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The cottage felt emptier than usual once Toryn’s bulk had stepped into the night.

Cass leaned against the doorway, hands still warm from where he had fussed over the Dragonborn’s wound. He hadn’t noticed at first, hadn’t thought twice, until the silence pressed down on him, and he realized his fingers itched with the memory of Toryn’s scales under his touch.

He shivered.

Blue eyes lifted to the darkened trees beyond the lantern glow. The path back to the village was faint in moonlight. He could imagine Toryn’s silhouette moving through it—sure, silent, confident. And yet, Cass’s chest felt tight, strange, almost fluttering in a way he had never experienced before.

“What… is this?” he whispered to himself, brushing a strand of hair back from his face. The wind caught his braid and lifted it, and he flinched slightly, self-conscious of the lingering warmth in his chest. “Why do I feel like this?”

He shook his head, turning back into the cottage. He tried to chase away the sensation, tried to immerse himself in mundane chores: cleaning jars, organizing herbs, checking the poultices. But the quiet moments—the ones when he paused and remembered Toryn’s hand in his hair, the teasing tone, the careful attentiveness—kept returning.

By sunrise, Cass was restless. He could not stay cooped up indoors. He gathered a basket of salves and stepped into the crisp morning air. The village was still waking, the streets dotted with early risers and the occasional clattering of wagon wheels. He followed his usual route toward the small garden at the edge of town but found his gaze drifting elsewhere.

Eventually, he found himself near the forge.

He froze at the edge of the yard. The forge’s smoke spiraled lazily into the sky. Toryn’s shadow had not yet appeared. The very thought of him resting instead of working made Cass’s heart leap in an odd, unsteady rhythm. He stooped by the fence, peering at the forge with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety, trying not to look like a coward.

“Cassius?”

Startled, he jumped.

Master Hallik, the stout dwarf in charge of the forge, was standing nearby, arms crossed over his broad chest. His beard glinted with morning dew, and his one missing tooth made his grin all the more intimidating.

Cass straightened quickly, cheeks warming. “Oh! Good morning, Master Hallik.”

“You’ve been peeking over the fence for some time now,” the dwarf said, his tone teasing but knowing. “What’s got you so nervous, lad?”

Cass hesitated. His hands fidgeted at the basket strap. “I… I was just… wondering if… if Toryn took the day off.” His words came out awkward, shy.

Hallik’s eyebrows lifted. “Ah.” He chuckled, a deep, hearty sound. “You’ve been worried about him, haven’t you?”

Cass blinked. “I—well, yes. I mean… he—he had a wound, and I—” He stopped. His face heated, and he swallowed hard. “I wanted to make sure he rested. That he didn’t push himself.”

The dwarf laughed again, this time more openly. “Aye, and you’ve been fretting like a mother hen, I see. Don’t worry, lad. Toryn took the day to rest. I wouldn’t let him hammer metal if it’d set him back.”

Cass exhaled slowly, relief washing over him. His shoulders relaxed slightly. “Oh… thank goodness. I… I was worried.”

“You worry a lot,” Hallik said with a gentle shake of his head. “But it’s not a bad thing. Shows he’s got someone who cares. Now, go on. Don’t loiter like a thief in the shadows. He’s fine.”

Cass gave a small, embarrassed nod, cheeks still tinged with pink. “Yes, Master Hallik.”

Once the dwarf was gone, Cass lingered a moment longer, watching the forge. The smoke curled up lazily, the rhythmic hammering paused for the morning. He imagined Toryn leaning back in his chair at the inn, muscles finally resting, scales unbothered by exertion, and something inside him lifted.

He felt lighter somehow, even as a strange, flustered warmth swirled through his chest.

He straightened his shoulders and continued with his morning rounds, but his mind kept drifting back to Toryn, to the careful touch, the teasing words, the emerald eyes that had pierced him in a way no one else ever had.

Cass’s hand brushed a loose strand of hair from his face. And for a brief moment, he allowed himself to imagine the Dragonborn smiling back at him across the forge’s fence, quietly proud, quietly watchful—and the thought made him shiver in a way that was equal parts thrill and terror.

He shook himself.

Focus.

The market square was coming to life. Stalls unfolded like blooming flowers: bright cloth awnings in moss green and faded red, tables laden with turnips, smoked meats, wool, and river fish packed in ice hauled from the northern hills. Chickens protested from wicker crates. Someone was already arguing about the price of honey.

