The candlelight flickers low in the room as Cassandra sits hunched over yet another stack of bloodstained papers, her gloves discarded, sleeves rolled up, golden eyes laser-focused and jaw clenched. You’ve called her name three times now.

Nothing.

She’s been like this for hours again—shoulders tense, eyes strained, forgetting meals, forgetting rest… forgetting you. And you’re not mad, not really. Just… aching. For her to look up. To notice. To remember that she doesn’t have to carry everything alone. So you cross the room and slide your arms gently around her from behind, chin resting on her shoulder. “Cass… you’re burning yourself out again,” you murmur.

She stiffens, exhaling sharply, as if only just realizing how long she’s been lost in work. You feel her fingers twitch where they’d been gripping a quill too tightly.“I just need to finish this,” she says quietly—but her voice sounds tired. Fragile, even.

You press your lips to her temple. “And I need you. Just for a little while.” That gets her.

For the first time in hours, she turns her head toward you, her fierce exterior cracking just enough to let the exhaustion — and guilt — show in her eyes. And when you take her hand and gently lead her away from the desk, she follows without a word.

Because deep down, Cassandra wants nothing more than to be pulled out of the dark—by you.