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Toryn rose, careful not to move too quickly. His tail shifted behind him, betraying his eagerness . He followed Cass to the door.

He ducked instinctively beneath the frame, careful not to bump his horns.

Inside, the cottage felt smaller than he remembered from his fevered haze months ago. Cozier. The shelves of herbs cast layered shadows across the walls. A kettle already rested near the hearth, steam whispering faintly from its spout.

Cass set the lute aside with reverence, as though placing a sleeping child into bed.

“Sit, please,” he said, gesturing to the small wooden table.

Toryn lowered himself onto a chair that protested beneath his weight. He folded his hands in his lap again, wary of breaking anything.

Cass moved about the kitchen with quiet purpose.

He nearly knocked over a jar reaching for the teacups.

Toryn’s hand shot out on instinct, steadying it before it could fall.

Their fingers brushed.

It was brief.

Accidental.

And yet heat flared beneath Toryn’s scales as though struck by flame.

Cass froze.

Blue eyes flicked up to meet emerald.

“Oh—thank you,” Cass said, breath catching just slightly.

“You’re welcome.”

Their hands withdrew at the same time.

The kettle began to whistle.

Cass turned quickly, perhaps grateful for the distraction.

The scent of chamomile and something sweeter—lavender, maybe—filled the room as he poured.

When he returned to the table, he placed a delicate cup before Toryn that looked comically small against his broad palm.

He sat opposite him.

For a moment, neither spoke.

The crackle of the hearth filled the silence.

Cass wrapped both hands around his cup before lifting his gaze.

“How are you?” he asked gently.

The question was simple.

It was not the first time someone had asked Toryn such a thing.

It was the first time it felt like the answer mattered.

“I am well,” Toryn replied automatically.

Cass’s lips curved faintly.

“That is not what I meant.”

Toryn stilled.

Cass did not press. He simply waited.

The healer had a way of doing that—holding space like it was something tangible.

“I am… adjusting,” Toryn admitted after a long pause. “Grovehollow is quiet.”

“Too quiet?”

Toryn considered.

“No.”

He looked around the small room.

“It is different.”

Cass nodded. “Different can be frightening.”

Toryn’s gaze returned to him.

“I am not frightened.”

Cass’s smile deepened, not mocking—understanding.

“Of course.”

He took a small sip of tea.

“How do you like the forge?”

“It is honest work.”

“Does it make you happy?”

Toryn frowned slightly at the question.

“Happiness was never a requirement of my work.”

Cass tilted his head. “Well, maybe it should be.”

Silence fell again.

Toryn studied the human across from him—the long golden hair braided loosely over one shoulder, the pale hands cradling porcelain, the faint scar near his temple. So soft. So seemingly fragile.

And yet there was steel here too.

Just quieter.

“It is… steady,” Toryn said at last. “The forge.”

Cass nodded, accepting that.

“And the villagers?” he continued gently. “They’ve been kind?”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“They speak highly of you.”

Color rose in Cass’s cheeks.

“Oh?”

“It is deserved.”

Cass ducked his head, embarrassed. A loose strand of hair slipped free from the braid and fell across his face. He pushed it back clumsily.

Toryn watched the movement with a hunger he did not fully understand.

Cass cleared his throat.

“And… the wound?” he asked softly.

There it was.

The real reason for the invitation.

Toryn’s hand moved unconsciously to his side, fingers brushing the place beneath his scales where flesh had once been torn open.

“It has healed.”

“I know the surface has,” Cass said. “I meant… deeper.”

Toryn looked up sharply.

Cass met his gaze without flinching.

“You still favor it when you stand,” Cass continued, voice gentle but certain. “And sometimes when you think no one is looking, you press your hand there.”

Toryn had not realized he did that.

Heat—not desire this time, but something like vulnerability—flared beneath his scales.

“It is nothing,” he said quietly.

Cass’s expression softened further.

“It nearly killed you.”

Toryn held his gaze.

“I have survived worse.”

Cass’s fingers tightened around his cup.

“I’m very glad you survived,” he said.

The words were barely louder than the crackle of the fire.

Something primal stirred in Toryn’s chest—not lust, not yet.

Protectiveness.

Possessiveness.

The fierce, instinctive urge to shield this gentle creature from anything sharp or cruel.

“I... wish you didn’t have to save me,” Toryn said suddenly.

Cass blinked. “Why?”

“I just... I wish you didn’t have to see that.” Toryn replied. “You deserved better.”

