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Nesta hears the front door open with more force than necessary. There’s a loud bang against the wall, followed by the telltale sounds of Cassian trying, and failing, to be quiet. His keys clatter against the entry table with a sound like wind chimes in a hurricane. Something thuds against the wall. There’s a curse, a pause, and a stage-whispered “I’m okay!” that echoes through their apartment.
She doesn’t look up from her book, though her lips twitch with amusement. She’s curled up in the corner of their oversized sectional—the one Cassian insisted they needed because “what if we want to have like, ten people over, Nes?”—with the good reading lamp casting warm, soft light over the pages. Her wine glass sits nearly empty on the side table, condensation pooling at its base. It’s long past midnight, and she’s been contentedly lost in her novel for the past two hours, waiting for her husband to stumble home with that specific brand of drunk enthusiasm that makes him even more sappy than usual.
“Nesta!” Cassian’s voice carries from the hallway. “Nes, you awake? It’s me! Your husband!”
“I’m aware of who you are,” she calls back, turning a page.
“Oh good, you are!” he replies, bright and delighted, like he’s surprised to find her in their own home. He appears in the doorway to the living room with his arms spread wide like he’s expecting a standing ovation, his grin so bright it could power their entire building. His hair has fallen out of the bun he’d left in, dark strands tumbling past his shoulders in complete disarray. His shirt is untucked on one side, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and there’s a sticker on his chest that says “HELLO MY NAME IS” with “SEXY” written in Rhys’s distinctive scrawl. “I missed you!”
“I can imagine. You’ve been gone for four hours.”
“Four hours too long!” He starts making his way around the couch with the exaggeratedly careful steps of someone who’s very aware they’re drunk and trying very hard to appear sober. “That’s like, what, two hundred and forty minutes? Without seeing your beautiful face?”
“Your math skills are still functional, I see.”
“I’m a teacher, baby. I’m always functional.” He trips slightly over nothing, catches himself on the back of the couch, and holds up both hands triumphantly. “See? Super functional, and extremely graceful, might I add.”
“You’re a disaster.”
“I’m your disaster.” He finally reaches the couch and drops beside her with all the grace of a golden retriever jumping into a lake—enthusiastic but lacking in any sense of self-control or spatial awareness. The cushions bounce violently, jostling her and nearly launching her book into the air. He immediately sprawls out, propping her legs over his thighs, one arm flopping over the back of the couch, twirling a loose strand of her hair around his finger. “Did you miss me? You can tell me, I won’t judge.”
Nesta adjusts her reading glasses with one finger and returns to her book, fighting back a smile. “I was beside myself with grief.”
“I knew it!” He shifts closer, full of energy despite the late hour and his inebriated state. “I bet you were all like, ‘where is my beautiful husband? Where is the love of my life? Where is that absolute specimen of a man I married?’”
“Those were my exact thoughts, word for word.”
“That’s what I thought.” He’s trying to peer at her book now, squinting adorably. “Whatcha reading?”
“A book.”
“Wow, thanks. That’s so helpful. Really narrows it down.” He leans even closer, his shoulder pressing against hers, his warmth seeping into her side. He smells like whiskey and cologne and something underneath that’s just him, familiar and comforting. “Is it a good book? Is it a sexy book? Are there sexy people doing sexy things?”
“It’s a romance novel.”
His eyes light up like she’s just told him it’s Christmas. “Ooh, is it smut? Please tell me it’s smut. I love when you read smut. You get this little crease between your eyebrows when it gets really good, like you’re concentrating really hard—”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do! It’s adorable. You’re like, ‘hmm, yes, these fictional people are doing very interesting things to each other, I must pay attention for educational purposes.’” He’s grinning at her now, that wide, unguarded smile that still makes her heart do stupid acrobatic things even after five years of marriage. “So what kind of smut are we talking? Billionaire? Cowboy? Alien?”
“Pirates.”
Cassian gasps, loud and dramatic, pressing both hands to his chest. “PIRATES? Nes! You didn’t tell me we were having a pirate night! I would have worn my eyepatch.”
“You don’t have an eyepatch.”
“I could get an eyepatch. I’d look great in an eyepatch. Very roguish. Very swashbuckling.” He’s still squinting at her book, trying to make out the cover she has partially hidden against her bent knees. “Are they hot pirates? What am I saying, of course they’re hot pirates. You don’t read about ugly pirates.”
“There are no ugly pirates in romance novels. It’s a rule.”
“That’s a good rule if I ever heard one. An important rule.” He settles back against the cushions, draping himself against her side like an oversized, heavily muscled cat who doesn’t understand the concept of personal space. “So tell me about the hot pirates. I want details. Leave nothing out.”