Grovehollow was small, but it was not insignificant. Traders passed through twice a month from the river roads. Hunters supplied the outskirts. Dwarven caravans occasionally came down from the Stonehollow ridges with metalwork and news.

It was a place between worlds.

And Cass felt rooted in it.

“Morning, Cass!” called Elira Fenbrook from behind a stall piled high with apples and jars of berry preserves.

Elira’s gray hair was pulled into a tight bun, and she wore her usual expression of cheerful suspicion—as though expecting someone to attempt to swindle her at any moment.

“Good morning,” Cass replied brightly.

“You’ve the salve for my joints?”

Cass knelt immediately beside the stall, rummaging through his basket. “Of course. I added willow bark this time. It should help with the swelling.”

Elira sniffed approvingly. “You’re a blessing, boy. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

Cass flushed faintly. “You managed before me.”

“Aye,” she said dryly, handing him a small sack of dried beans in exchange. “But we prefer after.”

He smiled and tucked the beans carefully into his basket.

He moved from stall to stall after that—trading poultices for flour, tinctures for salt, dried lavender for a bundle of linen. He stopped by old Thom’s bench near the well to check the stitching on his arm where a goat had kicked him. He reassured little Brenna that her cough would ease if she drank the tea as instructed.

Cass moved through the village like a thread stitching small tears closed.

He did not notice the way some villagers watched him with quiet fondness.

He did not notice the way others watched the path beyond the trees, measuring how often a certain red-scaled figure walked it.

By midmorning, the market had grown louder.

Cass was kneeling near the apothecary stand he shared space with—though most of the goods were his—when a shadow fell across the table.

“Well now,” a familiar voice drawled. “If it isn’t Grovehollow’s gentlest miracle worker.”

Cass looked up and smiled immediately.

“Marcus!”

Marcus Vale was tall for a human, broad-shouldered, sun-browned from long hours beyond the treeline. A bow was slung across his back, a quiver at his hip. His dark hair was tied loosely at the nape of his neck, and a faint scar traced his jaw.

He smelled faintly of pine and smoke.

He also smiled at Cass in a way that lingered just slightly longer than necessary.

“What have you brought me today?” Marcus asked, leaning one elbow on the table.

Cass rummaged through his basket again. “You were out near the marsh last week. I made something for leech bites.”

Marcus chuckled. “You remember everything.”

“I try.”

Their fingers brushed as Marcus accepted the small jar.

Cass did not react beyond a polite smile.

Marcus did.

His gaze flicked briefly to Cass’s face, then to the thin braid resting over his shoulder.

“I heard you’ve been spending time with the Dragonborn,” Marcus said lightly.

Cass’s hands paused mid-motion.

“Oh. Toryn?”

“The same.” Marcus’s tone remained casual, but there was something else beneath it. “He’s been at the forge often.”

“Yes,” Cass said, a little too quickly. “He—he helps Master Hallik. He’s very capable.”

“I’m sure he is.”

Marcus straightened slightly.

“You’re not frightened of him?”

Cass blinked.

“Of Toryn?”

Marcus nodded toward the distant treeline, where the road to the forge curved out of sight. “He’s a former soldier. A sellsword. Those types don’t settle easily.”

Cass’s stomach tightened—not in agreement, but in discomfort.

“He’s been nothing but kind,” Cass said softly.

Marcus’s jaw shifted slightly.

“Kind, maybe. But men like that carry trouble. You’ve had enough of that in your life.”

The words landed harder than Marcus likely intended.

Cass’s shoulders stiffened.

“I know how to choose who I trust,” he replied gently, though there was quiet steel beneath it.

Marcus studied him.

“You trust him?”

Cass hesitated.

The answer rose immediately, unbidden.

Yes.

He swallowed.

“I believe he is trying,” Cass said instead.

Marcus exhaled slowly through his nose.

“You’re too trusting,” he said, not unkindly. “You see the best in people. Not everyone deserves that.”

Cass smiled faintly.

“Sometimes they do,” he replied. “Even if they don’t believe they do.”

Marcus’s gaze sharpened.

“You’re talking about him.”

Cass’s cheeks warmed.

“I’m talking about people,” he said quickly.

Marcus leaned in slightly.

“Just be careful,” he murmured. “You don’t need another blade in your life.”

Cass’s fingers curled around the edge of the table.

“I’m not afraid of him,” he said quietly.

Marcus studied him for a long moment.

Then he straightened, clapping a hand lightly against the stall.

