Mature tag for violence 

Belongings and Bruises 

Cassian woke to the scent of salt and the faint creak of the ship shifting beneath him. The dim glow of lantern light seeped through the cracks in the wooden walls, stretching shadows across the cabin. For a moment, he lay still, listening to the quiet hum of The Red Wind, the distant murmur of voices above deck.

Then the door creaked open.

Cassian pushed himself up on his elbows, squinting against the light that spilled in. Thorne stood in the doorway, the flickering glow of a lantern casting sharp angles across his face—his high cheekbones, the sun-bronzed skin, the dark sweep of his lashes framing those ember-bright eyes. He looked like something carved from the sea itself, all raw strength and untamed edges.

Cassian’s gaze flickered downward. The bundle in Thorne’s hands.

His things.

The captain stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. He moved with deliberate slowness, unrolling the bundle on the small table between them. Cassian caught the glint of silver, the deep navy of his coat, the worn leather of his belt. His rings, his compass, even the folded scrap of parchment he always kept tucked away.

All there—except for one thing.

Cassian’s gaze lifted. “No sword?”

Thorne didn’t answer. Instead, he took the belt in his hands, unfastening the buckle.

Cassian arched a brow. “What, you think I’ll stab you in your sleep?”

A flicker of amusement passed through Thorne’s expression. “I think you’d try.”

And then—he stepped closer.

Too close.

Cassian barely had time to react before Thorne reached for him, his grip firm as he caught his wrist and lifted his arm.

“Hands up,” Thorne ordered.

Cassian’s smirk curled slow and lazy, but he obeyed, stretching his arms out to his sides. “Didn’t take you for the type who liked tying men up, captain.”

Thorne didn’t even blink. He looped the belt around Cassian’s waist, the brush of his fingers against bare skin sending a sharp jolt through him. He worked with precision, fastening the buckle, adjusting the fit with a pull that forced Cassian a half-step forward. Close enough to catch the scent of him—salt and spice and something darker, something Thorne.

Cassian tilted his head, voice low and teasing. “Careful. If you wanted to get your hands on me, you could’ve just asked.”

Thorne’s hands stilled. Just for a fraction of a second.

Then, without a word, he reached for the next item. Cassian’s coat.

He slid it over Cassian’s shoulders himself, tugging it into place as if ensuring every piece of fabric settled exactly where it belonged. Every touch, every adjustment, was firm and precise, but Cassian didn’t miss the way Thorne’s fingers lingered a beat too long when they brushed his collar.

When he was finished, Thorne stepped back, assessing his work with that same unreadable expression.

Cassian rolled his shoulders, testing the fit. “No kiss goodbye?”

Thorne sighed, exasperated. “Get out.”

Cassian smirked.

By the time Cassian stepped onto the deck, the sky was already streaked with gold and pink, the waves catching the first light of dawn.