Cass studied him for a long moment.

Then, softly:

“You deserved to live.”

The simplicity of it struck like a hammer to an anvil.

Toryn did not know how to answer that.

Cass lowered his gaze to his tea, cheeks faintly pink.

Trust flickered between them.

Fragile.

Unspoken.

The cottage felt warmer now.

Smaller.

The space between them felt charged with something neither dared name.

Toryn wanted to reach across the table.

To brush his thumb along Cass’s wrist.

To see if the healer’s pulse would race the way his own did.

But he did not move.

He would not frighten him.

Instead, he lifted the delicate teacup once more and took a careful sip.

Cass watched him over the rim of his own cup.

And in the quiet glow of the hearth, with herbs hanging from the rafters and night pressing gently against the windows, Toryn understood something he had never allowed himself before:

He did not simply want Cass.

He wanted to be worthy of sitting across from him.

Of being invited inside.

Of being asked how he truly was.

The fire had burned lower by the time Cass set his cup aside.

He had grown quieter.

Not distant, just focused.

His gaze kept drifting, almost unconsciously, to Toryn’s side. To the place beneath the black and red scales where death had nearly claimed him.

At last, Cass drew in a small breath.

“May I… may I check it?”

Toryn blinked.

“The wound,” Cass clarified softly. “I know you said it’s healed. But I would feel better... seeing it myself.”

There it was again.

Not obligation. Not duty.

Concern.

Toryn had been treated by battlefield medics who worked quickly and efficiently, hands steady, voices clipped. They had stitched him and shoved him back into formation.

No one had ever asked to check on him because they genuinely cared about his wellbeing like this

His chest tightened.

“You are persistent, healer.” Toryn said, a low huff of breath almost—but not quite—a chuckle.

Cass’s mouth twitched faintly. “Occupational hazard.”

Toryn leaned back slightly in his chair, stretching his shoulders.

“You may look.”

Cass rose immediately, though he hesitated when he reached the table.

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” he said carefully, eyes flicking down and then up again, cheeks warming, “could you… remove your shirt? Just so I can examine it properly.”

Toryn stilled.

He had removed armor in crowded barracks without thought. Stripped to the waist before other soldiers without a second glance.

But this—

This was different.

This was Cass.

The cottage felt smaller.

The air warmer.

Toryn held Cass’s gaze for a long moment.

His blue eyes did not waver, though they were undeniably shy.

“It is no trouble,” Toryn said evenly.

He stood.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

He reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it up and over his head.

The movement stretched muscle and scale, revealing the broad expanse of his chest—red scales gleaming in the firelight, the black pattern climbing up beneath his chin and down his sternum like ink spilled by a careful hand.

The scar cut across his side—a jagged disruption between scale plates where Cass had worked so carefully months ago.

Cass swallowed.

Toryn noticed.

He told himself not to.

“Sit,” Cass murmured, voice softer now.

Toryn obeyed.

He lowered himself back into the chair while Cass stepped closer.

Closer.

The healer’s warmth brushed against his skin before his hands did.

Cass knelt slightly to examine the wound more closely, brows knitting in concentration. His long golden braid slipped forward over his shoulder, brushing lightly against Toryn’s bare chest.

Toryn’s breath caught.

Cass’s fingers hovered first—asking permission without words.

Toryn gave a single, subtle nod.

The touch, when it came, was gentle.

Almost reverent.

Cass’s fingertips traced the edge of the scar, careful not to press too hard between the scales. His skin was warm. Soft.

Toryn had been struck by blades harder than this.

Yet this nearly brought him to his knees.

Cass frowned.

“It’s healed,” he murmured to himself. “But there’s still swelling here.”

He pressed lightly near the lower edge.

Toryn did not flinch.

He had endured worse.

But Cass noticed the minute tightening of muscle anyway.

“You’ve been overexerting,” Cass said quietly.

Toryn exhaled through his nose.

“I work at a forge.”

“Yes,” Cass replied gently, “and I told you to take it easy.”

The faint crease between his brows deepened. He shifted closer without seeming to realize it, one hand braced lightly against Toryn’s ribs as he examined the swelling more carefully.

“You should have rested longer,” Cass continued, soft but firm. “Dragonborn or not, your body still needs time.”

There it was again.

That tone.

Not scolding in anger.

Scolding in care.

Toryn felt something strange unfurl in his chest.

Warm.