“Fine. But if he gives you trouble, I’ll remind him Grovehollow had protectors before he arrived.”

Cass laughed softly, thinking it a jest.

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

Marcus’s smile did not fully reach his eyes.

“Maybe not.”

He stepped away then, blending back into the flow of villagers and traders.

Cass watched him go for only a moment before returning to his work.

He did not see the way Marcus glanced back once more toward the forge.

He did not notice the subtle tension coiling in the air like a thread pulled too tight.

Instead, Cass found his thoughts drifting—again—to a red-scaled Dragonborn who had promised to rest.

And somewhere beyond the market square, in a small room at the inn, Toryn lay still for perhaps the first time in years.

Grovehollow continued its gentle hum around them all.

Unaware of the fragile lines beginning to draw themselves between hunter and healer.

Between sword and song.

Between longing and something far more dangerous.

_

Toryn had never been good at resting.

He tried.

He truly did.

He remained in his rented room at the inn long after dawn had spilled gold across the rooftops of Grovehollow. He lay back on the narrow bed, hands folded over his abdomen, staring at the wooden beams above him.

The room felt too small.

Too still.

The forge would be awake by now. Master Hallik’s hammer striking iron. The hiss of quenched steel. The honest rhythm of work.

He exhaled sharply through his nose.

Cass had told him to rest.

The memory of it—soft but firm, those clear blue eyes unwavering—tightened something in his chest.

Someone does now.

Toryn shifted onto his side, wincing faintly as the scar pulled beneath his scales. The swelling had eased already from the salve, but it remained a reminder.

He had agreed.

He would not break that promise so quickly.

But rest did not require confinement.

By midmorning, the quiet of the room had become unbearable. He rose, pulled on his shirt carefully over broad shoulders, and secured his belt—not his sword.

He hesitated over the weapon.

Cass had said he preferred it sheathed.

Today, Toryn left it behind entirely.

He stepped into the sunlight.

The market was alive with motion. Voices layered over one another. The scent of baked bread and livestock mingled in the air. Children darted between stalls. Traders haggled.

Toryn moved through it like a flame among dry leaves—visible, impossible to ignore.

Some villagers nodded respectfully. Others gave him a wide berth. A few stared openly.

He did not mind.

He scanned the square once without meaning to.

He told himself it was habit.

He knew it was not.

He saw Cass almost immediately.

The healer stood near his usual stall, basket at his feet, golden hair loose down his back in a shining cascade. He was smiling—bright, open, unguarded.

And Marcus Vale stood far too close.

Toryn stilled.

The hunter leaned against the edge of the table, one hand braced near Cass’s hip. He was laughing at something Cass had said. Not a polite chuckle—an easy, familiar laugh.

Cass laughed too.

Oblivious.

Completely oblivious.

Toryn’s jaw tightened.

He told himself to move.

Instead, he remained rooted.

Marcus bent slightly to look at something in Cass’s basket. His shoulder brushed Cass’s arm.

Too close.

Toryn felt it then.

Not anger.

Something lower. Older.

A heat uncoiling beneath his ribs.

Dragonborn were not delicate creatures. They were forged in harsh lands, raised in rigid clans. Territory mattered. Bonds mattered. Strength mattered.

The sight before him stirred something instinctive and territorial that he despised even as it rose.

He doesn’t belong to you.

The thought struck hard and clean.

Cass was free.

Gentle.

Kind to everyone.

Marcus was merely speaking with him.

Nothing more.

And yet Toryn’s claws flexed at his sides.

He imagined stepping forward.

Imagined placing himself between them.

Imagined the subtle shift in the market as his larger frame cast shadow over the hunter.

Imagined saying nothing—only standing there, a wall of red scale and silent warning.

His pulse thudded heavier.

He hated it.

Hated the possessiveness. Hated the flare of jealousy.

He had no claim.

Marcus leaned closer again, murmuring something low enough that Toryn could not hear.

Cass tilted his head to listen.

Their proximity was unbearable.

Toryn took one step forward before he realized he had moved.

He stopped himself.

This is not who you are.

He had fought wars to master his impulses.

He would not be ruled by them now.

And yet.

The heat did not fade.

It shifted.

Turned inward.

Marcus was human. Strong. Skilled with a bow. Familiar with the village.

What was Toryn?

A sellsword with scars.

A blade.

A reminder of violence.

Cass deserved softness. Safety. Laughter without tension.

Marcus could offer that more easily.

The thought struck deeper than jealousy.

It struck at worth.

