Private The Trials

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian felt her lean in, the warmth of her shoulder settling against his, and something in him went still. Not the soldier's stillness, the kind built from discipline and control, but a quieter kind, the one he'd almost forgotten existed. Her words echoed softly in his head. 'You make it look good.' It shouldn't have affected him as much as it did, but the honesty in her voice, the raw, unguarded truth had struck deeper than he wanted to admit.


He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. The flickering light from the holofilm danced across her features, catching in her hair, softening every line of her face. She wasn't armored here, not really. And that, he realized, was what he loved most about this moment, it was hers. It was theirs.

A faint smile pulled at his lips. "You know." he said quietly, voice threading between the sound of the projector and the faint pop of a kernel in the bowl between them, "I think you're giving me too much credit." He turned slightly toward her, his tone teasing but gentle. "You make it pretty hard not to want to be exactly who I am right now."

"Whatever this is, whatever we are, it doesn't need rules. It's enough that we're here. That it's real."

He let his hand rest gently over her thigh, looking over to her with a small smile. Cassian's eyes drifted toward the screen, but he wasn't really watching. He was memorizing the light in the room, the sound of her breathing beside him, the way her guard had slipped just enough to let him in.

After a while, he murmured, almost to himself, "You make peace look good."

It was gratitude, flirtation, but also steady, heartfelt, and as certain as the hand that finally found hers again, resting there in the glow of the holofilm as the world outside went quiet.

 

[Shade]

Shade felt the weight of his hand on her thigh, and for a long moment, she didn't move. Her breath caught—not out of alarm, but from the unfamiliar weight of comfort. The sound of the holofilm faded into a distant hum as his words reached her, quiet and steady, finding a place beneath her ribs where armor didn't reach.

"Maybe you deserve a little credit," she murmured, her voice low, warm, carrying that rare thread of playfulness. "Not many people can make me forget the world exists."

Her gaze flicked toward him, catching the light that flickered across his face, softening the hard edges she'd memorized in countless moments of chaos. He wasn't looking at her like a superior or a partner in the field—just Cassian, open, grounded, and honest.

Shade's lips curved, small but certain. "You make peace sound… easy." A quiet breath escaped her, half a laugh, half disbelief. "And somehow, when you say it, I start to think it could be."

She let her hand slide over his, lacing their fingers together once more, grounding herself in the warmth of the gesture. The weight of her pulse slowed under his touch, steadying, as if her body had finally remembered what safety felt like.

"You make danger look good," she added after a pause, glancing at him sidelong, "but peace suits you better."

The flicker of the holofilm washed over them in soft shades of blue and gold, and she leaned in again, shoulder to shoulder, content to let silence fill the space. Whatever they were, whatever came next—it didn't need a name. It just needed this.

"Let's see if we can make it last," she whispered finally, her voice almost lost beneath the sound of the waves outside.

Shade felt the warmth of his hand radiating through the thin barrier of fabric. For a moment, she couldn't breathe—not because of surprise, but because of how right it felt. The holofilm flickered across the room in muted color, forgotten, its sound dissolving into the steady rhythm of her pulse.

Her fingers tightened around his for a heartbeat, then lifted, slow and deliberate. She turned toward him, her hand finding the line of his jaw, the roughness of stubble beneath her fingertips grounding her in a moment that felt fragile and infinite all at once.

"Cassian…" she whispered, his name soft and uncertain in her voice—not hesitation, just the quiet awe of someone relearning how to want.

Before he could answer, she leaned in, closing the space between them with a kiss that began careful, searching, and deepened into something that silenced thought entirely. The world fell away—no missions, no ranks, no reasons to hold back. Just warmth, the taste of air and popcorn, the faint brush of his breath against her skin.

When she finally drew back, her hand lingered at his face, thumb tracing the edge of his mouth as if committing it to memory. Her breathing was unsteady, her voice lower now when she spoke.

"You make it very hard to remember what we were watching."

The faint smile that followed wasn't composed or tactical. It was real—soft, human, and entirely his doing.

"Don't stop doing that," she added quietly, her hand still resting against his cheek, "making me forget everything else."

And as she leaned in once more, slower this time, the holofilm continued to play, long forgotten—two soldiers finally allowing themselves to be, if only for this perfect, quiet stretch of peace.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian's breath caught when her hand found his face, the warmth of her skin a steady contrast to the cool flicker of light from the holofilm. The kiss had taken whatever composure he had left and unraveled it in the gentlest way possible. He hadn't realized how badly he'd needed it, the reminder that he was still human, still capable of something soft, something good.

Her words lingered in the space between them, fragile and certain all at once. Don't stop doing that.

Cassian smiled, quiet and unguarded, his thumb brushing along the inside of her wrist before sliding up to rest against her hand where it still cupped his cheek. "Then I won't." he said softly, his voice threaded with a warmth that made the air between them feel alive. "Not if this is what it makes you forget."

He leaned in again, resting his forehead against hers. The faint scent of popcorn, the sound of the lake beyond the window, the steady rise and fall of her breathing, it all blurred into something that felt impossibly simple. For a man who had lived his entire life in motion, who had only ever known purpose through chaos, stillness had never come easy. But with her beside him, it didn't feel like stopping. It felt like arriving.

