Nesta could feel the grey light of dawn pressing against her eyelids, but she refused to open them. Last night had not been what she’d imagined. It had not been what she’d dreamt of or longed for…
But it had been perfect nonetheless.
She’d been sad and angry again, and Cassian had stayed with her, had walked her home after the meeting. He’d not gone to many meetings in the year since the war’s end, and they’d not spoken much in the weeks since Starfall—when he’d left her, crying and alone and hollow in the entryway of her small apartment.
But yesterday had been the anniversary of her mother’s death. A date Feyre was too young to recall, a date Elain was too medial to look back on, a date Nesta was too old to forget.
So Nesta remembered. Because Nesta always remembered. Because Nesta remembered everything even if she wanted to forget.
Cassian’s breath blew out in a white cloud in front of him. He’d been walking around for hours, hours. He knew it was freezing, knew winter was on it’s way, yet he didn’t feel anything. Not the cold, not the hoarfrost on his jacket—nothing. The early morning sky was still black and filled with stars in every direction. Beautiful and untouchable. Like her—no, not like her.
He hated himself.
What had he done? What had he done?
He’d told himself he’d only go to the meeting to see how she was doing. They’d all had dinner as a group, and maybe it had been the alcohol, or the scent of her sadness so palpable in the air around her—but he’d walked her home.
And with the alcohol thinning the walls between them, thinning the walls she kept between her and the world, he’d thought she’d never looked more beautiful.
Heartbreakingly so, with her sadness and her anger.