Shots ring out. Quick. Loud. Too close.
Cassian’s already tangled with the next one, their bodies locked in this vicious, vicious rhythm of fists and claws and blood. One of the mercs makes the mistake of trying to flank him, but Cassian twists, grabs the guy by the front of his coat, and throws him like he weighs nothing, like he's paper in a storm.
And I see it. His eyes.
Golden.
Not just light-catching or reflective, but lit from within, burning with something wild and ancient and not quite human. The edges of his face shift, just barely, like his bones want to push through the skin and remind everyone here that he’s not one of them.
He’s more.
The last merc tries to run, turning tail like he’s seen enough, but Cassian’s there in an instant, a blur of motion. He doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t have to. He steps in close, and the man falls backward into the snow, hands up, weapon forgotten.
Cassian stands over him, breathing heavy, fists clenched, and his whole body vibrating with the force of holding something back. His jaw’s locked, veins taut in his neck, and his teeth—God, they’re sharper now. Longer. Like the bear’s trying to claw its way to the surface.
But then he stops.
Just stops.
He takes a step back. Breathes in hard. And lets it go.
The merc scrambles to his feet and runs, slipping and falling twice before disappearing behind the ridge, not daring to look back.
Cassian stays still, chest heaving, shoulders trembling like he’s just barely on the edge of losing everything.
I crawl out from behind the sled and push myself up, boots slipping on the ice as I run to him.
“Hey,” I say, grabbing his arm. “Cassian. Look at me.”
He doesn’t.
“Cassian. Please.”
He turns, finally, and those gold-flecked eyes lock on mine. There’s sweat beading on his brow despite the cold, and the color’s already draining from his irises, fading back to that pale storm-gray that’s somehow always felt like home to me.
He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out.
I don’t care.
I grab the front of his coat and yank him down with all the force I’ve got, which, to be fair, isn’t much compared to him. But he lets me.
We fall together into the snowbank beside the trail, tangled and breathless and pressed close enough that I can feel his heart pounding through every layer between us.
He doesn’t move. Neither do I.
The wind howls over the ridge, the dogs bark behind us, but for a long moment, it’s just us. Just the sound of his breath against mine and the slow, steady fade of the golden light in his eyes.
“You stopped,” I whisper. “You could’ve torn them apart. But you didn’t.”
His voice is rough, ragged. “I almost did.”
“But you didn’t,” I say again, firmer now. “You chose to stop.”
He swallows hard, eyes closing like he’s ashamed of that, like holding back is something to hide instead of something to be proud of.
I lean in and press my forehead to his. “That means something. You’re not what they think you are. You’re stronger than it. You’re stronger than your fear.”
His hands are still clenched, but they’re not shaking anymore. I slide mine over his, fingers fitting between his knuckles, scarred and calloused and real.