"You make it easy to stay." he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at her properly. The reflection of the holofilm shimmered in her crimson eyes, and he caught himself tracing the curve of her smile with his gaze. "And for the record, I don't even remember what we put on." He chuckled lightly as he glanced towards the projector.

For a while, they just sat like that, no words, no missions, no ghosts. The film's light painted them in soft color, the world outside falling away until only the quiet rhythm of their hearts remained. He leaned into her, every so gently, as the film progressed.

Cassian finally spoke again, barely above a whisper. "You said peace suits me." he said, his thumb still tracing small, absent arcs against her skin. "Maybe it's because I finally found what it looks like."

He turned his head slightly, kissing her temple once, slow and certain. "Right here." he said.

And in that rare, suspended stillness, with her hand still against his and the world beyond the window muted in dusk, Cassian knew, he'd fight a thousand battles if it meant finding this again.

 

[Shade]

Shade's breath caught when his words reached her, the quiet sincerity in them disarming her more effectively than any weapon ever could. For a heartbeat, she couldn't move—her pulse rising in sharp contrast to the calm in his voice. You make it easy to stay. It was too simple, too honest, and it struck something deep inside her that she had spent years keeping untouched.

Her hand lingered where it rested against his cheek, fingers faintly trembling as though afraid the moment might vanish if she let go. The warmth of his skin beneath her palm, the faint scrape of stubble—it was grounding in a way that felt dangerous. Real.

"You shouldn't say things like that," she murmured finally, voice softer than it had ever been, the usual precision giving way to something uncertain. "Someone might believe you."

Her attempt at composure faltered when he leaned closer, his forehead resting against hers. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her hand matched her own—an alignment that felt accidental and inevitable all at once. For someone who had built her life on control, on never needing anyone to steady her, the realization was terrifying.

And yet… she didn't pull away.

Her gaze lifted to meet his, the flicker of the holofilm dancing in her crimson eyes. "Maybe peace looks good on you because you earned it," she said quietly, her breath brushing against his skin. "Because you stopped running long enough to find it."

When he kissed her temple, something inside her uncoiled—slowly, deliberately. The part of her that had forgotten how to hope found its footing again. Shade tilted her face up to his, closing the space between them with another kiss, unhurried and sure this time. The kind that said everything words couldn't.

When she pulled back, her lips lingered close enough that her following words barely carried beyond the whisper. "Then I'll try too," she said, voice steadier now, "for as long as you want me to."

It wasn't a promise, not exactly—but it was more than she had ever given anyone. As the film flickered on, forgotten and distant, Shade let herself lean into him again. Resting her head on his shoulder. For once, she didn't think about the next mission or the next danger waiting beyond the horizon.

For once, she let herself believe that peace—their peace—might be something she could learn to keep.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed like this, really laughed. The kind that came from somewhere deep, unguarded, unplanned. Shade's laughter joined his, soft and melodic, and for a fleeting moment he thought there was no sound in the galaxy he'd rather hear. The holofilm wasn't particularly good, something light, filled with improbable plots and clumsy humor, but it didn't matter. Every time she tilted her head back, the light from the screen caught her hair, and he found himself watching her more than the movie.

Her shoulders brushed his every now and then, and the warmth of her against him was enough to make the rest of the world fade. They traded quiet remarks, small jokes whispered between bursts of laughter, her voice low and rich with amusement. When the story took a ridiculous turn, the both laughed, Cassian nudging her gently.

The film rolled on, flickering soft shades of blue and gold across their faces. Cassian felt the tension he'd carried for months easing from his shoulders, piece by piece. He leaned back into the couch, one arm resting along the backrest, the other still loosely intertwined with hers. The popcorn bowl sat forgotten on the table.

By the time the credits began to roll, the warmth between them had shifted into something quieter. Shade had drifted closer, her laughter having melted into a comfortable stillness. Cassian felt her head come to rest against his shoulder, the subtle weight of her presence settling over him like a blanket.

He looked down, the faintest smile curving his lips. Her breathing had slowed, her eyes half-lidded in the dim light. He adjusted slightly, careful not to wake her, until she was lying gently atop him, her cheek resting against his chest, one hand splayed over his heart. The rise and fall of her breath matched his own, unhurried and steady.

Cassian let his hand rest lightly against her back, tracing slow, absent circles there. The last of the film's credits faded into silence, replaced by the soft hum of the lake outside and the rhythmic beat of two hearts finding the same tempo.

For a long while, he just watched her, how the tension had finally left her face, how peace had settled where vigilance used to live. A quiet exhale escaped him, almost a whisper of a laugh.

He leaned his head back against the couch, eyes half closing as fatigue pulled at him. The warmth of her against him, the sound of her breathing, it was enough to make the world small again. Safe.

As sleep crept in, Cassian's last thought was simple, quiet, and sure: that this her weight against him, her hand on his chest, the peace neither of them had believed they could have, was the closest thing to home he'd ever known in a very long time.