“You want me to explain the plot of my romance novel to you?”
“Yes! Obviously! I’m invested now.” He pokes her side gently. “Come on, Nes. Share with the class. What are the sexy pirates doing?”
She sighs, but she’s fighting back a smile, and they both know she’s going to tell him anyway. “The main character is the daughter of a naval officer. She’s on a ship heading to meet her arranged fiancé—”
“Boooo. Already hate him. Hope he gets scurvy.”
“You don’t even know anything about him.”
“Don’t need to. He’s in an arranged marriage in a romance novel. I know how these things work. He’s probably boring and respectable and has no sense of adventure.” Cassian waves his hand dismissively. “Unlike the pirates. They have excellent sense of adventure. What happens next?”
“Pirates attack the ship.”
“Yes! That’s more like it!”
“And the pirate captain takes her captive.”
Cassian clutches his chest again. “Oh no. Oh no, she’s been captured by a devilishly handsome pirate captain who’s probably all mysterious and brooding and has really good arms full of meaningful tattoos. What a tragedy. What a terrible, terrible tragedy that she has to spend all this time on a ship with him.”
“Are you done?”
“Not even close. Keep going.” He’s basically vibrating with enthusiasm now, his eyes bright and focused on her face like she’s telling him the most interesting story in the world.
“It turns out they have a history. They knew each other as children before he became a pirate.”
“What?!” Cassian bolts upright, nearly headbutting her in his excitement. “They have a history? Childhood connection? Star-crossed lovers? Oh my god, Nes, that’s incredible. That’s a top-tier setup. A-plus plotting right there.”
“I’ll be sure to tell the author you approve.”
“Please do. I have so many thoughts.” He’s gesturing wildly now, his hands painting pictures in the air. “So she’s supposed to hate him because he’s a pirate and he kidnapped her and probably her dad has been hunting him for years, but she can’t hate him because she remembers the boy he used to be, and he’s trying to be all honorable and keep his distance but he’s also completely in love with her and has been for years, and they’re stuck on a ship together—how long are they on the ship together?”
“A few weeks.”
“WEEKS. Oh, they’re doomed. That’s—the tension must be incredible. The yearning!” He flops back against the couch dramatically. “I bet he’s all ‘I can’t touch you, I’m a pirate, I’m not good enough for you’ and she’s all ‘but I don’t care about that, I can’t stand to go another day without your hands on me’ and there’s probably a scene in the rain—is there a scene in the rain?”
“There’s a storm at sea.”
“Even better!” He grabs her arm, shaking it enthusiastically. “Nes. Nes, this is so good. What happens? Are they about to kiss? Please tell me they’re about to kiss. Or more than kiss. Are they about to do pirate sex?”
“I’m not giving you spoilers.”
“Why not? I’m your husband! We share everything. In sickness and in health.” He pauses, thinking hard. “I need this for my health.”
Nesta sets her book down on the arm of the couch, turning to look at him properly. His hair is a complete disaster, falling around his face in messy waves. The name tag sticker is slowly peeling off his shirt. His grin is lopsided and beautiful and so utterly sincere it makes her chest ache. “You’re definitely drunk.”
“I’m the perfect amount of buzzed, baby,” he insists, reaching out to boop her nose with his finger. She wrinkles it at him, and his grin somehow gets even wider. “Drunk enough to be extra honest but not drunk enough to forget this tomorrow. It’s a sweet spot. A golden zone. I’m the Goldilocks of drunk.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now. I just coined it. I’m creative like that.” He’s still looking at her with those warm hazel eyes, and there’s so much affection in them she can barely stand it. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re beautiful?”
“You have. Approximately ten thousand times.”
“Yeah, but that’s not enough. You need to hear it at least ten thousand times more. Starting now.” He holds up one finger. “You’re beautiful.”
“Cassian—”
“Shh, I’m not done.” He holds up a second finger. “You’re gorgeous.”
“Stop—”
A third finger. “You’re stunning.”
“I get it—”
A fourth finger. “You’re radiant. You’re luminous. You’re—” He pauses, thinking hard. “What’s another word for pretty? Resplendent! You’re resplendent.”
“Did you just call me ‘resplendent’?”
“I did! I’m very smart. And drunk. Mostly drunk. But also smart.” He’s looks like he’s just won a prize. “And you’re resplendent. Especially in those glasses. Have I mentioned the glasses?”
“Not yet, but I’m sure you’re about to.”
