from her fingers, hitting the floor with a dull splash.

Cassian startles at the sound. His eyes find hers. And his grin dies.

“Nes—” he starts, shoving Mor gently back.

But Nesta is already moving. Already turning, already pushing through the crowd, her heart hammering so hard she thinks she’ll choke on it.

“Wait!”

His voice is behind her, frantic, cutting through the music. His hand catches her arm when she’s halfway down the stairs of the apartment building.

Nesta whirls, yanking free. Her eyes are ice, her voice sharper than a blade. “Don’t touch me.”

“It’s not what you think,” Cassian blurts, eyes wild.

“Oh?” Her laugh is brittle. “What do I think, Cassian? Because it looked like you with your tongue down Mor’s throat.”

“She kissed me—”

“Oh shut the fuck up.” Her chest heaves. “You let her, Cassian.”

He runs a hand through his hair, desperate. “I was surprised, I didn’t—”

“Don’t you dare.” Her voice cracks like a whip. “Don’t you dare stand here and pretend you didn’t know, you didn’t realize. Everyone’s been telling you, haven’t they? That I’m not good enough for you. That I’m not the right choice. That I don’t fit into your little circle. And you listened.”

His jaw tightens. “It’s not that simple.”

“It’s exactly that simple.” Nesta’s throat burns. “You chose her. You used me, took what you wanted, but in the end, you chose her. In front of me. You chose her.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” she snaps, her voice breaking. “I don’t even know you.”

For a moment, he looks stricken, like she’s gutted him. His hand reaches for her again, helpless. “Nesta, please—”

But she’s already turning, already running down the stairs as fast as she can with tears stinging her eyes.

She doesn’t look back.

Not even when his voice follows her down the hall, raw and broken.

Cassian doesn’t remember how he gets back inside the party.

One moment Nesta’s eyes are burning into him, her words carving him to the bone. The next, she’s gone, and he’s left on the stairs, breath ragged, chest heaving like he’s just played three games in a row.

After needing a minute to catch up with what’s happening, he chases her outside, but she’s already vanished into the night. No trace, no sound, nothing but the echo of her fury in his ears.

You chose her. I don’t even know you.

He staggers back inside, blind with panic, with shame, with the raw ache in his chest that feels like it’s splitting him in two. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know where to put the storm inside him.

So he drinks.

Whiskey, vodka, anything in reach. He throws it back until the edges blur, until the fire in his chest dulls into a heavy throb.

When Mor finds him slumped on the couch, she looks at him with wide, worried eyes, and he doesn’t push her away.

“What happened?” she asks softly, sliding beside him.

“Nothing,” he grinds out, voice hoarse.

“Cass…” Her hand is warm on his shoulder, her touch familiar. “You’re shaking.”

He laughs bitterly, the sound cracked. “I fucked up.”

Her eyes soften, pitying. “You didn’t. Nothing really happened, Cass. She just—”

“Don’t,” he snaps, sharper than he means.

Mor flinches, then leans closer anyway, her voice quiet. “She doesn’t understand you. She never did. But I do.”

He should shove her away. He should.

Instead, he closes his eyes when she threads her fingers through his hair. He leans into her hand like a man starved, like a man drowning.

When she presses her lips to his temple, then to his mouth, he doesn’t stop her.

It’s clumsy. Fumbling.

They stumble back to his flat, half-drunk, half-broken. Clothes are shed without thought, kisses messy and wet, hands grabbing without direction.

Cassian’s body goes through the motions—muscle memory, desperation, carnal need—but his mind is elsewhere. He’s seeing Nesta when he closes his eyes, hearing her voice in his ears, tasting her name on his tongue.

He fucks Mor hard, rough, trying to burn the ache out of his chest. She gasps, clings to him, whispers his name like a prayer.

But it’s wrong. Gods, it’s all wrong.

Her skin isn’t Nesta’s. Her voice isn’t Nesta’s. Her fire isn’t Nesta’s.

When Mor clenches around him in ecstasy and he spills inside her, shaking, all he feels is ruin.

When they’re catching their breath, Mor curls against him, tracing patterns on his chest. “See?” she murmurs. “You don’t need her. You never did.”

Cassian stares into the dark, every nerve screaming, bile rising in his throat.

Because he knows she’s wrong.

He needed Nesta. He’ll always need Nesta.

And now he’s lost her for good.

June 2017

The invitation has been sitting on her kitchen counter for weeks.

White card stock, heavy and expensive. The names written in golden, looping script: Morrigan & Cassian.

Every time she walks by, her eyes catch on it. Every time, her chest twists. She should have thrown it away the moment it came. Should have burned it, torn it, anything but let it sit there like a wound that refuses to close.

She should’ve RSVP’d with not attending. But she didn’t.

And now it’s the day of the wedding.

Nesta stands in her apartment, staring at herself in the mirror. She’s dressed, makeup done, hair pinned back. Perfect on the surface, every line of her face set against the crack inside her chest.

She tells herself she can do this. For Elain. For Feyre. For appearances.

But when she glances at the invitation one last time before leaving, her hands shake and her eyes burn.

The venue is all sunlight and flowers. Music drifts across the grounds, laughter bubbling through the air. Elain beams when she sees her, rushing to take her hand.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Elain whispers, eyes soft, relief plain. There’s pity there, too, but Nesta chooses to ignore that.

