Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Careful hands, careful hearts

The night was one of those too-still ones—the kind that made the Lighthouse feel less like a home and more like a breath held between worlds. The halls were quiet. The others were asleep or pretending to be. Only the low hum of distant Fade-light lingered behind the walls.

Brynnor sat cross-legged on the infirmary cot, gauze unspooled across her thigh like a pale ribbon. Blood—hers—had dried in a dark, stubborn smear along her side. It stung, but not enough to explain why her pulse kept tripping over itself.

He was the reason for that.

Lucanis stood just inside the door, arms crossed, jaw clenched tight enough to crack stone. He’d insisted on checking her wound. Insisted on doing it himself. Insisted on following her up the stairs after the mission even though she told him she was “fine.”

She wasn’t sure when “fine” stopped working on him.

“Sit,” he said, though she already was. His voice was low, quiet enough to be gentle but not soft enough to be harmless.

“I’m not dying,” she replied, matching his tone, lifting her chin like that could counteract the dizzy pull of him being this close in a small room.

“You’re bleeding,” he said bluntly. “That complicates the not-dying part.”

Her lips twitched. “Worried about me?”

He ignored that—or tried to. The muscle in his jaw betrayed him.

He stepped closer. Too close. The lantern on the shelf behind him cast gold along the sharp line of his cheekbone, the shadow of his beard, the loose fall of his black hair. One strand clung to the curve of his throat. She had to look away before she stared too long.

“Take off your shirt,” he said.

Her pulse lurched.

He froze the instant the words left his mouth.

“That’s—” he cleared his throat, the rigid line of his posture fracturing in the softest, most endearing stumble she’d ever seen. “That’s not what I meant. Just—lift it. The injury is there.”

She almost pitied him. Almost.
If her blood weren’t suddenly molten.

Brynnor lifted the hem of her shirt carefully, fingers grazing the dried blood, pulling the fabric up just enough to expose the angry line running across her ribs. It stretched when she breathed. It stung. She didn’t flinch. She’d bled worse and walked home. Pain was an old language; her body spoke it fluently.

Lucanis knelt beside the cot.

And everything in her went too still.

He had never been this close while she was sitting. It made him feel larger, somehow—closer to the ground, closer to her. Her skin prickled under the warmth that radiated from him.

He reached for her with one hand—and hesitated.

It was in the way his knuckles hovered before making contact, the way his breath went shallow when her stomach tightened under his touch, the way his jaw held that razor-edge line of restraint. He was trying so hard to be careful, as if care didn’t unsettle her more than pain.

His fingertips brushed her side.

Only a ghost of a touch, but fire still raced along her nerves.

“You should’ve let Harding patch you up,” he murmured.

“And miss this?” she said, her voice thinner than she meant.

He went still at her words—not frozen, not startled, but arrested in that quiet, concentrated way he had. Like every thought in him sharpened to a single point. Like he heard what she’d meant and what she’d tried not to mean, both at once.

The lantern hissed behind them, throwing gold over his shoulders and shadow into the hollow of his throat. His hand remained on her skin, warm, steady, maddeningly gentle. Too gentle. It made something inside her coil tight, made her breath catch where she didn’t want him to hear it.

“Rook,” he said, and the name sounded like a warning he’d already lost the will to give.

She tried for a smirk—Crow instinct, deflection wrapped in teeth—but it wavered at the edges. “What?” she asked. “You asked to see the wound.”

He exhaled softly—annoyance, disbelief, something rough-edged and almost grateful braided together. His fingers, steadier now but no less careful, slid beneath the edge of the wound. Cloth dabbed warm water across her skin, wiping away the tacky trail of dried blood, and the touch was gentle in a way that made her spine lock.

Not because of pain.

Because it was him.

Lucanis did nothing gently. His life wasn’t built for gentleness. And yet here he was, washing her wound like he feared hurting her more than any blade he’d ever held.

Maker, it was unbearable.

The solvent-stung cloth dragged lightly over her ribs. She hissed, not from the pain but from the intimate nearness of him—his hair falling forward, one dark curl brushing her thigh, the way his breath hitched every time her muscles tightened under his hands.

“You’re tense,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on her skin.

“Maybe I don’t enjoy feeling like a specimen,” she managed, though her voice betrayed her, betraying the real truth: specimen was the last thing she felt like under his gaze.

His mouth twitched. Not a smile—he didn’t smile. But something softened, just enough to make her chest seize.

“You’re not a specimen,” he said. “You’re injured. And I don’t want you to be.”

Something in her ribcage twisted sharply at that.

He soaked a new piece of cloth, wrung it out with practiced precision, and pressed it to the deepest part of the cut. She sucked in a breath. He froze instantly, eyes snapping to hers like she’d been shot instead of merely stung.

“Rook?”

“I’m fine,” she said, low, forcing her shoulders to settle. “Keep going.”

He obeyed, but slower this time. More deliberate. His hand cupped her waist for balance, warm and broad against her bare skin, fingers dipping slightly into the curve of her side.