 

[Shade]

Shade drifted somewhere between sleep and awareness, the kind of fragile quiet her body didn't recognize. The last thing she remembered was the warmth of Cassian's chest beneath her cheek, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and then…nothing. No alarms, no movement, no threat demanding her attention. Just stillness.

Her fingers twitched slightly against his shirt, the faint rise and fall beneath her hand grounding her even before her mind caught up. For a moment, instinct whispered that she should move—that no one got this close without consequence. But the whisper faded under the steady, rhythmic calm of his heartbeat. She exhaled, the breath soft and almost foreign in its ease.

The holofilm's glow had faded to the quiet blue of the idle screen, and the only sound left was the distant lap of water against the shore outside the villa. The world felt impossibly still. Her muscles, used to tension, to readiness, resisted that stillness at first. Then, slowly and inevitably, they gave in.

Shade's lashes fluttered open, just enough to see him—head tilted back against the couch, half-asleep, a faint smile softening features usually carved from discipline. He looked…peaceful. It disarmed her more than any weapon could have.

She shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, her hand curling instinctively closer against his chest. Her pulse echoed the rhythm beneath her palm — slow, steady, matching. It struck her then how rare this was. To rest without vigilance. To exist beside someone without calculation.

"You make this look easy," she whispered, though the words were more breath than sound.

Her gaze lingered on his face, tracing the warmth there—the ease she hadn't thought she'd ever deserve to share. She felt the faint pull in her chest, the ache of something unfamiliar and dangerous, something that might one day grow into love if she ever dared let it.

For now, though, she stayed.

Her eyes closed again, and she let herself breathe in sync with him—two soldiers, two survivors, suspended in the quiet miracle of an unguarded night. For the first time in a lifetime, Shade didn't think about what came next.

For the first time, she simply was.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian stirred faintly, the subtle shift of her weight against him pulling him back from the edge of sleep. His mind caught up to the moment, he didn't move.

Shade was still there, warm, steady, her breathing even. The way her hand rested against him felt deliberate and natural all at once, as if her body had made a choice her mind might still be debating. He could feel the faint twitch of her fingers against his shirt, the trace of warmth where her breath met his collarbone. He tilted his head slightly, just enough to see her face. The lines that usually marked her expression, discipline, focus, calculation, were gone. She looked…peaceful. It struck him harder than he expected, that she could find rest here, with him. That he could.

He smiled, small and quiet. The kind that didn't need to be seen to be real. "Yeah." he whispered, his voice rough with sleep but soft with something deeper. "You make it look easy too."

The words faded into the space between them, caught somewhere between truth and a dream.

Outside, the wind shifted across the lake, carrying the scent of rain and wild grass through the open window. The faint brush of cool air against his skin only made the warmth of her presence more defined.

Cassian leaned his head back again, his eyes half-closed, and let the stillness hold them. He knew the world beyond this villa would keep turning, the missions, the responsibilities, the inevitable pull of duty, but here, now, none of it could reach them.

"Thank you, Nys'rei" He whisphered briefly as his eyes closed once more.

 

[Shade]

Shade stirred first—the subtle ache in her back reminding her they weren't on a bed, but curled together on the couch. For a moment, she didn't move, her cheek still pressed against Cassian's chest, listening to the slow, even rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her palm. Then the awareness settled—the stiffness in her neck, the faint hum of the projector gone idle, the cool air drifting from the window.

She exhaled quietly, careful as she shifted, lifting herself just enough to ease free without waking him. Her movements were silent, practiced—every step measured, weight on the ball of her feet as she gathered her jacket from the arm of the couch. But the brush of fabric against his sleeve was enough. She felt him stir before she heard his voice.

Cassian's eyes opened, calm and steady, the faintest glint of amusement softening his features when he saw her standing there.

"We fell asleep," she murmured, her tone low, caught somewhere between apology and affection. "I thought the bed might be… less of a tactical mistake."

He rose, quietly, without protest—and followed.

The villa's hallway was dim, washed in the soft gold of the rising moon through the wide windowpanes. She led him into the bedroom, stopping at the edge of the wide, linen-draped bed. It looked impossibly soft compared to every cot, bunk, and cold metal surface she'd ever slept on. For a second, she hesitated—like peace was still a foreign concept she wasn't sure she was allowed to touch.

Shade sat first, her boots set neatly aside, her jacket folded over the chair nearby. The faint ripple of the sheets beneath her palms drew her gaze—such a simple thing, yet it steadied her. She looked up when he joined her, the quiet between them stretching, comfortable but full of meaning.

Her eyes softened, the trust there fragile but real. "You make it easy to forget to be afraid," she said quietly, a confession more than a statement. Her gaze held his, steady and searching. "I keep expecting it to break. For peace to vanish like it always does."

She hesitated, a flicker of memory crossing her expression—Verin, betrayal, loss—ghosts that still haunted the quiet. Then she drew in a slow breath, grounding herself in the moment, in him.

"But you're not him," she continued softly, more to herself than to him. "You don't disappear when things get difficult." Her lips curved faintly, the smallest smile—trust, hard-won but growing. "You're steady. I need steady."