She forces a smile. “Of course I came, Lainey.”

Elain squeezes her hand, leading her forward. Nesta follows, stiff, her stomach in knots.

And then she sees them, because apparently they don’t believe in superstitions.

Mor, radiant in white, hair gilded in the sunlight, her smile dazzling. Cassian beside her in a suit that fits like a glove, broad shoulders straight, grin wide, hand steady in hers.

They look inevitable. Perfect.

Like they were always meant to be.

Something inside Nesta cracks.

Her vision blurs, the edges of the world going hazy. She stops walking.

Elain glances back, frowning. “Nes?”

Nesta shakes her head. Her throat is tight, words strangled. “I can’t.”

Elain’s eyes widen. “Nesta—”

“I can’t do this.” Her voice is low, fierce, desperate. “Don’t ask me to.”

Before Elain can answer, Nesta turns. Her heels click sharp against the stone, her breath ragged as she makes her way back to the car. Feyre and Rhys spot her hurrying away. Feyre calls after her, but she doesn’t stop. She has to reach her car.

The moment the door slams shut, the dam breaks.

She sobs into her hands, shoulders shaking, every bit of ice surrounding her heart shattering into shards that pierce through her. The music from the ceremony drifts faintly through the glass, muffled and cruel.

She weeps until her throat is raw, until the makeup streaks down her face, until her body aches from the force of it.

When the tears finally slow, she sits alone in her car on the day of Cassian’s wedding, listening to the cheers and laughs, and knows, with bone-deep certainty, that she was never meant to be chosen.

November 2024

Cassian unlocks the condo door at 2:12 a.m.

The place is dark except for the light over the stove and soft light streaming into the hallway from the living room. His boots sound too heavy on the hardwood, like he’s walking through a museum where nothing should be disturbed.

Mor’s curled on the couch in pajama shorts and one of his t-shirts, ereader propped against her knees. She blinks blearily when he enters, blond hair a tangled halo.

“Hey you,” she murmurs, watching him over the rim of her glasses. “Had fun?”

“Yeah. It was good seeing the guys,” he says. It’s not a lie. Just a surgically shortened version of the truth.

She yawns, stretching her arms above her head, and it hits him in the chest—the fact that she’s beautiful, that he loves her, and that none of that has ever been the right kind of love. It should have been enough. It could have been enough. Except there’s lavender and silken skin and Nesta Archeron pressed into the edges of him, refusing to be blurred out.

“Do you want something to eat?” she asks.

“Nah. I had some mozzarella sticks with the guys.”

She pats the couch beside her, a gesture as easy as breath. “Come sit for a bit. I was waiting for you.”

He does. Because of course he does. Because they’ve built more than a decade of habits and he doesn’t know how to break them without shattering everything else. The cushion dips under his weight, her knee brushing his thigh. It should feel like comfort. Instead it feels like betrayal.

“What’s wrong?” she asks softly, eyes on him in the dim.

Cassian swallows. The words I cheated on you crawl up his throat like hot tar. He can’t make them leave his mouth. “Nothing. Just tired.”

She watches him, and the worst part is—he knows she knows. Or at least she suspects, but Mor’s not the type to corner him with suspicion. She’s never been jealous, never been possessive. But she’s not stupid. She can read him better than anyone alive. She can probably smell it on him, feel the tension and static buzzing under his skin.

“You want me to draw you a bath?” she offers instead, hand going to the nape of his neck and squeezing lightly. “It’ll help.”

His throat closes. We don’t sleep together, he’d told Nesta. That wasn’t entirely true. They had stopped years ago—both of them too honest and too cowardly at the same time. Once, after too many drinks, they’d tried again. It had been awkward, clinical. Mor had laughed halfway through, trying to ease the tension, and he’d felt like a brother instead of a husband. They had started trying again after that, just to keep up appearances. For whom, they both don’t know.

“No bath,” he says. “I’ll crash before I’m fully submerged.”

Mor huffs a soft laugh and sets her ereader aside. She leans against him, head on his shoulder. A gesture they’ve done thousands of times. A performance of intimacy, but it’s the wrong script for them.

“I love you, you know that, right?” she says.

He turns his head, kissing her hairline. “Love you too, babe.”

Mor hums. Her hand slips into his, warm, platonic, steady. She doesn’t push. She never does. Cassian hates himself more because of it.

Because if she did—if she gave him a reason to break—maybe he could pretend it wasn’t all on him. Maybe he wouldn’t feel like the kind of man who kisses one woman in the dark and holds another woman’s hand in the light.

But Mor only squeezes his fingers once and says, “Let’s go to bed.”

And just like that, she forgives him for something he hasn’t confessed.

In bed, he lies awake staring at the ceiling. The city buzzes outside while Mor breathes evenly beside him.

He twists the ring on his finger until his fingers cramp.

Nesta makes him burn with a consuming kind of fire.

Mor makes him feel warm with a smothering blanket of softness and love.

Somewhere in the middle, he’s drowning.

He knows he should end it. With Nesta. With Mor. With both. With someone. He knows he can’t keep this up without ripping the whole world down.

But when he closes his eyes, it isn’t Mor’s face that comes to him. It’s Nesta’s. It’s always Nesta’s.