“Damn right I am. Nes. Nesta. Sweetheart. Love of my life.” He takes her face in both hands, his palms warm and slightly rough and so familiar she could map them in the dark. “You look like a hot librarian in those glasses. Like, a really hot librarian. The kind that makes people get library cards just so they have an excuse to talk to you.”
She can feel her cheeks warming despite herself. After seven years together, and five years of marriage, he can still make her blush like a teenager with the most random observations. “You’ve told me this before.”
“Yeah, but I need to tell you again because sometimes I don’t think you really get how hot you are. It’s a problem and it needs to be addressed.” He’s very serious now, or as serious as a drunk person can be. “You’re sitting here in my old college t-shirt and those little sleep shorts that make your ass look amazing, and your glasses, reading about sexy pirates, and you’re just—you’re everything, Nes. You’re the whole package. The complete deal.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Don’t mock my honesty, you little witch.” He leans in closer, his nose almost touching hers. “Do you know what I was thinking about tonight?”
“How to annoy me when you got home?”
“Besides that. Although that’s always a priority.” He smirks. “I was thinking about how Rhys was all mopey because Feyre’s been gone for two whole days—”
“The horror.”
“Right? And he was like, ‘I miss her so much, what if she forgets about me, what if she realizes she’s more interested in art than me’—which, buddy, she’s at an art workshop, of course she’s thinking about art more than you. That’s the point.” He’s waving his hands around again, almost hitting her in the face before she catches his wrist. “And then Az was checking his phone like every five minutes because there’s a girl from his yoga class and she finally texted him back—”
“Wait, Az takes yoga?”
“That’s what you focus on? Nes, he’s talking to a girl. Apparently he’s been going to the same class for six months. Six months, Nes. For a girl. We had no idea. He must be so flexible now. It’s weird.” He shakes his head like he’s trying to clear the image. “Anyway, my point is—and I do have a point, I promise—my point is that I got to come home to you.”
Something warm unfurls in Nesta’s chest, the way it always does when he shifts from playful to sincere in a heartbeat. “Cass—”
“No, wait, let me finish. This is important.” He’s back to holding her face. “I was out with my best friends, having a great time, drinking expensive whiskey and eating those fancy little nuts they give you—the ones with the truffle salt? So good—and the whole time, the whole time, I was just thinking about coming home to you. To this. You reading your book in my shirt with your glasses on, probably judging people on the internet—”
“I don’t judge people online.”
“You absolutely do. You do your little commentary thing, and you get that look on your face—”
“What look?”
“The look that says ‘I’m smarter than everyone on the internet and I’m judging them, but also I’m enjoying myself.’” He’s grinning again. “It’s a very specific look. I love that look.”
“You’re making that up.”
“I’m not! I catalogue all your looks. I have a whole system.” He starts counting on his fingers. “There’s the ‘I’m reading smut’ look, which we already discussed, the ‘I’m judging people online’ look, the ‘Cassian is being an idiot but I love him anyway’ look—that one’s my favorite, by the way—the ‘I’m about to destroy someone in an argument’ look, which is scary but also hot—”
“Cassian.”
“—the ‘I’m trying not to laugh at Cassian’s joke but it’s really funny’ look, the ‘I’m pretending I don’t want to cuddle but I definitely do’ look—”
“I don’t have that many looks.”
“You have so many looks. You’re very expressive. It’s one of my favorite things about you.” He boops her nose again, just because he can. “Right up there with your excellent taste in books and your skills at organization and the way you steal all the covers at night.”
“I don’t steal the covers.”
“Baby. Sweetheart. Light of my life. You steal the covers every single night. You cocoon yourself. You become a burrito. A very beautiful, very selfish burrito.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is absolutely true! Last week I woke up at three in the morning completely uncovered, freezing my ass off, and you were wrapped up like a mummy. A cozy mummy. I had to pry the comforter out of your death grip.”
Nesta tries to maintain her composure, but she can feel the smile tugging at her lips. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not exaggerating even a little bit. You’re a cover thief. A blanket bandit. A duvet stealer.” He’s grinning at her, delighted with himself. “But I love you anyway, because I’m a very understanding husband. A saint, really. They should make me husband of the year.”
“You’re husband of the year because you tolerate me stealing covers?”
“No, I’m husband of the year because I tolerate you stealing covers and I still think you’re perfect. That’s advanced level husbanding right there.” He shifts on the couch, trying to get more comfortable, and somehow ends up even more draped across her than before. “Also I make you coffee in the morning.”
“You make yourself coffee in the morning and occasionally remember to make me a cup too.”
“See? Occasionally. That’s at least, what, fifteen percent of the time? That’s a good percentage.”
“Your math is getting worse.”