For a moment, she looked down, as though sorting through the tangle of emotions she wasn't used to voicing. Then her eyes lifted to his again, clearer now, braver.

"Tell me more about you," she said, voice soft but curious. "Not the soldier, not the strategist. Just…you. The man who makes me laugh. The one who stays."

Her tone carried no demand, only invitation—quiet, open, and entirely sincere. As the moonlight spilled across them both, Shade let herself believe, just for this night, that this kind of peace might be real.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian watched her from where he stood by the edge of the bed, the moonlight tracing soft edges along her profile. The words she'd spoken lingered between them, quiet, earnest, and more vulnerable than anything she'd ever said to him before. He could see the effort it took for her to speak them, the way trust was something she carried like a blade, carefully, always within reach, but never fully at rest.

He took a slow breath and crossed the short distance between them, the floor cool under his bare feet. "You know..." he began, his voice low, threaded with that quiet warmth that always seemed to find her, "You don't have to be afraid of it breaking. not tonight or ever. Not with me, I promise you that."
Cassian laid next to her quietly for a long time after she spoke, the moonlight painting the room in faint silver and shadow. Shade's hand was still in his, warm and steady, but his gaze had drifted somewhere past the window, past the water, past the night itself. When he finally drew in a slow breath, it came with the weight of something long buried.

"There's something I should tell you." he said softly. His tone wasn't distant, but it carried a gravity that replaced the easy warmth from moments before. "Something… I don't talk about."

"Five… maybe six years ago." he began, his voice low, "I was in love once. Her name was Thessaly Veruna." The sound of it seemed to pull something taut in him. . "Our families had… history. Rivalry. House Abrantes and House Veruna had been circling each other for generations. It was political, old wounds and old pride. You know how those things go."

He paused, the muscles in his jaw tightening before he continued. "We tried to stay quiet about it. We thought if we kept it private, we could find a way through. But then she asked me to marry her."

The words hung in the air, soft but heavy. "And I said no."

. "Not because I didn't love her. Because I did. I loved her enough to know what would happen if I said yes. Our houses would've torn Naboo apart. There would've been blood in the streets, pride before peace. I couldn't...." He stopped, exhaled, shaking his head. "I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't let anyone get hurt because of me."

He looked back up then, meeting Shade's eyes, something raw flickering in his expression. "So I told her no. And her father who hated House Abrantes greater than anyone I've ever met, he had already planned to marry her off to someone with much wealth and power..... someone cruel." His voice softened, darkened with remorse. "I knew she was going to be married off, I just didn't know it would be to a monster, I heard whispers about what she went through, what he did to her."

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the sound of the wind through the open window.

"She came back recently." Cassian said after a moment, his voice quieter now. "Different. Dark, Maybe evil.... Whatever small light she had, it's gone. And I think… I think she....I know she utterly hates me for it. Maybe she's right to."

"There was an attempt on my life a few months ago. It was the night she returned, and I was on the beach, and three assassins' came out of the shadows.." His tone was level, but his hand tightened imperceptibly around hers. "I can't prove it was her. There's nothing tangible. But I feel it, deep down, where I know the truth before I can say it out loud."

Cassian exhaled, the weight of it leaving his shoulders slowly, as though speaking it aloud had cost him something. He looked at Shade again, his voice soft but resolute. "I've made peace with the idea that she might come for me again. What I haven't made peace with is knowing I might've created the thing she became."

He gave Shade's hands a gentle squeeze.

"I know in my heart that if the force or whatever spirit is out there, would give me another chance at that moment. I would do it the same way all over again. Is that honorable of me, am I even a good person for thinking...knowing that?"

 

[Shade]

Shade listened in silence. Not the kind that meant distance—this was intent, deliberate, focused silence. Her eyes tracked the subtle shifts in his posture: the tightening of his hand around hers, the muscle that jumped once along his jaw when he said the name Thessaly. The small tremor that wasn't quite visible, only felt through the faint pressure of his fingers against her skin.
She didn’t move. Didn’t look away. She let the weight of his confession settle like gravity between them, the kind that couldn’t be lightened by words, only shared.
When he finally fell quiet, she drew a slow breath and spoke.
“You did what you had to.” The words were quiet but sure. “Not out of fear, but because you understood what would come of it if you didn’t.”
She studied his face, the lines of guilt and memory still etched there, and shook her head faintly. “That isn’t weakness. That’s clarity. It takes more strength to stop a war than to start one.”
Her hand lifted, fingertips brushing along his forearm until they found his wrist again. A grounding touch, not comfort in the fragile sense, but recognition—connection. “The past shapes us,” she continued, her voice low, steady, “but it doesn’t own us. Whoever you were, whatever choices you made—good, bad, impossible—they made you who you are now.”
Her thumb brushed lightly across the back of his hand. “And I wouldn’t change any of it.”
Shade’s gaze softened, her expression unguarded in the dim moonlight. “You made a choice that saved lives, even if it cost you something you loved. That isn’t dishonor, Cassian. That’s the kind of courage most people only pretend to have.”
She drew a quiet breath, her tone softening even further. “You didn’t create what she became. Pain did. People like that—they twist the world to make sense of their loss. You can’t carry that for her.”
For a long moment, she held his gaze, the silence that followed not heavy but certain, filled with understanding. Then, quieter still, almost reverent:
“You’re a good man. Not perfect. But good. And I trust the man sitting here with me more than I’ve trusted anyone in a long time.”
Her hand rose then, brushing the edge of his jaw where tension still lived, and stayed there. “So no,” she murmured, “I don’t think you’d change it. And I think that’s exactly why you’re still standing.”
The words hung in the quiet, the faint hum of the lake wind threading through them—truth, not reassurance, spoken from one survivor to another.
Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian's throat tightened, though he didn't immediately speak. Her words landed like steady rain against stone, soft, deliberate, and real. He'd expected judgment, or at the very least, distance. Instead, Shade's voice carried understanding, and something deeper than that, something that reminded him why he'd stopped keeping every wound to himself.

