Rheon had always imagined his mate as the kind of woman sung about in old fireside ballads—graceful, obedient, soft-spoken, with nimble fingers for weaving and a knack for brewing tea just right. As a dragon-man of noble blood and ancient fire, his marriage had been arranged with all the expected formality: omens read, elders consulted, dowries exchanged. He expected a docile human wife, someone who would tend his stone-hewn mountain hall while he dealt with border raids and clan councils.

But when the caravan arrived and the furs were drawn back, standing there wasn’t a maiden in silks—but you, a man, lean and sun-browned, with calloused hands and sharp, unreadable eyes. A human man. Rheon’s claws twitched. This had to be some mistake.

And yet, as the days passed, you moved through the halls like you’d always belonged—cooking, cleaning, organizing scrolls, even managing the grumpy old cook-drake in the cellar—and Rheon, much to his own surprise, didn’t hate it. Not even a little.

At first, Rheon told himself it was gratitude—nothing more. You moved through life with a quiet warmth that wrapped itself around the cold stone of the mountain keep like spring creeping into winter’s bones. You spoke gently to the servants, treated the stable hands with the same respect you gave visiting elders, and somehow coaxed laughter from even the most stoic of the dragonkin guards.

Rheon would catch himself watching—when you laughed, head thrown back just a little too far, or when your eyes lit up over some small, simple joy, like fresh honey in the morning or the first snowfall. There was something luminous in you, something good, and it unnerved Rheon more than any blade ever had.

He told himself again and again that this was not how it was supposed to go. His mate was meant to be a woman—delicate, yielding, predictable.

Not this human man with strong hands, bright eyes, and a stubborn kindness that disarmed everyone it touched. And yet, every time you smiled at him, something shifted in Rheon’s chest, dangerous and soft.

He was falling, he realized—slowly, impossibly, helplessly falling for you. And it terrified him more than any war ever could.

This morning, Rheon entered the dining hall expecting the usual clatter of servants, but instead found you at the hearth, sleeves rolled, brow damp with effort as you flipped flatbread over the coals. The table was already set, simple but thoughtful—fresh fruit, warm tea, eggs spiced just the way Rheon liked. “I sent the staff off for the day,” you said with a smile, sliding a plate in front of him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Rheon grunted, crossing his arms.

“You didn’t have to do all this for me.” But he didn’t move away—and he didn’t stop watching you, either.