Toryn’s gaze moved over the hunter critically.

Broad shoulders, yes. Capable hands.

But he had not seen Cass kneel beside a bleeding body in the forest.

He had not heard the tremor in his voice and watched him choose courage anyway.

He had not felt those hands against his skin.

Toryn’s chest expanded slowly.

If he wished to stand beside Cass—truly beside him—then he must be more than strength.

He must be steady.

He must be safe.

Marcus’s eyes lifted suddenly.

They met Toryn’s across the market square.

The hunter did not look away.

Instead, a faint smile curved his mouth.

Subtle.

Testing.

Toryn held the gaze without blinking.

The message passed between them wordlessly.

I see you.

Marcus straightened slightly, though he did not step away from Cass.

Cass, unaware of the silent exchange, began explaining something animatedly—hands moving as he described the use of a tincture.

Marcus glanced back at Cass, then once more at Toryn.

This time, the smile lingered longer.

Toryn’s jaw clenched.

The urge to step forward sharpened.

He forced himself to breathe.

Cass laughed again—bright and warm—and the sound did something strange to Toryn’s anger.

It softened it.

Because that laugh was not false.

It was not uncomfortable.

Cass did not seem threatened.

He seemed happy.

And that mattered more than Toryn’s pride.

Slowly, deliberately, Toryn turned his gaze away.

He moved instead toward Elira’s stall, pretending interest in apples he did not intend to buy.

From the corner of his eye, he remained aware.

Marcus eventually stepped back.

The space between them widened.

Cass noticed nothing unusual.

Relief threaded through Toryn’s tension, unwelcome and undeniable.

He exhaled slowly.

If he wished to be worthy—if he wished to stand beside Cass without frightening him—then brute instinct would not suffice.

He would have to show his value differently.

Not through dominance.

Through devotion.

His mind turned, deliberate and strategic as it once had on battlefields.

What did Cass need?

Supplies for winter. Stronger shelves in the cottage where jars bowed under weight. A safer path cleared through the woods so he need not fear roots and shadows when gathering herbs.

Protection, yes—but not looming. Not suffocating.

Support.

Toryn’s shoulders eased slightly as purpose replaced jealousy.

Dragonborn instincts did not have to mean possession.

They could mean guardianship.

They could mean building.

He allowed himself one final glance toward the healer.

Cass was helping a child tie a ribbon around a jar of honey, smiling softly as he explained something with patient gentleness.

Toryn’s chest tightened again—but this time the ache was different.

He did not want to cage that light.

He wanted to deserve standing in it.

And somewhere beneath the jealousy, beneath the heat, beneath the old habits of territorial instinct, something far more dangerous unfurled fully for the first time.

Not hunger.

Not conquest.

Want.

Not to take.

To be chosen.

Toryn straightened, lifted his chin, and turned away from the market square.

If Marcus wished to test him, so be it.

Toryn had faced worse adversaries.

But this battle would not be fought with steel.

It would be fought with patience.

With restraint.

With quiet acts that proved he was more than the blade at his back.

And that, perhaps, was the most difficult fight of all.

Toryn had just finished pretending to inspect a crate of apples he had no intention of buying when he felt it—

Not danger.

Awareness.

The subtle shift in air when someone he knew stepped close. The scent of lavender, chamomile and something else that didn’t exist anywhere else in the world

He turned.

Cass was weaving through the market toward him, basket looped over one arm, golden hair catching the sunlight like spilled honey. His steps were careful but unhurried, a small smile already forming when their eyes met.

The sight struck Toryn harder than Marcus’s proximity ever had.

Blue eyes brightened.

“You came into the market,” Cass said, slightly breathless from navigating the crowd.

Toryn inclined his head. “The inn walls grew restless.”

Cass’s lips twitched. “Walls don’t grow restless.”

“These did.”

Cass laughed softly at that, and Toryn felt the lingering tension in his shoulders ease.

Then Cass’s expression shifted—gentle concern slipping into place.

“How are you?” he asked.

There it was again.

Not polite curiosity.

Care.

Toryn folded his arms loosely over his chest, mindful of the pull beneath his scar. “I am well.”

Cass narrowed his eyes slightly, not fooled.

“Did you rest?”

“Yes.”

“Truly?”

Toryn held his gaze evenly.

“Yes.”

Cass studied him with infuriating thoroughness. His eyes flicked to Toryn’s posture, to the way he stood, to the subtle way his breathing moved his ribs.

“You didn’t go to the forge?”

“No.”