He looked at her hand where it rested against his jaw, the faint tremor in her fingers, the quiet conviction in her touch. It was strange, how she could be both gentle and unyielding at once. He leaned slightly into her palm, drawing strength from the steadiness she offered.

He turned his hand beneath hers, their fingers intertwining again, the gesture slow, deliberate. "I've carried that guilt for years." he admitted.

Cassian's voice softened further, his tone lowering to something almost like wonder. "You see me clearer than I see myself, Shade."

He reached up, his fingertips brushing along her wrist where her pulse beat beneath the skin. "You're right." he said after a moment. "The past doesn't own us. But it does leave marks. And maybe that's all right. Maybe they're not meant to fade."

He let out a quiet breath, something close to relief threading through it. "I can't change what happened. I can't undo who Thessaly became. But I can make sure her hatred doesn't turn me into something I'm not."

He smiled faintly again, small, but genuine. "And having you here… makes that easier."

Cassian's thumb traced idle circles against her hand, grounding himself in the rhythm. "You trust me." he murmured. "And you have my trust with everything that comes next. Whatever it is."

He let his gaze linger on her strong, fierce, and somehow softer than anyone had the right to be after everything they'd both survived. "You've already done something I didn't think possible." he said quietly. "You made me stop looking backward."

The moonlight caught the faint glint of emotion in his eyes as he leaned closer, his forehead just barely brushing hers. "Thank you." he whispered. "For seeing me, and staying anyway."

And for the first time in years, Cassian felt the weight of his past settle into something manageable, not erased, not forgotten, but shared. He leaned in a pressed a soft kiss against her lips, just a brief one as he moved closer to her. "What about you?"

 

[Shade]

Shade's silence stretched long enough that the sound of the wind outside filled the room. When she finally spoke, her voice carried the calm precision of someone dissecting a wound that had never quite healed.

"There's something you should know." Her eyes stayed on the floor at first, tracing the thin line of moonlight spilling across it. "About why I don't say certain things. Why I hesitate."

She drew in a slow breath. "After I was rescued from the Ascendancy purges, I was taken in by a Force sect—the Veiled Sight. We were specialists in sensory manipulation, infiltration, and silent warfare. They made us invisible. Untouchable."

Her voice dropped lower. "I was partnered with another operative. Verin. He was… everything the sect wanted us to be. Intelligent. Unshakable. For three years, we were a perfect system—strategy and precision, trust and instinct. It became more than a partnership. He was the one person I thought saw me."

Her hand tightened slightly around Cassian's. "Then he betrayed the Veiled Sight. Sold intelligence to outsiders—I never learned who. The order called it treason, and they sent someone to deal with him."

Shade's breath hitched faintly. "They sent me."

She looked past him now, to the window, to something far colder than the night outside. "I found him on an ice world in the Mid Rim. He'd gone to ground among the ruins of an old listening post—snow, silence, nowhere to run. The wind was cutting through everything that day. I remember it because I couldn't tell where my tears ended and the frost began."

A pause. When she continued, her tone barely carried. "We fought. He didn't beg, didn't explain. He just kept saying I'd understand one day. And then I stopped hearing him. I put my blade through his chest."

The words landed softly, but final.

"After that," she said quietly, "I left the Veiled Sight. Disappeared into the Outer Rim. I told myself I was free of it. But you never really leave something like that behind. It follows you. Every time you think you can feel something again, it whispers his name."

Shade's composure slipped, just slightly, her breath catching as she looked at Cassian. "That's why I hesitate. Why I stop myself before I—" She faltered, the next word breaking free before she could stop it. "—before I say I love you."

She froze, eyes widening faintly as if she could pull the word back into her throat. "I—" She shook her head, voice unsteady for the first time. "That's not—I didn't mean—"

The denial fell apart before she could finish it. She drew in a shaky breath, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "You're not him, Cassian. You're everything he wasn't—steady, honest, real. And that terrifies me more than anything ever has."

Her voice softened, the fight gone from it. "I can't lose that again. I can't lose you."

For a long moment, she just sat there, the truth bare between them—a woman who had once killed the man she loved, now realizing, to her own shock, that she'd said the word again.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian lay on his side, the faint moonlight cutting silver lines across the sheets, painting her face in pale glow. Shade's confession hung in the air between them, raw, trembling, painfully human. He could feel her heartbeat through the small space that still separated them, quick and uneven, like she was bracing for him to pull away.

