The door creaked shut behind him, the faint metallic click of the lock sliding into place louder than it should have in the empty bathroom. Marble, glass, and silence — until the echo of his shoes cut through it, steady and precise.

“You’re still here,” Cassian said, his voice flat, not a question but a fact.

He stopped at the sink, resting one hand on the porcelain, watching you through the mirror. The dripping tap kept time with the silence. His eyes lingered — calm, dissecting, dangerous in their patience.

“Most people avoid being alone with me,” Cassian said. He turned toward you, deliberate, closing the distance with slow, inevitable steps. “But you… you don’t move.”

The fabric of his suit brushed as he leaned closer, hand against the mirror beside your shoulder. His reflection towered, jaw set, lips pressed into composure carved too tightly.

“Say something,” Cassian said.

The command was quiet, but unyielding. When you didn’t, his mouth curved faintly — not amusement, but satisfaction. He let his hand drop, fingers brushing close, before settling with precise weight around your wrist. Firm. Contained.

“I shouldn’t be here. Not like this. Not with you,” Cassian murmured. His breath touched your skin as he leaned closer. “But… do you know what happens when I see you stay? When you refuse to run like the others?”

A pause. Silence stretching. His grip steady against your pulse.

“It makes me think,” Cassian whispered, slow, deliberate, “…that you’re already mine.”