Cass’s shoulders lowered a fraction in relief.

“Good,” he murmured.

The word warmed something deep in Toryn’s chest.

“You doubt my word?” he asked, though there was no heat in it.

Cass flushed faintly. “I doubt your self-restraint.”

Toryn huffed, almost amused. “You wound me.”

Cass’s gaze dropped immediately to his side. “I hope not.”

The sincerity of it made Toryn’s throat tighten.

“I kept my promise,” he said more quietly.

Cass looked back up at him.

And something softened between them.

“I’m glad,” Cass replied. “You deserve time to heal.”

Deserve.

Toryn had never once considered healing in terms of worth.

He shifted slightly, becoming aware again of the market around them—the noise, the eyes. Marcus was nowhere in immediate sight, though Toryn could feel the hunter’s presence somewhere beyond the stalls like a distant tension.

Cass followed his brief glance.

“Are you looking for someone?” he asked innocently.

Toryn hesitated only a fraction too long.

“No.”

Cass tilted his head slightly, studying him the way he studied plants before deciding how to use them.

“You seemed… tense earlier,” Cass said gently.

Toryn’s jaw tightened reflexively.

“I am always tense.”

“That isn’t true.”

Toryn blinked.

Cass stepped a little closer—not enough to draw attention, but enough that their conversation felt enclosed.

“You weren’t tense last night,” Cass said softly.

The memory flashed vivid and immediate—warm firelight, cool salve against his scales, golden hair slipping through his claws.

His pulse shifted.

“No,” Toryn admitted.

Cass smiled faintly at that.

“Then perhaps the market simply overwhelms you,” he offered kindly.

Perhaps.

Or perhaps watching another man stand too close to you does.

The thought remained unspoken.

Instead, Toryn asked, “Have you finished your trades?”

“Almost,” Cass said. “Elira insisted on giving me more apples than I could reasonably carry.”

“She does that.”

“She does,” Cass agreed, amused.

There was a brief lull.

Neither moved away.

Toryn became acutely aware of how close they stood now. Close enough to hear each other’s breathing beneath the din. Close enough to catch the faint scent of lavender clinging to Cass’s sleeves.

“You did not need to come check on me,” Toryn said quietly.

Cass blinked.

“I wasn’t—”

He stopped.

They both knew he had.

Color rose slowly along his cheeks.

“I was nearby,” Cass amended weakly.

Toryn’s mouth curved faintly.

“You were.”

Cass huffed softly, embarrassed but not retreating.

“I just wanted to make sure you weren’t overexerting yourself,” he said. “Master Hallik told me you stayed away.”

Toryn raised a brow. “You spoke to him?”

Cass’s gaze flickered downward.

“Only briefly.”

Toryn felt that strange, unfamiliar warmth again. Not possessive this time.

Cherished.

“You worry often,” he murmured.

Cass’s fingers tightened slightly around his basket strap.

“Yes.”

“About everyone?”

A pause.

“No.”

The word was small but clear.

Toryn felt it like a strike to the chest.

The market noise seemed to fade around them for a heartbeat.

Cass looked up again, meeting his eyes with quiet bravery.

“I know you can take care of yourself,” Cass said. “But that doesn’t mean you always have to.”

The statement landed deeper than any jealousy ever could.

Toryn exhaled slowly.

“I am trying,” he said.

Cass’s expression warmed immediately.

“I know.”

And in that simple exchange—no grand declarations, no dramatic gestures—something shifted again between them.

The jealousy that had burned earlier dulled into something steadier.

Not rivalry.

Resolve.

Toryn would not win Cass with dominance.

He would earn him with constancy.

“Will you walk with me?” Cass asked suddenly. “I need to deliver these to Thom before noon.”

Toryn did not hesitate.

“Yes.”

Cass smiled.

They began moving together through the market, not touching, but close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed.

And as they walked, Toryn realized something that unsettled and steadied him all at once:

Marcus might stand too close.

Others might smile too easily.

But Cass had come looking for him.

And that mattered more than any territorial instinct ever could.

They fell into step easily.

Not quite touching.

But close enough that Toryn was acutely aware of the warmth radiating from Cass’s side, of the way golden strands of hair brushed against his sleeve when the wind shifted.

The market thinned as they moved deeper into the village proper. Timbered homes lined the road, their gardens bursting with late-summer herbs and creeping vines. Chickens scratched lazily in packed dirt yards. Somewhere, a woman sang while hanging linens.