“That’s because all my brain power is being used to think about how pretty you are.” He says it so matter-of-factly, like it’s obvious, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Did I mention you look hot in that shirt?”
“In passing. You discussed the glasses. You haven’t gotten to the shirt yet.”
“Oh good, I’m pacing myself. That’s good strategy.” He tugs lightly at the hem of the shirt, the fabric soft and worn from years of washing. “This was my favorite shirt, you know. Back in school. I wore it to every exam. It was my lucky shirt.”
“I know. You’ve told me.”
“But now it’s your lucky shirt because you look incredible in it and also because you’re my wife and everything you touch becomes better by association.” He’s very pleased with this logic. “It’s science.”
“That’s not science.”
“It’s my science. It’s very advanced, you wouldn’t understand.” He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes tracing over her face, and then he stage-whispers, “Can I tell you a secret?”
“I feel like you’ve told me several secrets already tonight.”
“This one’s different. This one’s important.” He leans in close, like he’s about to share classified information. “Your boobs look really good right now.”
“Cassian!”
“What? They do!” He’s not even remotely embarrassed, just smiling at her like he’s said something perfectly reasonable. “They always look good, but right now they look especially good. It’s worth noting. It’s worth celebrating.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Impossibly observant. Impossibly appreciative.” He pokes gently at her side. “Can’t a man compliment his wife’s excellent boobs? Is that illegal now? Did they make that illegal while I was out?”
“Most people don’t announce it like it’s a state secret.”
“Most people aren’t married to you, so they wouldn’t understand anyway.” He says this with complete sincerity, like it’s a perfectly logical argument. “I’m just being thorough. You have beautiful boobs, Nes. Top tier boobs. Award-winning boobs.”
“Award-winning.”
“Yeah! If there were boob awards—and honestly, why aren’t there boob awards?—you’d win. First place. Gold medal. Standing ovation.”
Nesta is trying very hard not to laugh, her lips pressed together, but she can feel the giggles building in her chest. “You’re acting like a madman.”
“I’m appreciative!” He’s gesturing enthusiastically, nearly smacking her in the face again. “I’m like an art critic, but for my wife. I see beauty, I acknowledge beauty, I celebrate beauty. It’s very sophisticated.”
“You’re a sophisticated art critic.”
“Exactly! Thank you for understanding.” He shifts closer, his hand finding hers and lacing their fingers together. “And as a sophisticated art critic, I need to tell you that everything about you is beautiful. Your boobs, your face, your brain, your personality, the way you organize our books by genre and author and probability of reading—”
“It’s the only logical system.”
“It’s genius. That’s what it is. You’re a genius.” He brings her hand up to press kisses to her knuckles, one by one, his lips soft and warm. “A beautiful genius with excellent boobs who married a drunk idiot who can’t stop talking about said boobs.”
“You’re not an idiot.”
“That’s generous, sweetheart, but I’m definitely an idiot. I’m your idiot.” He grins at her, bright and unguarded. “Best decision I ever made, getting you to marry me.”
“I seem to remember asking you.”
“Okay, best decision you ever made was asking me. Second best decision I ever made was saying yes.” He pauses. “Wait, no. Best decision I ever made was saying yes. Second best was definitely convincing you to get this couch. This couch is great. We’re having a great time on this couch right now.”
“You’re having a great time. I’m being held hostage.”
“But it’s best kind of hostage situation. The kind with cuddles.” He shifts again, somehow managing to take up even more space, his head dropping to her shoulder. “Okay, but real talk for a second.”
“As opposed to all the fake talk we’ve been having?”
“Exactly. This is serious now.” He pulls back enough to look at her, and there’s that shift again, from playful to sincere, his eyes soft. “You know I love you, right? Like, so much. An embarrassing amount. The guys made fun of me tonight because I kept talking about you.”
“You talked about me?”
“Of course I talked about you! You’re my favorite topic!” He says this like it’s obvious. “Rhys was like, ‘Cassian, we get it, your wife is perfect’ and Az was like, ‘you’ve told us this story three times’ but I don’t care because it’s true. You are perfect, and the story was funny all three times.”
“What story?”
“The one about how you reorganized my entire closet by season and color and outfit type, and then you made me a little guide on how to use the system, because you said, and I quote, ‘If I have to watch you put together one more terrible outfit, Cassian, I’m going to file for divorce.’”
Nesta feels her cheeks heating. “You have terrible fashion sense.”
“I know. That’s why I need you. You’re like my own personal stylist. My own personal everything.” He’s smiling at her so softly now, his thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand. “Do you know what Rhys said after I told that story?”
“What?”