"Shade." he said quietly, the word a grounding point, not a correction. He let her name sit in the silence before continuing. "You don't have to take it back."

His voice was low, steady, but there was something unshakable in it, a calm that came not from command, but from understanding. "You've carried that for a long time. Too long."

Cassian's thumb brushed her cheek, soft but steady. "You said you can't lose me." he murmured. "But you won't. Not to that, not to the past. I'm not going anywhere."

He drew in a slow breath, his voice deepening slightly, carrying the weight of something honest. "You don't scare me, Shade. Not the things you've done, not the ghosts that still follow you. If anything…" His lips curved, faint and warm. " They make you stronger. You walked through hell, and you're still here. You're still capable of this, of caring. That's not something broken people do."

His hand moved first, slow and steady, finding hers where it lay against the blanket. He threaded their fingers together, grounding the moment in something simple, something real.

"I'm still here." he said quietly, his voice low enough that it felt more like breath than sound.

Cassian studied her, every line of tension in her body, every shadow that passed across her face. There was strength there, yes, but also exhaustion with the kind that came from years of carrying ghosts that never learned to stay buried.

He shifted closer until his forehead rested gently against hers, the warmth of her skin against his easing something deep inside him. "You don't have to explain." he murmured. "Not to me. You did what you had to. And you've been carrying it alone ever since."

Her breath hitched again, just barely, and he tightened his hold on her hand. "He told you, you'd stop hearing him one day." Cassian continued, softer now. "Then let me be louder. Let me drown it out, one day at a time."

The words settled between them, warm and certain. He could feel her trembling ease slightly beneath his touch, her body instinctively shifting closer until her head rested against his chest. Cassian let his other hand drift through her hair, slow, deliberate, the steady rhythm of comfort more than anything else.

"Love doesn't make you weak." he whispered. "It just makes you human."

The silence that followed wasn't heavy, it was peace, the kind neither of them had known in too long. Outside, the wind brushed against the glass, soft and distant, while inside the villa, two survivors finally allowed themselves to exist without armor.

Cassian leaned in and pressed a soft and sweet kiss against her lips. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close to him, as close as he could. "I'm not going anywhere, Nys'rei." he murmured. "We can face the rest of it tomorrow."

 

[Shade]

Shade didn't move at first.

The words I'm not going anywhere echoed in her chest until they slowed the rhythm of her pulse. For so long, the world had taught her that every promise had an expiration date, that comfort was a trap, that peace was a lie people told themselves to survive. But Cassian's voice—low, steady, unflinching—cut through that noise like sunlight through frost.

Her hand curled against his chest, feeling the calm thrum of his heartbeat beneath her fingers. It grounded her. Her breath caught once, twice, before finally settling into something that matched his.

"Tomorrow," she repeated quietly, the single word soft but certain, as if testing its weight. "That sounds… possible."

She shifted slightly, turning until her forehead brushed against his collarbone, the scent of him—steel, salt, and something warm she couldn't name—filling the space between them. "You should sleep," she murmured, though her tone betrayed no real intention of letting him go.

Silence stretched, broken only by the rhythm of their breathing. Shade's hand slid up his chest to rest at the base of his throat, her thumb tracing a slow, thoughtful line over his pulse. "You make it hard to keep walls in place," she admitted after a moment, voice barely a whisper. "And for once, I don't mind."

The faintest smile ghosted over her lips as her eyes closed, exhaustion finally tugging her toward rest. She let herself sink into the quiet warmth of his hold, the steady anchor she hadn't realized she'd been searching for.

"Stay, Cassian," she whispered, sleep already softening her words. "Just stay."

And for the first time in years, Shade let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—someone would.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian felt her settle against him, her breathing falling into rhythm with his. Her whisper. 'Stay, Cassian. Just stay.' It was a quiet plea, but one that needed no reassurance.

"I'm not going anywhere." he murmured, the words a promise as his hand found the small of her back. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head and felt the last of her tension fade beneath his touch. The world beyond the villa didn't matter anymore. Not the missions. Not the ghosts. Just this.

Her warmth, her trust, the faint scent of rain and linen that lingered between them, it was more than enough. Within minutes, her breathing deepened, and Cassian let his own eyes close. Sleep came easily for once, pulling him into a rare, dreamless quiet.

---

Morning arrived gently. Pale light filtered through the wide windows, gilding the room in gold. Cassian woke first, the steady rise and fall of Shade's sleeping form beside him the first thing he saw. She was still curled against him, one hand resting over where his heart had been through the night. He stayed still for a while, just watching her, the ease in her expression, the absence of the tension that usually lived behind her eyes.

He brushed a strand of hair from her face before he carefully slipped from the bed. She stirred faintly but didn't wake. Cassian smiled. Let her rest.

The villa's air was cool when he stepped into the shower, steam curling through the early sunlight. The water hit his shoulders in a steady rhythm, washing away the remnants of yesterday, the weight of memories, the confessions, the ghosts. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he didn't feel the urge to rush.

