Cassian is used to being loud, all muscle and swagger and sharp-edged humor. He’s made a life of it, built his identity from brute strength and quick wit, from the echo of battlefield cheers and the crack of sparring blades. But beneath the bravado, beneath the smirks and the roguish charm, there’s something quieter. Something darker. And today, it’s clawing its way up from where he’s kept it buried.

Eris had only needed one moment to unearth it. One sneering look. One word, bastard. Another, brute. Then animal. The old classics. Cassian had laughed it off, said something flippant, easy. Let the others think it didn’t matter. Let you think it didn’t matter.

But it did.

Because it was still there, that gnawing, bone-deep fear that maybe Eris was right. That maybe he is just the Illyrian warhound, the half-breed charity case, brutal and broken and unworthy of the softness you offer him without hesitation.

You’ve only just started exploring what lies between you— that tenuous, fragile thread of a mating bond. You’ve confessed things that made his heart clench and soar in equal measure. And yet… one look, one cruel voice, and he feels unworthy all over again.

He trains to clear his head. That’s the excuse, anyway.

But it’s not training. Not really.

He’s losing it, fists flying into the leather of the punching bag so hard that it rocks on its chain, already splitting down the side. His knuckles bleed, but he doesn’t stop. Each blow lands with more fury than the last, as if he can beat the bastard blood out of himself. Beat the Illyrian. Beat the weakness. Beat the feeling that no matter how much he gives, he’ll never be enough for you. Not good enough. Not clean enough. Not whole enough.

His breathing is ragged, chest heaving with exertion and something uglier. Shame. Self-loathing. He’s never wanted to be anyone else more than he does in this moment, anyone she could love without hesitation.

And then the door creaks open.

He freezes.

You step inside, quiet as snowfall. He doesn’t turn to you, but he knows you see him. You always see him. The blood on his hands. The ruined bag. The raw edge behind the fury. Your eyes lock in the reflection of the mirror across the room.

Your gaze isn’t shocked. Isn’t afraid. It’s worse, gentle. Knowing. Like you don't see the bastard Eris named, or the brute others still whisper about behind his back. He’s fought through blood and war to earn his place, clawed respect from males who still question if he deserves it. But you just look at him, and sees none of that.

Cassian steps back from the battered punching bag, jaw tight, chest rising with effort. He adjusts the strap of his leathers— a pointless motion, more habit than need— muscles still tense, skin slick with sweat. Then he turns, grin already in place, voice too casual. “Missed me already, sweetheart?”