“He said, ‘you’re so gone for her, man’ and I was like, ‘yeah, obviously, have you met my wife? She’s incredible.’” He pauses. “And then Az said, ‘you say that every time’ and I said, ‘that’s because it’s true every time.’”
“You’re being sappy.”
“I’m being honest. I’m an honest drunk. Everyone knows this.” He leans in, pressing his forehead to hers. “I just… I love you so much, Nes. Sometimes I can’t believe I get to be married to you. Like, five years ago we got married, and I thought—I thought I understood how much I loved you then, but it just keeps getting bigger. It keeps growing. It’s like it doesn’t fit inside my chest anymore.”
“Cassian,” she whispers, her throat tight.
“I’m serious. I wake up every morning and you’re there, hogging all the covers and drooling on your pillow—”
“I don’t drool—”
“—and I think, ‘wow, I get to spend today with my best friend.’ And then I come home from work and you’re usually doing something completely normal and I think, ‘wow, I get to spend tonight with my best friend too.’ And then we go to bed and you steal all the covers and kick me in your sleep—”
“I don’t kick you—”
“—and I think, ‘wow, I get to wake up tomorrow and do this all over again with my best friend.’” He pulls back slightly to look at her properly. “You’re my best friend, Nes. You’re my favorite person. You’re my favorite everything.”
Nesta feels her eyes starting to sting. “You’re going to make me cry.”
“Don’t cry! Unless they’re happy tears. Happy tears are okay. Happy tears are encouraged.” He cups her face with both hands, his thumbs gentle against her cheeks. “Are they happy tears, baby?”
“They’re ‘my husband is drunk and sappy and I love him’ tears.”
“Oh good. Those are the best kind.” He brushes a stray tear from her cheek, and then his expression turns thoughtful. “You know what else I love about you?”
“I feel like you’re going to tell me.”
“I am. I have a long list of things. We might be here for a while.” He shifts on the couch, getting comfortable like he’s settling in for a presentation. “Okay, so first: the way you hum when you’re concentrating on something. You probably don’t even know you do it, but you do, and it’s adorable.”
“I don’t hum.”
“You absolutely do. It’s very domestic. Makes me want to marry you all over again.” He holds up a second finger. “Second: the way you always have to try my food when we go to restaurants, even though you say you don’t want to share.”
“That’s different. Your food always looks better.”
“It doesn’t. You just have food FOMO, which is adorable.” Third finger. “Third: the way you pretend you don’t like it when I cuddle you, but then you get all cozy and happy and you let out this little satisfied sigh—”
“I do not—”
“You do. It’s the best sound in the world. I live for that sound.” Fourth finger. “Fourth: the way you leave little notes for me sometimes. In my lunch box, or on the bathroom mirror, or in my briefcase. Those little ‘have a good day’ notes. They make my whole day better.”
Nesta’s cheeks are definitely burning now. “If you ever tell people about those, I’m never writing you one ever again.”
“Why not? They’re cute! You’re cute! I want everyone to know how cute my wife is!” He’s grinning at her, unrepentant. “Fifth: the way you always give me the last bite of dessert, even though I know you want it.”
“You enjoy it more.”
“That’s exactly my point. You do nice things for me because you want me to be happy. That’s like, the definition of love.” He’s up to his whole hand now, wiggling all five fingers at her. “Sixth: the way you always make sure I have my phone and wallet before we leave the house because you know I’ll forget them otherwise.”
“Someone has to be responsible.”
“And thank god it’s you, because I would lose everything if you weren’t here to save me from myself.”
He’s quiet for a moment, looking at her with such open adoration it makes her want to cry again. “Should I keep going? Because I can keep going. I have at least thirty more things on the list.”
“You have a list of thirty things you love about me?”
“Thirty minimum. I’m always adding to it. It’s a living document. Last week I added ‘the way she organized the Tupperware cabinet’ because that was magical. How did you even do that? They all fit now. There’s space. SPACE, Nes. In the Tupperware cabinet.”
Nesta laughs, the kind that shakes her shoulders and makes her eyes water. “You’re proud of me for organizing Tupperware?”
“I’m proud of you for everything. The Tupperware is just the most recent thing.” He’s beaming at making her laugh, looking like he’s just won the lottery. “But yes, I’m extremely proud of you, always. You’re always my hero. Every day. Just by being you.”
Nesta has to look away for a moment, blinking rapidly. “You’re going to make me actually cry again, you stupid man.”
“Sorry. Not sorry. You deserve to know how amazing you are.” He shifts closer, wrapping both arms around her waist and pulling her against his chest. “Can I tell you one more secret?”