Cass paused first at old Thom’s cottage. The door creaked open before they even knocked.

“Ah,” Thom rasped, leaning heavily on his cane. “You’ve brought the dragon.”

Toryn inclined his head politely.

“I’ve brought the salve,” Cass corrected gently, stepping inside.

Toryn remained just outside the doorway, not wishing to crowd the small space. He could hear Cass’s soft voice within—patient, reassuring. The familiar cadence of care.

“You’ve been keeping it clean?”

A grumbled reply.

“That is not an answer.”

Toryn almost smiled.

When Cass reemerged, he was frowning faintly.

“He hasn’t been changing the bandage properly,” Cass murmured as they resumed walking. “I told him to.”

“He likely believes himself invincible,” Toryn said dryly.

Cass gave him a look. “No one is invincible.”

The words carried weight.

Toryn felt them settle somewhere deep.

They stopped next at a low stone cottage near the edge of the village. A young mother answered, a tired infant balanced against her shoulder.

Cass’s entire demeanor shifted.

He softened further, if such a thing was possible. His voice lowered. His movements gentled.

Toryn watched from the gate as Cass examined the child with careful hands, brushing a curl from the infant’s forehead, murmuring quiet reassurance to the mother.

Something inside Toryn tightened painfully.

Not jealousy this time.

Wonder.

Cass did not treat people as tasks.

He treated them as treasures.

When they left, the mother called after them, “We’re lucky to have you, Cass!”

Cass ducked his head modestly.

Toryn walked in silence for a few steps.

“You are good at what you do,” he said at last.

Cass blinked at him, surprised. “Oh.”

“You see what others miss,” Toryn continued. “You do not rush.”

A faint pink touched Cass’s cheeks.

“I just… listen.”

“Yes,” Toryn said quietly. “You do.”

They reached the far end of the village where the dirt road thinned into the forest path leading toward Cass’s cottage.

The sounds of Grovehollow faded behind them.

Wind stirred through the trees.

Cass adjusted his basket, now much lighter.

“You don’t have to walk me further,” he said gently. “I know the path.”

Toryn’s jaw shifted.

He knew Cass knew it.

He also knew the forest did not always remain kind.

“I would,” Toryn said carefully, “like to.”

Cass paused.

Blue eyes searched his face.

“For protection?” Cass asked softly.

Toryn considered the question.

Not entirely.

“Yes,” he admitted. “And because I enjoy your company.”

Cass’s breath caught almost imperceptibly.

“Oh.”

The path narrowed as they entered the trees. Dappled sunlight filtered through leaves overhead, painting shifting patterns across Toryn’s scales.

They walked more slowly here.

More aware.

Toryn kept his senses alert out of habit, scanning for movement, listening for anything unnatural in the underbrush. But beneath that vigilance was something else—a quiet contentment in simply matching his stride to Cass’s smaller one.

“You do not need guarding at every step,” Cass said after a moment.

“I know.”

“But you wish to anyway?”

“Yes.”

Cass was quiet for a long stretch.

Toryn felt the weight of his own words. He had not meant them to sound possessive. He did not want to frighten him.

“I do not see you as fragile,” Toryn added, voice lower now. “You are braver than you believe.”

Cass stopped walking.

Toryn halted immediately.

Cass turned to face him fully on the narrow path, golden hair catching in a stray beam of sunlight.

“You think so?” he asked quietly.

“I know so.”

The forest seemed to hold its breath.

Cass studied him the way he always did when searching for truth.

He must have found it.

Because his shoulders relaxed.

“Then you may walk me home,” Cass said softly.

The permission felt far heavier than the request.

They resumed walking.

Closer now.

Not touching.

But aware.

Toryn’s thoughts shifted as they moved. The jealousy from earlier had not vanished entirely—it lingered like a coal beneath ash—but it no longer consumed him.

Instead, a different instinct unfurled.

If he wished to remain in Cass’s life, he would need to do more than stand nearby.

He would need to prove himself steady.

Reliable.

Safe.

He glanced down at the healer beside him, at the loose strands of hair brushing his waist, at the thoughtful crease between his brows when he grew quiet.

Toryn’s chest expanded slowly.

He did not want to claim him.

He wanted to be chosen.

And as Cass’s cottage came into view between the trees, lantern unlit in daylight, smoke faint from the chimney, Toryn understood something that made his pulse shift once more—

Walking him home felt less like escorting someone fragile.

And more like walking toward something he had never allowed himself before.

A place where he might one day belong.