Her vision blurred for a moment. Her pulse was a hammer.

He didn’t notice the way she swayed forward—too focused on the wound, too intent on doing it right. Maker, she both adored and despised him for that.

When he finally reached for the salve, his thumb stroked accidentally—accidentally—along her waist. Barely a graze. But a lightning-thin shiver shot straight down the center of her.

His jaw tightened and of course he noticed.

But he said nothing, always nothing.

He spread the balm over her skin with maddening care, sealing the wound in slow, steady strokes. Each one felt like its own quiet undoing. Her breath kept catching, betraying her in small, traitorous breaks.

He finished binding the cloth around her ribs. His fingers lingered—just a heartbeat too long—near the knot.

“Does that hurt?” he asked, voice low.

“No,” she said.

But her body said otherwise.

And his eyes—those dark, unreadable eyes—followed the truth of it down her throat, to the pulse racing there, before flicking back up.

The air between them charged, humming, thin as a blade’s edge.

And Brynnor wondered—in a sharp, startling rush—whether the wound he’d just patched was the least dangerous thing in the room.

Chapter Text

First kisses and churros

The kitchen had gone quiet and soft around the edges, like a room that had remembered how to breathe. Bellara’s feast had rolled everyone under into sleep—chairs pushed back crooked, napkins abandoned like little flags of surrender—and the Lighthouse had settled into its familiar midnight hush. Only the hearth kept watch, low and patient, its flame licking the last of the oil’s perfume out of the air.

Brynnor stayed.
Of course she stayed.

She had a small plate she should have finished ten minutes ago, sugar gathering in constellations along the rim, and every so often she snapped a churro in half and popped it into her mouth just to occupy her hands, her mouth, anything that wasn’t staring. The cinnamon bit bright and hot on her tongue; small, foolish pleasures like this steadied her when her thoughts threatened to turn themselves inside out. She let her shoulder lean into the table, towel crumpled in one hand, and watched him work.

He stood at the basin with his sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms bared in a way that should not have been as distracting as it was. Steam curled over the tendon of his wrist as he tipped a pot to drain. The firelight slid across the metal and fell over the ridges of old cuts on his arms—quiet, raised slivers that spoke more honestly about his past than he ever would. He moved with that careful, pared-down concentration he saved for tasks he insisted were simple. Washing dishes. Sharpening blades. Turning chaos into something orderly because he didn’t know how to exist in stillness unless his hands were doing something.

She’d watched him kill with no flourish at all, neat and merciless; she’d watched him stir batter earlier with the same eerie calm. She wasn’t sure which one tied her stomach in a tighter knot.

“You know,” she said, because silence made her too brave, “for a man who claims to scare people, you make persuasive churros.”

A quiet sound—not quite a laugh—ghosted through his throat.
“I’m told sugar softens judgment.”

“Mm. And oil hardens arteries.” She bit another piece of churro; cinnamon sparked like lightning along her tongue. “So your evil plot is long-term. Devious.”

He set the pot aside and turned the next pan under the pump. Water ran over his fingers and darkened with the final whisper of fried dough. “If I wanted you dead,” he said mildly, as if discussing weather, “there are easier methods.”

She snorted—too sharp, too quick—and instantly regretted letting him see it. Her tongue found a bit of sugar at the corner of her mouth; she licked it away slowly, thoughtlessly, and only realized too late where his eyes had gone.

His attention dragged upward from her mouth like a man fighting undertow.
Then she saw it—the faintest shake of his head, the way his gaze flicked from her lips to her eyes, uncertain, wanting, restrained. She hadn’t seen him look at anyone like that before.

Heat slipped down her back in one slow rush. She felt it in her calves, her wrists, in the delicate space beneath her ribs.
Brynnor inhaled—slow, shaky, threaded through with sugar and warmth and something far more treacherous—and told herself to move. To break the current before it drowned her. Before she reached out and did something she couldn't take back.

So she stepped away.

Not far—she couldn't be far from him in the kitchen if she tried—but she crossed the short stretch to the dining table, the one Bellara had all but collapsed over earlier, its surface scattered with abandoned goblets and half-finished cups. The hearth breathed against her back, its low flame catching in her hair as she reached for a mug someone had left beside a plate of cooling bread.

The motion was clumsy on purpose, a performance meant to say I'm fine, even though her pulse was acting like it had never heard that word before.

"I've got it," she said softly, fingers curling around the cup.

She wasn't surprised when she felt him behind her.

He followed with that soundless grace that always made her skin prickle—no footstep, no shift of weight, just the subtle change in the air when something dangerous came close.

"Rook," he murmured, and it wasn't quite a warning, not quite a plea. "You don't need to clean. I've got it handled."

"It's just cups." She reached for another. "I can carry cups."

"You do too much already."

She froze as her heart did something ugly and tender all at once.