“How many secrets do you have?”
“So many. Infinite secrets.” He drops his voice to a stage whisper. “Sometimes I just want to bury my face between your boobs and live there forever. Just… make it my permanent residence. Set up a little house. Get a mailbox. The whole thing.”
And just like that, the moment shifts from tender back to ridiculous, and Nesta bursts out laughing, the kind that makes her stomach hurt. “You want to live between my boobs?”
“Yeah! It seems nice. Cozy. Good location. Excellent views.” He’s grinning at her, unashamed. “So can I? Can I retire there?”
“You’re insane.”
“That’s not a no.” He’s already moving, burrowing against her chest with the enthusiasm of a puppy finding its favorite blanket. His arms wrap tight around her waist, his face pressed against her, and he lets out the most contented sigh she’s ever heard. “Oh yeah. This is it. This is the dream. I’m never moving.”
“You have to move eventually. We can’t sleep on the couch.”
“Watch me. This is my life now. Tell my boss I’m retired. Tell Rhys he can have my Knicks tickets. Tell Az he can have my record collection. I’ve found my calling.”
“Cass—”
“Shh, don’t ruin it.” His voice is muffled against her shirt, but she can hear the smile in it. “This is the best place in the world. It’s warm and cozy and it smells like you and also there are boobs. What more could a man want?”
“Most men want things like money and success and—”
“Boring. All boring. This is better than all of that.” He presses a kiss to her collarbone through the shirt. “You’re better than all of that.”
Nesta shakes her head, but she’s already running her fingers through his hair, the dark strands soft and silky between her fingers. She scratches lightly at his scalp the way she knows he likes, and feels him practically melt against her. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously in love with you,” he mumbles. “Ridiculously lucky. Ridiculously happy right now.”
“You’re also going to wake up with a crick in your neck.”
“Worth it.”
“And a headache.”
“Also worth it.”
“And you’re going to complain about both of those things tomorrow morning while I make you drink three glasses of water and take ibuprofen.”
“Probably true, but future Cassian’s problem.” He nuzzles closer somehow, like he’s trying to physically merge with her. “Current Cassian is living his best life.”
“Current Cassian is also going to wake up on this couch alone if he doesn’t let me up in the next five minutes so we can go to bed properly.”
He groans dramatically but doesn’t loosen his grip. “You’re so mean to me. I come home, I tell you you’re beautiful, I compliment your boobs—”
“Multiple times.”
“—multiple times, with very thorough compliments, and this is how you repay me? With threats?”
“I prefer to think of them as promises.”
“Even worse!” But he’s laughing again, and finally he loosens his hold enough to look up at her. His hair is completely disheveled now, his eyes bright despite the alcohol, and he’s smiling at her like she’s the best thing he’s ever seen. “Okay. Compromise. Five more minutes here, then we go to bed, and you let me cuddle you all night.”
“You cuddle me all night anyway. That’s not a compromise, that’s just what happens.”
“See? We’re so compatible. We complete each other.” He drops his head back to her chest. His hands slip beneath her shirt and spread wide against her bare back, warm and gentle. “God, you’re so soft. How are you this soft? What’s your secret?”
“Lotion.”
“That’s it? Just lotion? There’s gotta be more. This is witchcraft. You’re a witch.”
“You’ve figured it out. My secret is that I’m a witch who uses magical lotion.”
“Knew it.” His palms slide along her ribs, gentle and slow. One hand splays across her stomach, his thumb stroking back and forth in a soothing rhythm. The other traces up her side, and then he pauses, his fingers skimming the outer curve of her breast.
He makes a sound—half sigh, half reverent groan. “You’re not wearing a bra.”
“I was reading at home. Why would I wear a bra?”
“You’re going to kill me. This is it. This is how I die. Happy and blessed and touching my wife’s perfect—” His hand cups her breast fully now, his thumb brushing over her skin with such tenderness it makes her breath catch. “God, you’re so soft. So perfect.”
“Cassian—”
“Shh, I’m having a moment.” His other hand slides from her stomach down to her hip, and with a mischievous confidence, slips up the leg of her sleep shorts to cup her ass, skin to skin. “Oh, this is even better. This is the best. I take it back, this is how I die.”
“You better not,” she says, but there’s no heat in it. She’s trying not to smile, trying not to show how much she loves this—his hands on her, his genuine delight in just touching her.
“How do you expect me to function when you feel like this, Nes?” He kneads her ass gently while his other hand traces slow, tantalizing circles around her breast. “You’re impossibly soft. Everywhere. Just... so soft and perfect and warm.” He nuzzles closer, and she can feel his smile against her. “And you smell so good. Like… honey and vanilla and something that’s just you. It’s my favorite smell in the world.”
