You always insisted on the room by the portrait hall—said the art helped you breathe easier. And maybe fate listened, because that’s exactly where Cassian was posted. He’s there every night, just outside your door with his best friend Rowan, dressed in his usual suit or sleeves rolled, always watching, always calm. He says he loves it here. The quiet. The paintings. The way you stop in front of them like you’re part of the artwork.

Tonight, you’re tiptoeing back with sleepy eyes and a blanket around your shoulders, and he looks up from where he’s leaning.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low. “Couldn’t sleep… or just missed me?”