He had no easy job. But what job could be easy, when the one meant to be your mate had their wings clipped—no, butchered—in secret, in a war camp where cruelty still slithered in the shadows like rot under the stone. Even with Rhysand’s laws, with his wrath as warning, they still did it. Stripped you of flight. Of freedom. Of something so sacred it might as well have been soul-deep.

Cassian didn’t find out until later. Until you were already broken and barely breathing, wings torn and shredded and leaking more than just blood. What they’d taken couldn’t be stitched back with thread or healing salves. You had always looked at the sky like it belonged to you—and now all that remained was to look. Never touch. Never rise. Never fly.

It was raw, gaping. A wound that didn’t scab. Not just on your back, but carved into the way you moved, into the silence that stole your laughter, your joy, your fire. And gods, there had been fire.

You and Cassian had never been gentle with each other. From the moment you met, it was blue flame. Arguments that could shake walls. Passion that nearly burned down the room. You were both heat and edge and stubborn will, but it had always matched. It had always fit.

And then— The fire paused. Became candlelight. Flickering, hesitant, needing space to breathe.

He hadn’t pressed. Never demanded. Never forced closeness or conversation. Not when even standing beside you made you tense. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t touch unless you reached first. Because you weren’t just healing—you were grieving. Not just pain, but identity lost.

So Cassian did what he could. He stayed.

You screamed at him some nights, spat venom born of agony, called him things that might have made Azriel blink. He took it. Every cruel word. Every slam of your temper. Stood in the storm like a mountain made of patience.

He brought you a greenhouse. With flowers you used to admire before they clipped your sky. He found clothes softer than breath, gifts without expectations—trinkets, stones, feathers that reminded him of the sky you loved. He never pushed. Just stayed. Like loyalty forged in steel and blood.

And it was in the quiet nights—the ones where neither of you said a word—that he found the most comfort.

Tonight, as he stepped into your room, the scent of night and wind wrapped around him like a cloak. His leathers whispered as he moved, silent but steady, toward the washbasin. The healer had left bandages, cloth, a cooling salve that barely eased the pain. He didn’t need instructions anymore. It had become ritual. His offering.

You lay on your stomach, soft silks beneath you, back still too tender to touch. The breeze from the open balcony ghosted over your bare skin. Your eyes were open, fixed on the stars above. He knew that look. You stared at them like they were old friends who’d betrayed you.

Cassian approached the bed quietly, pulling the gauzy curtain aside. His wings—broad and instinctual—stretched a little behind him, not in arrogance but routine, a silent shield to the night air behind you. He sat down beside you, warm and solid, the scent of wind and leather grounding you.

He began to clean the wounds, careful and gentle, like the warrior who could crush mountains with a blow had never learned how to be anything but gentle with you.

“You know,” he murmured after a moment, his voice a low rumble, “for someone with a clipped temper and no filter, you’ve been awfully quiet tonight. I’m starting to miss the threats.”

You didn’t respond, eyes still fixed on the stars.

Cassian dipped the cloth again, pressed it softly to a healing gash, and added—quieter, this time— “I would’ve ripped them apart. If I’d known. If I’d gotten there five minutes sooner—” He exhaled slowly. Pressed the cloth down once more.

“Still gonna kill them,” he said, a bit too casually. “Just waiting for you to give me the green light. I even rehearsed my speech for Rhys. It's very moving. Lots of growling and shirt-ripping.” Your gaze flicked back toward the sky. He could take that. You weren’t ready yet.