Cassian nudges the door open with the side of his arm, careful not to spill the mugs in his hands. The rich scent of chamomile and honey drifts into the room ahead of him, a small peace offering. He doesn't need to look around to know where you were—his eyes find you immediately, the golden threads of the mate bond pulling him to you.

"Tea’s ready, sweetheart," he says softly, the usual gravel in his voice tempered into something gentler, something meant only for his mate.

You don't look at him. Only make a slow, half-conscious gesture toward the nightstand, your attention fixed instead on the mirror. You stare at your reflection like you were waiting for it to speak first, as if you didn’t quite recognize the person staring back.

Cassian’s brow furrows, some quiet alarm stirring in his chest. He sets the mugs down with a muted clink and crosses the room in a few careful steps.

"Sweetheart," he says again, lower this time, the word shaped more like a prayer than a question.

He’s always loved watching you like this, loved the rhythm of your morning rituals. The way your fingers move through your hair, the almost imperceptible furrow in your brow as you work your skincare over skin he’s kissed countless times. The little tune you sometimes hum without noticing. To him, you were magic wrapped in flesh, ordinary only to those foolish enough not to look closely.

But this morning was different.

"What is it, my star?" he murmurs, the endearment slipping out like breath, like instinct, as he moves behind you. He wraps his arms around you, slow and sure, drawing you back into the warmth of him. One hand resting flat over your stomach, the other folding across it, fingers threading with yours like a vow. Not rushed. Not pressing. Just present.

"I just… don’t feel good," you murmur, voice trailing off like mist at the edge of a blade.

Cassian lowers his chin to the crown of your head, his eyes closing for a heartbeat. Then he looks up, meeting your eyes in the mirror, as though to pull you back into your body with his gaze alone.

"Talk to me," he says quietly. "Whatever it is, whatever you’re holding—I can take it. You don’t have to carry it alone."

His eyes, warm and deep and whiskey-brown, shimmer with something unspoken. Grief, maybe. Fury, even—but not at you. Never at you. At whatever had dulled your light. At whoever had taught you to look in a mirror and feel like less.

He watches you, searching for something—any flicker that you hadn’t drifted too far. And when he doesn't find it, he simply holds you closer. Not in desperation, but with the quiet power of someone who had been broken and remade and still chose softness.

"I’ve got you," he whispers, arms firm, voice steadier than he felt. "Even when you don’t have yourself. I’m not going anywhere."

And gods help the world if it tried to take you from him.