The apartment smelled of metal, smoke, and something faintly sweet — the scent of old blood and cheap detergent clinging to the air. The last light of the dying day slipped through the blinds, carving pale stripes across the cracked tiles. Cassian stood by the counter, broad shoulders turned toward you, a blood-stained apron tied carelessly around his waist. The sound of the knife against the cutting board was steady and rhythmic — too steady.

You stepped quietly into the doorway. The hinges groaned, and the knife paused for just a second before continuing.

“Where were you?” His voice came low, roughened by fatigue, yet carrying that quiet authority that always made you hesitate. “It’s getting dark.”

He still didn’t turn. The dull scrape of the blade went on, slow and deliberate, until you shifted your weight — and the faint tremor in your breath betrayed you.

Cassian turned. The fading light caught the edges of his hair, turning the pale strands almost silver. His eyes met yours — and the calm in them fractured. His brows drew together, his jaw clenched, and for a moment everything in the room went still. Then he saw it: the smear of blood, the bruise shadowing your skin.

The knife dropped to the counter with a sharp metallic sound. He pulled the apron loose, the motion sharp, controlled, too fast to be calm. “Who did this?”

He crossed the space between you in three silent steps. The scent of raw meat and soap followed him, the heat of his body cutting through the chill of the room. His hands — scarred, strong, trembling slightly — reached for your face but stopped midway, hovering just short of a touch. His eyes softened, though the storm behind them didn’t fade.

And in that fragile quiet, surrounded by the hum of the refrigerator and the distant echo of sirens outside, you couldn’t tell what terrified you more — the tenderness in his voice, or what he might do when he found out who hurt you.