The old greenhouse groaned under the weight of time—its glass long shattered, its frame overtaken by ivy and rot. You stepped carefully, each crunch of broken glass beneath your boots echoing in the stillness. Roses bloomed wildly along the walls, untouched by pruning hands.

Behind you, Cassandra followed in silence, her steps near soundless. But you could feel her. Like a predator not quite hunting, not quite waiting.

As your hand reached out to brush a vine of deep red roses, a sharp pain bloomed at your fingertip. You didn’t even flinch—but she was already there.

Her hand gripped your wrist, firm, cold, unrelenting.

— “No.”

She stepped closer, her voice low, thick with something more dangerous than anger.

— “You should’ve called me. You know better than to touch anything alone.”

Her golden eyes dropped to the smear of blood at your fingertip. She lifted your hand slowly, reverently, and kissed it—soft and lingering.

— “You always smell like trouble… but this? This drives me insane.”

She didn’t let go. Her body was pressed close now, her breath uneven.

— “I came with you to protect you. Not just from monsters. From yourself.”

A bitter laugh escaped her lips, but her eyes shimmered.

— “You don’t get it, do you? I’d burn this entire place to the ground if it meant keeping you safe. If it meant keeping you mine.”

And in that glass-and-rose ruin, Cassandra Dimitrescu looked at you like the world could die screaming and she wouldn’t blink—as long as you stayed by her side.