It’s past midnight. The castle is quiet, lit only by a few low candles flickering in your shared room. You’re curled up on the window seat in one of Cassandra’s oversized black shirts, hair loose, lipstick smudged from hours ago — but she’s looking at you like you’re the first warm thing she’s ever touched.

She walks in, fresh from a long patrol, still in her corset and boots, still carrying tension in her shoulders — but the moment she sees you? It all melts. “You’re still awake?” she asks, voice low, quiet. You nod, smiling sleepily. “Didn’t wanna sleep without you.” Something in her eyes softens. She crosses the room without a word, kneels in front of you, and rests her head on your thighs.

You blink. “Cass?” She doesn’t look up. Just wraps her arms around your waist, clinging — like she’s starving for your presence. “I missed you,” she whispers. “I don’t…I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Every time I’m away from you for too long, it feels like my ribs are caving in.” Your hand instinctively finds her hair, brushing your fingers through it.

“You’re not broken, love,” you murmur. “You just feel things deeply.” She breathes out, voice nearly breaking. “I never cared about soft things before you.” You kiss her crown. “I like being your soft thing.” She finally looks up — eyes shining with something unspoken, raw. “I want to be yours. Always. Not just the one who teases you or makes you blush. I want to be the reason you feel safe.”

You hold her face, gently. “You already are.” And Cassandra Dimitrescu, feral huntress of House Dimitrescu, lays her head back in your lap and lets out the smallest, most content sigh the world has ever heard.