Unsteady.

He had never been fussed over like this. Never had someone look at his injuries as though they were offenses against them personally.

He huffed.

This time the sound did carry a faint chuckle.

“You sound like a parent,” he rumbled.

Cass blinked up at him, startled.

“I do not.”

“You do,” Toryn insisted, a faint gleam of amusement lighting his emerald eyes. “Telling me to rest. To behave.”

Cass’s lips parted in protest.

Then closed.

Color flooded his cheeks.

“I am not trying to parent you,” he said softly. “I just… worry.”

The last word came out small.

Unguarded.

It struck harder than any reprimand.

Toryn’s amusement faded into something deeper.

“You worry,” he repeated quietly.

Cass nodded, still not quite meeting his eyes. “You nearly died. And you push yourself like it doesn’t matter. Of course I worry, Toryn.”

Toryn looked down at him—at the golden head bent in concentration, at the gentle fingers smoothing over the scar as if willing the swelling to ease.

His chest ached.

Not from the wound.

From something far more dangerous.

“No one has worried over me in a very long time,” Toryn admitted.

The words felt foreign in his mouth.

Cass’s hands stilled.

Slowly, he looked up.

Blue met green.

There was no fear in Cass’s gaze now.

Only something unbearably soft.

“Well,” Cass said quietly, “someone does now.”

The air between them shifted.

Toryn became acutely aware of the healer’s hand still resting against his side. Of the warmth of his body so close. Of the faint scent of lavender and herbs clinging to him.

Something unfamiliar spun low in Toryn’s stomach—not the sharp hunger of lust, though that simmered too—but something gentler.

A longing to lean into that touch.

To let himself be cared for.

It frightened him.

He had built himself from discipline and iron.

He did not know how to be held together by softness.

Cass cleared his throat softly, perhaps sensing the change in the air.

“I’ll make a salve for the swelling,” he said, retreating just slightly. “And you will take tomorrow off.”

“That is not necessary—”

“It is,” Cass said, more firmly than before.

Toryn stared at him.

Cass held his ground.

The Dragonborn felt warmth curl in his chest again, helpless and fond.

“You are very bold for someone who once trembled at the sight of me,” Toryn murmured.

Cass’s expression faltered briefly.

Then steadied.

“I was afraid of your sword,” he said honestly. “Not of you.”

The words stole Toryn’s breath.

Cass reached for a small jar from the table and dipped his fingers into it.

“This may be cold,” he warned gently.

When the salve touched his skin, Toryn hissed softly—not in pain, but at the shock of coolness against heat-warmed scales.

Cass’s touch followed, smoothing the ointment carefully along the swollen ridge.

So careful.

So attentive.

Toryn watched him the entire time.

The concentration. The quiet devotion.

The way Cass bit his lower lip slightly when focused.

And he realized, with a dawning, terrifying clarity:

If this love was unreturned—if it remained one-sided and silent—he would still choose to stay.

Because being near this gentleness felt more like belonging than anything he had ever known.

Cass finished at last and drew his hand away reluctantly.

“That should help,” he said softly.

Toryn nodded.

“Thank you.”

Cass smiled faintly.

“You’re welcome.”

They lingered there—too close, too aware.

Toryn forced himself to reach for his shirt.

The fabric felt wrong against his skin after the warmth of Cass’s hands.

But he pulled it back on all the same.

He was not ready to burn.

Not yet.

And Cass, sweet and stubborn and brave in his own quiet way, watched him with something like hope flickering in his deep blue eyes.

The cottage had gone very quiet.

The fire had burned low enough that its glow was amber instead of gold, casting long shadows that softened the angles of the room. The air still held the faint scent of lavender from the salve, and beneath it—Cass.

Herbs. Ink. Warm tea.

Toryn finished pulling his shirt back over his shoulders, adjusting the fabric where it caught briefly on the ridge of black scales beneath his throat.

Cass remained close.

Too close, perhaps.

He was sealing the jar of salve with careful fingers, brow still faintly furrowed, as though mentally cataloguing future instructions Toryn would no doubt ignore.

“You will rest tomorrow,” Cass murmured, mostly to the jar. “And if the swelling worsens, you will tell me.”

Toryn looked down at him.

At the golden braid slipping loose again. At the way a few strands had escaped to frame his face. At the faint crease between his brows that had not fully smoothed.

He worries.

The thought landed heavy and warm all at once.

For him.