When he stepped out, the quiet of the villa greeted him. He dressed simply, in a light shirt with sleeves rolled to his forearms, and padded barefoot into the kitchen. The space felt almost too calm, like the kind of stillness that belonged in another life.

Cassian set to work without a sound. The sizzle of a skillet broke the silence first, followed by the faint aroma of spiced eggs and caf brewing. He moved with practiced ease, focused, efficient, but there was a softness to his motions, the kind reserved for moments that mattered.

Every now and then, he glanced toward the open archway leading to the bedroom. Shade was still asleep, wrapped in the sheets, her silhouette touched by morning light.

He smiled to himself, turning back to the stove. Let her sleep. She'd earned that peace. They both had.

When the food was done, he set two plates on the table, steam curling upward like a promise of something ordinary and good. Cassian poured two cups of coffee, the rich scent filling the air, and leaned against the counter to watch the light climb higher over the lake beyond the window.

For the first time in years, he didn't feel like a soldier waiting for orders. He felt like a man building something worth waking up to.

And as he listened to the faint sound of Shade's even breathing from the next room, Cassian knew, this quiet morning, this fragile normalcy, was exactly the kind of peace he intended to keep.

 

[Shade]

Shade woke slowly, the world coming back to her in layers—the soft weight of sheets, the faint scent of steam and caf, the warmth that lingered where Cassian's body had been beside her. For one disoriented heartbeat, her mind snapped back to habit: assess, locate, survive. She tensed, eyes flicking open, her muscles already coiled to move. The room was too quiet, too open. Unfamiliar.

Then she saw the light. Morning sunlight, pale and warm, spilling across the villa's walls. Her pulse steadied. No alarms. No orders. Just the faint hum of the breeze off the lake and the sound of movement somewhere beyond the archway.

Cassian.

Her shoulders eased as the memory of last night returned—the way his voice had steadied hers, the way his arms had felt like safety instead of confinement. Shade exhaled slowly, the kind of breath she didn't allow herself on missions. She wasn't in danger. She wasn't being hunted. They were here to rest.

She pushed herself upright, the sheets pooling around her waist. For a moment, she sat there, listening. The sound of sizzling—food, not weapons fire—drifted from the next room. She caught a faint hum under his breath, almost like he was trying not to wake her. It was disarming in its normalcy.

Her jacket hung across the chair near the window. She rose, bare feet soundless against the cool floor, and slipped it on over her tank top, leaving the front undone. The air carried the faint scent of spiced eggs and freshly brewed caf, a smell so domestic it almost made her laugh.

When she stepped into the kitchen, she stopped in the doorway.

Cassian stood near the counter, the morning light cutting along the lines of his back and shoulders. He was halfway dressed—shirt, rolled sleeves, no pants. The sight might have made her smile if she wasn't too busy watching the way he moved: calm, unhurried, utterly unaware that he looked more at peace than she'd ever seen him.

For once, she didn't announce herself. She let herself take in the moment—the light, the quiet, the strange safety of it all. Then, softly:

"You cook now?"

Her voice carried the faintest amusement, a dry tease covering the warmth that threatened to rise behind it.

Cassian turned at the sound, and Shade leaned against the frame, arms loosely crossed, expression gentler than he'd ever seen it. "You look… relaxed," she said, eyes flicking briefly downward, that almost-smile ghosting her lips. "Didn't realize that was allowed."

It was half a tease, half truth. And as she crossed the room to him, the faint scent of the lake wind following her, Shade realized something unexpected—this, right here, was the first morning in years that didn't feel borrowed.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian heard her before he saw her. The faint shift of movement from the other room. The almost-silent brush of bare feet against the floor. Years of instinct kept his senses tuned even in peace, but this time, he didn't tense.

He only smiled, quietly, the kind that came naturally now when she was near. He finished plating the eggs when her voice reached him, smooth and dry from the doorway.

Cassian turned, one hand still holding the spatula, and the sight of her made his chest tighten. Shade stood there framed by the morning light, his jacket draped loosely over her shoulders, the soft gold of dawn catching in her hair.

'You cook now?'

"Apparently," he said, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. "You fall asleep, and suddenly I turn domestic."


'You look… relaxed. Didn't realize that was allowed.'

Cassian laughed softly, a teasing tone in his voice, as he set the pan aside. "I didn't either," he admitted, turning back to the counter to pour her a cup of caf. "But I think I could get used to it."

He slid the cup to her and leaned on the counter, watching her cross the room. Unhurried and grounded, she moved more freely than he'd ever seen before. "Morning suits you," he said quietly.

Cassian found himself memorizing the moment, the soft fabric of his shirt brushing her jacket sleeve, the faint smell of spiced food and caf in the air, the easy quiet between them. He reached out, brushing a thumb along her jaw, just enough to tilt her chin upward. "This," he murmured, "Is what I wanted for us—mornings like this. No alarms. No orders. Just…you."

Cassian smiled again, gentle and sweet. "You hungry?" He looked back as he finished setting the plates for them both. "Have a seat." He said with a soft tone.