He didn't mean it as a criticism. He meant it as truth. As a concern. As something that struck deeper than her training ever prepared her for.

"I'm fine," she said again, too quietly to be convincing.

He stepped closer. Close enough that the warmth of him mingled with the hearth at her back. Close enough that she could feel the breath he drew before he spoke.

"You're leading missions that should belong to three different people," he said, voice low, steady. "You're managing the team. You're handling Minrathous in shambles… The search for the Griffins… Bellara's brother. And you still make time to take the blame when things go wrong."

She closed her eyes. He shouldn't know that much about her, shouldn't be able to see that much.

"And now you want to clean cups?" he asked, quieter still.

"It's something to do," she muttered, wrapping her hand tighter around the mug.

He reached out, knuckles grazing hers.

"Let me."

She shook her head and pulled the cup closer to her chest, a ridiculous act of self-defense. He followed the movement, stepping just enough to reach it. His fingers brushed the edge, firm but gentle, trying to pry it from her grip.

"Don't," she whispered, pulse hammering. "I can help."

"You already help." His hand closed over the porcelain where hers held it. His skin touching hers. "You don't have anything to prove."

She didn't look at the cup; she looked at him. And that was her mistake.

He was watching her—too close, too steady, his breath feathering the piece of air between them. His eyes held her like a secret, like a confession he wasn't ready to speak aloud. He was so quiet she could hear the hearth behind them crackle against the silence.

Then she saw it again—the faint, disobedient flicker of his gaze to her mouth, the soft, involuntary shake of his head as if refusing himself, the want braided tightly into the restraint.

Head crawled up her spine. Her breath wavered.

"Don't look at me like that," she whispered.

His hand stilled on hers. "How am I looking at you?"

"Like you're about to do something stupid."

A pause—a single, devastating heartbeat.

"Am I?" he asked.

"Yes," she breathed, "but I might let you."

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The mug hovered between them—her knuckles white around its curve, his fingers warm against the rim. The hearth breathed a slow golden heat against her spine, and the space between their bodies felt thin as parchment, ready to tear.

He studied her like she was something dangerous he wanted anyway. And she held his gaze like it was the first honest thing she'd been offered all week.

Her breath shook, his chest rose. Something trembling and inevitable shifted between them.

He leaned in—just enough that she felt the ghost of his cheek brushing hers, the faint rasp of stubble, the way he inhaled like her nearness cut through him. She caught the barest sound he made, a tight swallow, the quietest surrender.

Her fingers went slack, and the cup slipped.

It hit the floor with a bright, ringing crack—shattering into white porcelain and startled sugar-dust shards. Neither of them looked down, nor did they care.

Because he'd already cupped her jaw with one tentative, trembling hand—Maker trembling—and she tipped into the touch like she'd been waiting years for it. His palm was rough, sliding to the hinge of her jaw, thumb brushing the high heat of her cheekbone.

"Ro—" he started, voice scraped raw, but her resolve collapsed.

She surged forward, caught his mouth with hers in a kiss that was messy, uncoordinated, too much and not enough all at once. Their teeth bumped, breath tangling hot between them—she gasped against him, he exhaled like she'd stolen something vital from him.

But he was kissing her back immediately. One hand sliding into her hair, fingers threading through the strands and tugging just enough to drag a soft noise out of her throat.

His mouth was warm. Warmer than she expected, warmer than anything had any right to be this close to midnight, and the heat of it chased every thought clean out of her skull. She kissed him like she'd been starved, and he met her with that same aching restraint he used for everything he cared about keeping steady. But restraint couldn't save him now.

Her whole body shivered—just once, just enough to betray her. And once she'd kissed him, there was no pulling herself back from the edge she'd stepped over.

Brynnor pressed closer, leading without thinking, guiding him through the moment before he could second-guess it into oblivion. She angled her mouth over his again, slower this time, coaxing instead of colliding—giving him something steadier to meet. His breath caught against her lips, a sound small and unguarded.

Her fingers found the back of his neck, brushing the long hairs there, dragging lightly down the column of his throat until she felt the quick, sharp swallow he tried—and failed—to hide. He leaned into her hand, just barely, and the tenderness of it nearly wrecked her. He'd always been composed to the point of silence, but here… here he moved instinctively, following her warmth like it was something he'd been denied too long.

Brynnor drew back a fraction—barely enough to see him in the low firelight. His lips were kiss-swollen, breath unsteady, eyes dark and soft in ways she’d never believed she’d see. He looked younger like this. Not in age, but in hope. Like the world hadn’t carved him into sharp angles yet.

“Lucanis,” she breathed, voice hushed as if speaking louder would spook whatever fragile miracle they’d summoned.

His thumb traced her cheek, shaky as a man who didn’t trust his own hands.
“Rook,” he whispered back, and her name on his lips—Maker, it sounded like something holy.

A slow breath left her as she wet her lower lip instinctively. She realized then that she could still taste cinnamon on her lips. And she wondered, a little wildly, if he could too.