For a Dragonborn who had walked into his clearing bloodied and terrifying.

Something bold stirred in Toryn’s chest.

Not the sharp, consuming hunger he fought so often when he looked at Cass. Not the primal heat that coiled low in his gut at the sight of pale fingers against red scales.

This was gentler.

Affection.

It was unfamiliar territory. Dangerous in its own way.

But Toryn had faced battlefields with less certainty.

Before he could overthink it, he reached out.

Large, clawed fingers—careful despite their size—came down lightly atop Cass’s head.

Cass froze.

Toryn ruffled his hair.

Not roughly. Not in mockery.

Affectionately.

The golden strands slipped silk-smooth through his fingers, softer than he’d imagined. The braid loosened further, cascading over Cass’s shoulder in a spill of gold.

“You take good care of me,” Toryn said quietly.

“Ah! Toryn-” Cass breath hitched

For a heartbeat, Toryn wondered if he had overstepped.

If this was too much.

If he had frightened him.

Then Cass looked up.

His eyes were wide—not in fear.

In surprise.

And something else.

Warmth bloomed across his pale cheeks, flushing them rose.

“I—” Cass faltered, then tried again. “It’s my job.”

Toryn’s thumb brushed lightly through the thick fall of hair once more before he withdrew his hand.

“No,” he said gently. “It is not.”

Cass stared at him.

“You did not have to care,” Toryn continued, voice low and steady. “You chose to.”

The words felt like stepping across a narrow bridge suspended over a great drop.

Cass swallowed.

His fingers came up instinctively to touch his own hair where Toryn’s hand had been, as though confirming the contact had truly happened.

“You make it sound like that’s unusual,” Cass said softly.

“For me,” Toryn replied, “it is.”

Silence settled between them again—but not the tense kind.

This one felt fragile. Glowing.

Cass’s lips curved slowly, shyly.

“You’re… very easy to fuss over,” he said after a moment, attempting lightness. “You get injured often.”

A low rumble left Toryn’s chest—this time unmistakably a chuckle.

“I will try to make myself less inconvenient.”

“That isn’t what I meant,” Cass said quickly, eyes widening.

Toryn smiled—small, but real.

“I know.”

Cass relaxed.

The loosened braid slipped entirely free then, spilling down his back in a shining river to his waist. A few strands caught in the collar of his tunic.

Without thinking, Toryn reached again—more slowly this time.

He gently lifted one caught strand and freed it from the fabric.

His knuckles brushed the nape of Cass’s neck.

Heat flared beneath his scales.

Cass inhaled sharply.

Their eyes met again.

Too close.

Too aware.

Toryn forced himself to step back before instinct overrode restraint.

“You should not stay up too late,” he said quietly. “You have villagers to scold tomorrow.”

Cass huffed a soft laugh, still pink-cheeked.

“And you have a forge you that are not attending.”

“I will consider your orders,” Toryn said solemnly.

Cass’s smile deepened at that.

The warmth in Toryn’s chest expanded.

He had not meant for the gesture to feel so intimate.

Had not expected the simple act of touching Cass’s hair to feel like crossing some unseen threshold.

But it had.

And Cass had not recoiled.

That alone was enough to set something hopeful fluttering in Toryn’s ribs.

“I should return to the inn,” Toryn said at last, though he did not want to.

Cass nodded, though his fingers lingered nervously at his sleeves.

“Thank you,” Cass said softly. “For letting me check the wound.”

“Thank you,” Toryn replied, “for insisting.”

Another shy smile.

Toryn moved toward the door, ducking beneath the frame.

At the threshold, he paused.

He looked back.

Cass stood in the warm glow of the hearth, golden hair unbound, blue eyes luminous in the dim light.

He looked small.

Soft.

And impossibly brave.

“Goodnight, Cassius,” Toryn said, using his full name deliberately.

Cass’s breath hitched faintly.

“Goodnight, Toryn.”

The Dragonborn stepped out into the cool night air.

The forest hummed quietly around the cottage. Stars pricked the sky above Grovehollow.

His chest felt lighter.

And heavier.

He lifted one clawed hand, flexing it slowly.

He could still feel the silk of Cass’s hair against his palm.

Still hear the way his breath had caught.

Still see the warmth that had bloomed across his face.

Toryn had faced countless battles.

But this—

This slow, uncertain dance of closeness and restraint—

This might undo him far more completely.

And gods help him—

He was beginning to hope.