As she moved to take her seat, he set a plate in front of her and one across from her. The lake shimmered through the open window, the wind carrying the faint scent of water and wild grass. Cassian took a slow sip of caf, watching her in the light. "I'm glad you are here, with me, Shade."
And as she met his gaze over the quiet table, sunlight washing over them both, Cassian realized for the first time in years that this was what he was missing.

 

[Shade]

Shade moved toward him with the kind of quiet grace that always drew his attention, even here—without armor, without mission, without anything but morning light and the faint scent of caf in the air. She paused at the counter, accepting the cup he'd poured, her fingers brushing his for a moment longer than necessary.

"I could get used to you like this. Calm. Real."

She took a slow sip, the bitter taste grounding her. For the first time in years, she didn't feel the urge to check a weapon or glance at a chrono. The silence wasn't waiting to be broken—it simply existed, the kind that came after storms. When Cassian reached out, his thumb tracing her jaw, Shade's breath caught—not out of fear, but recognition. This was peace. Something she'd never quite learned how to hold.

She sat across from him, his jacket still draped over her shoulders, the fabric faintly smelling of him—warm spice and something clean beneath it.

"You made this? I'm impressed."

Her lips curved into a small, genuine smile as she met his gaze again.

"I'm glad I'm here too. You make it…easy to forget the noise outside."
"And for once, I don't mind forgetting."

She picked up her fork, the soft clink of metal against ceramic the only sound between them for a moment. Then, a rare glint of teasing warmth:

"Just don't make a habit of cooking every morning. I might start expecting it."

Her tone softened again as she held his gaze.

"You look at home here, Cassian. Maybe we both do."

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian watched her as she spoke, how the light softened the edges he'd memorized in firelight and shadow. Seeing her like this, barefoot, calm, his jacket over her shoulders, disarmed him. She looked more at ease than ever, her rare, unforced smile hitting him harder than any confession.

He leaned back, the chair creaking in the morning's quiet. "You make it sound like I've done this forever." he said, a small smile appearing. "Truthfully, I'm just trying to make it real. For both of us."

Her teasing about the cooking drew a quiet laugh from him, low and warm. "Noted." He met her gaze directly. "I'll pace myself. Maybe every other morning, so you don't start expecting miracles."

He took another sip of caf, watching the lake shimmer beyond the window, then turned his gaze back to her, steady and thoughtful. "You said I look at home here." Cassian murmured. "I think that's because, for the first time, I actually am."

He thought about Dee'ja Peak. Why hadn't he returned yet, and the thoughts drifted in that it hadn't felt like home in some time. Partly because of what was confessed and conveyed about Thessaly, and just that everything that he had fought to protect was on their own path. Sibylla was acting Queen, while Elian sought a stint as a Kingsguard member in Aurellian's company. They were all doing well for the most part. It seemed like his protecting of his family was over and done with.

Then, when the silence grew softer, almost heavy, he spoke, quieter, almost hesitant: "Shade…" His voice lost its teasing edge, replaced by something more careful, as he became aware that their conversation was shifting to something vulnerable.

Her eyes lifted to his, curious, guarded. Cassian continued, his tone steady but honest. "You and me. I don't need labels to know what I feel, but I think I'd like to know what this means to you. Are we… together? Dating?" He paused, searching her expression. "Or is this something else entirely?"

He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the table, the faintest smile curving his lips. "I just..." He exhaled, genuine and quiet. "I don't want to assume. I've had enough ghosts in my life. I'd rather build something real with you, whatever we decide to call it."

The lake breeze stirred the edge of his shirt, the sunlight catching in his eyes as he held her gaze. Cassian spoke softly, voice warm and curious. "So, what are we, Shade?"

 

[Shade]

Shade paused mid-motion, her fork hovering just above the plate. The question was direct—Cassian always was—and yet it carried a weight she hadn’t expected this early in the morning. The kind that pulled truth from places she normally kept locked away.
She set the fork down quietly and met his gaze. For a long moment, she didn’t speak. The air between them shifted, the easy comfort of breakfast giving way to something deeper, slower.
“I’ve spent years avoiding questions like that,” she said finally, her voice calm but softer than before. “Labels. Definitions. They make things real… and real things can be taken.”
Her eyes flicked toward the window, the lake outside gleaming like liquid glass. “But you’re right. This—” she gestured slightly between them, “—is real. Whatever name we give it, it exists. And I don’t want to pretend it doesn’t.”
Shade leaned back slightly, her expression thoughtful, conflicted. “I’m not used to this,” she admitted quietly. “Peace. Connection. Trust.” Her gaze softened as it returned to him. “You make it easy to forget why I ever stopped believing in it.”
A breath, a pause. Then, with a small smile that didn’t quite hide the vulnerability beneath:
“So… if you’re asking what we are?” she said, her tone measured but warm. “We’re something worth fighting for. Whatever we decide to call it later.”
Her lips curved just a little more, the faintest spark of humor threading through. “But if you insist on a label…” She met his eyes again, steady, unflinching. “Then yes. We’re together.”
She reached across the table, fingers brushing his knuckles, grounding the moment with quiet certainty. “And I’m not running from it.”

Cassian Abrantes