“It’s just body wash,” she says, trying to sound dismissive, but her voice comes out softer than she intends.
“No.” He says it firmly, his hands still moving in those gentle, reverent patterns. “It’s not just body wash. It’s you. You always smell like this, even without the body wash. It’s like… comfort and home and everything good.” His hand on her breast moves to cup the side of it, his thumb still stroking her skin
He’s quiet for a moment, his breathing starting to even out.
“Cass, don’t fall asleep, love.”
“Not falling asleep.”
He tilts his head up to look at her, his eyes soft and earnest. “You smell like safety. Like love. Like everything I’ve ever wanted.”
She opens her mouth to respond, to deflect, to dismiss, to tell him he’s being ridiculous again, but he shifts upward slightly, his nose finding hers. He nuzzles against it, gentle and sweet, rubbing their noses together like they’re the only two people in the world.
“Hi,” he whispers, his breath warm against her lips.
“Hi,” she whispers back, and she can’t help the smile that spreads across her face.
“You’re pretty up close too. Like, really pretty. Have I mentioned that?”
“Once or twice tonight.”
“Not enough.” He nuzzles her nose again, his eyes crinkling with his smile. “I should tell you every day. Every hour. Every minute.”
“That would get annoying very quickly.”
“You say that, but you’re smiling.” He rubs his nose against hers one more time, then presses a soft kiss to the tip of it. “Got you to smile. Mission accomplished.”
“You’re such a dork.”
“Your dork,” he corrects, settling back down against her chest, his chin resting on her chest. “Hey, Nes?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for being my wife. Like, genuinely. Thanks for marrying me and putting up with me and loving me even though I’m a mess who can’t remember where I put my wallet and who comes home drunk and talks about your boobs too much.”
She cups his face in one hand, tracing the slope of his nose with a finger. “You’re not a mess.”
“I’m definitely a mess, but I’m a mess who loves you.” He turns his head to press a kiss to her palm.
“My favorite,” she says softly, and watches his face light up.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She leans down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Now come on. Let’s go to bed before you actually fall asleep here and I have to leave you.”
“You wouldn’t leave me. You love me too much. You’d probably get a blanket and a pillow and tuck me in all sweet.”
“I’d take a picture and send it to Rhys and Az first.”
“That’s fair. I’d do the same.” He sits up reluctantly, groaning slightly. “Okay, but you have to help me up. My legs don’t work anymore. Too much sitting. Too much whiskey. Too much love in my heart weighing me down.”
“You’re a big baby.”
“Come on, wife. Take me to bed.”
“So romantic.”
“I’m a romantic guy. Everyone says so.”
He holds out both hands to her, making grabby motions. “Help me, sweetheart. I’m helpless without you.”
She rolls her eyes but takes his hands, pulling him up. He immediately wraps his arms around her waist, using her as a crutch even though she knows he doesn’t really need to. “You’re not helpless.”
“I’m helpless without you.” He starts steering them toward the bedroom, his coordination improved by having her to hold onto. It’s an added perk that he has an excuse to keep touching her. “Tomorrow I’m making you breakfast.”
“You’re going to be hungover.”
“Doesn’t matter. You deserve breakfast. The fancy kind. With the chocolate chip pancakes and the good bacon and fresh fruit cut up all pretty.” He says this with complete sincerity, like it’s already decided. “And coffee. So much coffee. I’m going to make you so much coffee.”
“You’re going to need the coffee more than me.”
“I’ll make us both coffee and we can be cozy together.” He stops in the hallway, turning to face her with sudden intensity. “Nes. Nesta. Love of my life. My sun and stars. Moon of my life—”
“Are you quoting Game of Thrones to me?”
“—I just want you to know that you deserve everything good. Everything. You deserve breakfast in bed and foot rubs and someone who tells you you’re beautiful every single day and makes sure you never have to deal with the Tupperware cabinet alone ever again.”
“Cassian—”
“And I want to be that someone. I’m going to be that someone for the rest of our lives. I’m going to make you breakfast and tell you you’re beautiful and organize Tupperware with you, even though it’s scary and confusing, because that’s what you do when you love someone. You show up. You appreciate them. You compliment their boobs.”
“That last one is specific to you.”
“Don’t pretend you don’t love it, sweetheart” He’s grinning again, that beautiful, open smile. “But I mean it, Nes. You deserve someone who loves every single thing about you. The organized stuff and the messy stuff. The serious stuff and the fun stuff. The boobs—”
“Cassian.”
