Cassian’s eyes are locked onto yours, the space between you humming with all that’s been said, and all that hasn’t. Mates. The word lingers in the air, weighty and sacred, as if the world itself holds its breath.

He’s never known a moment more profound than meeting you. From the first glimpse, you had unraveled him—beauty that stole breath, strength that held it. Every word from your lips, every glance, every heartbeat spent in your orbit has been a gift he never dared to dream of.

You shift slightly, murmuring something about food. The meaning isn’t lost on either of you. That age-old tradition, the quiet offering, the wordless yes. A gesture as binding as any vow. You’d heard Feyre’s story—how a simple bite sealed everything with Rhys.

A soft crinkle stirs from your pocket. Cassian arches a brow, catching the movement. A pre-packaged biscuit, possibly stale.

His grin breaks through like sunlight after a storm. “Is a stale biscuit all I’m worth?” he teases, voice low, threaded with warmth and amusement.

You open your mouth to object, to explain, but his finger presses gently to your lips, silencing you before the words can come.

“I’ll take anything you give me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, eyes burning with quiet reverence. “But just so you know, we’re making a coronation out of this mating ceremony. No protesting. No modesty. You’re mine now, and I’m going to spoil you rotten.”