“—and everything else! All of it! The whole package!” He takes her face in his hands again, looking at her like she hung the moon and stars personally. “And I’m so fucking lucky that I get to be that person. That you picked me. That you keep picking me. Every single day for seven years, you wake up and pick me again, and I don’t take that for granted. Not ever.”
Nesta feels her throat get tight again. “You’re going to make me cry again.”
“Good tears though, right? Happy tears?”
“Yes, you ridiculous man. Happy tears.”
“Perfect. That’s perfect.” He kisses her then, soft and sweet and tasting like whiskey and chapstick and home. When he pulls back, he’s smiling. “I love you so much it’s stupid.”
“I noticed.” She reaches up, pushing his hair back from his face. “I love you too. Even when you come home drunk and ramble about my organizational skills.”
“Especially then,” he insists. “That’s when I’m at my most charming.”
“That’s debatable.”
“Debate me, then. I love when you debate me. You’re so smart and you use big words and you always win and it’s really hot.”
“Everything is hot to you when you’re drunk.”
“Everything is hot when it involves you,” he corrects. “Drunk or sober. You’re just objectively hot. It’s a fact. A truth. A universal constant.”
“You’re biased.”
“Don’t insult my observational skills. You deserve everything, Nes. You know that, right?”
“I know,” she says softly, reaching up to cup his face. “Because I have you.”
His smile is bright enough to rival the sun. “Yeah. You do. Lucky you.”
“Lucky me,” she agrees. She watches as he reaches up, carefully pushing her glasses up into her hair, his fingers gentle and deliberate. The gesture is so tender, so intimate, that she can’t breathe for a moment.
“There,” he whispers, his hands settling back on her face. “Now I can kiss you properly.”
She doesn’t say anything. She can’t say anything. Instead, she rises up on her toes, cups his face with both hands, and kisses him.
It’s soft at first, gentle, but then he makes this small sound in the back of his throat—pleased and so full of love—and she deepens it, pouring everything she can’t quite say into the kiss. Thank you. I love you. You’re everything to me too.
And then suddenly she’s airborne. He lifts her clean off the ground, his arms wrapped tight around her waist, holding her against him like she weighs nothing. She makes a surprised sound against his mouth, her hands gripping his shoulders for balance.
“Cassian!” she gasps, breaking the kiss.
“I’ve got you,” he says, smiling a dopey smile, his eyes bright and adoring. “I’d never drop you. Never ever. You’re too precious.”
“You’re drunk—”
“Doesn’t matter. I have excellent upper body strength. It’s one of my best features. Right after my charming personality and my great hair.” He’s still holding her effortlessly, spinning slightly in the hallway like they’re dancing. “See?”
Nesta laughs, breathless and surprised and so full of love she thinks she might burst with it. “Thank you.”
“For what, baby?”
“For being you,” she whispers, reaching up to cup his face again. “For loving me the way you do. For being my person.”
“Always, sweetheart. I’ll always be your person.”
He kisses her again, still holding her up, still grinning against her mouth.
When he finally sets her down, he tugs her toward the bedroom again. “Come on. I want to cuddle you and tell you more things I love about you until you fall asleep.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It’s a promise. A beautiful promise.” He glances back at her, eyes twinkling. “Fair warning though, I’m definitely going to compliment your butt when we get to the bedroom.”
“Of course you are.”
He’s pulling her into the bedroom, already cataloguing. “Oh yeah, there it is. Great ass. Excellent ass. Your butt looks phenomenal in those shorts, Nes. Have I mentioned that?”
“You’re impossible.”
“Impossibly in love with you and your butt.” He’s already flopping onto the bed, pulling her down with him, wrapping himself around her like an octopus who’s found its favorite rock. His face finds its way back to her chest immediately, like a homing beacon. “Okay, this is even better than the couch. The bed is superior. I rescind my retirement from the couch. I’m retiring here instead.”
“You can’t retire. You’re thirty-four.”
“Early retirement.” He’s already getting comfortable, his breathing starting to even out, but he’s still mumbling against her shirt. “This is all I’ll ever need.”
“You say that every time you come home drunk.”
“That’s because it’s true every time. Every night with you is the best night.” He presses a kiss to her shoulder, then her neck, then the edge of her jaw. “Love you, Nes. My hot librarian wife with the excellent boobs and the pirate books and the organizational skills and the—” He yawns hugely. “—everything. You’re everything.”
Nesta combs her fingers through his hair, feeling him settle against her, his weight warm and solid and perfect. “Love you too, you absolute disaster of a man.”
His only response is a contented hum and a tightening of his arms around her.
Five years in, and somehow it just keeps getting better.