You're a real-life fantasy, you're a real-life fantasy

But you're moving so carefully; let's start living dangerously

Talk to me, baby

I'm going blind from this sweet sweet craving, whoa-oh

Let's lose our minds and go fucking crazy

"Cake By The Ocean" -DNCE

Another half hour goes by and the table is once again bathed in a tense silence, one strikingly more hostile and laden with heated glances than before, if only because it's less crowded.

Elain and Amren have hit the dance floor. Each were equally impressed with the other's skills from their earlier dance off, and are now taking turns showing each other various moves. Feyre and Rhys have followed them, not wanting to miss her sister, and their intimidating friend cut loose like this. Amren doing the running man is a sight forever ensconced into the recesses of their brains and Nesta won't be surprised if there's a video of the two online by morning.

Mor is somewhere nearby having coaxed Azriel away from his brothers and onto the dance floor. Nesta wonders briefly how relieved the two of them are that Feyre and Rhys' news distracted the rest of the group enough that no one noticed that Azriel never really answered Feyre's question.

Rhys and Feyre's unexpected news has cut through the awkward atmosphere from before; the girls shooting off rapid fire questions to Feyre's surprise and delight and the boys and Amren making crude jokes at Rhys' expense. All hell breaks loose when the two announce that they'll be having a reception with all the bells and whistles next summer when Feyre's done with school. Elain and Mor have bonded over picking out bridesmaids dresses and floral arrangements.

Feyre has to step in at one point, throwing herself between Amren and Mor as the two bicker over what types of jewelry the girls should outfit themselves in. Amren is definitely down with bedazzling her entire ensemble if need be, where as Mor is dead set against anything that might detract from Feyre's day. And if Feyre doesn't notice that Nesta lacks the same amount of enthusiasm as her other sister and the rest of her friends, she doesn't show it.

So now it's Nesta and Cassian, and a table filled with shot glasses. Some are still full, Mor having underestimated the groups willingness to perform silly dares or answer embarrassing questions. Cassian takes the opportunity to slide into the booth next to Nesta, who scowls at him briefly before turning back to watching her sisters on the dance floor. He'd asked her to dance when everyone else left, but she'd turned him down with the same cold tone as before.

"So," he says, and its an awkward and uncomfortable second while he scrambles for something to say. In all his years, what feels like five centuries of picking up women at bars and clubs and even a couple at the gym, and he's never felt as tongue tied as he feels looking at this woman next time. This woman who's suddenly family. "Looks like we're going to be seeing a lot more of each other."

"Apparently," she replies without looking at him. She's poured enough ice in that one word to try to freeze him out, but he sees past it.

She leans heavily on her hand, looking almost bored, though the expression doesn't fool Cassian. He knows she's watching out for her sisters, a lioness watching over her pride. Rhys glances over and gives Cassian a quizzical look. Cassian waves a hand, telling him to go back to his wife. Time passes and the two sit in silence, at least three songs worth, and Cassian has had enough.

"Hey," Cassian says, pausing when she finally meets his eye. He dips his head in a sharp nod to the shot glass in front of her. "Truth, drink, or dare?"

She gives him a look that says, 'Really, you're going to play this game?', to which Cassian just grins at her. It's a playful grin laced with an openness that Nesta can't seem to resist so she sighs, shakes her head, and says, "Truth."

"Why'd you reject me?" he asks, cutting straight to the point. There isn't any reason for him to tiptoe around the subject, especially if they're going to see each other again. Maybe he'll catch her off guard and actually get a straight answer by asking

"You know why," she says, folding her arms across her chest. But she knows that he won't accept that answer, especially not if he's asking so candidly. So she buys herself time to think of an answer that he'll believe, even if it isn't the truth. "I already told you."

"No," he says, "Why'd you really tell me no? And don't give me that 'I'm too busy for a relationship right now' spiel or the 'I don't do one night stands' crap. Why did you really tell me no?"

"Why does it even matter?" she retorts.

"Ah ah," he waves a finger under her nose and Nesta fights the urge to break it. "It's your truth, not mine. You don't want to answer it, there's always another option." Cassian points to the full shot glass in front of her.

"You see them?" she asks, gesturing to where Rhys has his arms wrapped around Feyre's waist. She looks so happy and more carefree as they dance together than Nesta has seen her in a long time, since they were little at least. Since their mom died. "Sure they're happy now, but how long before trouble comes and Feyre sacrifices some part or all of herself for him? Or he leaves her? Or has an affair?"

It's then that Nesta notices the gleam, the complete lack of amusement in his eye. She's definitely said the wrong thing to draw his ire.

"You say that like you know my brother. Like he would ever do anything to hurt your sister." And there a fierceness to his voice that chills her bones when he says, "He'd tear the world apart to protect your sister, to keep her safe and happy. To keep her happy and healthy. To keep that look on her face."

He points back to the dance floor where Feyre is tucked beneath Rhys' chin and the two of them are slow dancing, even though their pace doesn't match the beat of the music around them. Feyre looks so at peace that Nesta's heart hurts.

Nesta has no response besides a terse 'We'll see', and because she's tired of sitting there in silence and there's still at least another hour before Azriel has promised to take them home, and she and Elain can make their exit, she turns back to Cassian and asks, "Truth, drink, or dare?"

Cassian raises an eyebrow at her. "Truth," he says nonchalantly.

"If you and Rhys hated each other, what changed?"

There's an honesty to the question, honesty and a test, as if she's challenging him to change her mind. So he tells her, the abridged version of course, of his childhood and Rhys. Tells her of his brother and all of the good things he's done in his life, done for Feyre and done for Cassian, and yes this includes his flaws and foibles, but he paints this picture of his brother for Nesta, painted in broad swaths of color and character like Feyre paints a portrait. Tells her far more than he would under any other circumstance but this, and as he tells her of his brother's qualities the ones he admires and the ones that make him a complete pain in the ass, he's really revealing himself to Nesta. He notices a shift in her stance, as if she's re-evaluating him and when she picks dare, he grabs her hand and tries again.

"Dance with me?" he asks and there's glimmer in his eyes that's an almost boyish hopefulness, but she shoots him down again, reaching for her shot glass and downing the burning liquid in one go.

"Cauldron, who hurt you so bad that you won't even dance with me?" he asks.

The tone flippant, and even though he doesn't mean it, real fear flashes in her eyes. She swallows, shutting out memories. She can't breathe, can't fight the panic that's bubbling up inside her, and as much as she hopes that Cassian doesn't notice she knows he does.

Because his hopefulness is gone, erased into something else… Rage. He's gone murderously calm and can barely grind out, "Who?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says and makes to withdraw her hand.

He grips it, faster than she can detect and pins to his chest. His heart is beating at a gallop now. Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous, this male.

"Did someone hurt you?" he asks, his voice so guttural she can barely understand it.

The wrath, the utter stillness with which he sits. His hand presses into hers, calluses scraping. She hasn't answered him, won't answer him. She stares at him and his face shifts again, the hand pushing her own against his chest eases. Cassian's thumb strokes the back of her hand, the pad of it rough with calluses, from what she doesn't know. He blinks, mouth parting slightly, as though he's going to ask her again.

"No," she says to him. "No."

She's a coward, but she can't answer him. So she flees. Hasty words fly from her lips. She's going to the bar to refill the water that sits half full on the table in front of her. Nesta makes it to the bar, leans against it heavily, not caring that the patrons around her are staring. They don't matter anyway. This night has been terrible she decides. Terrible, and there's nothing that could possibly make it any worse.

But that's when she hears an all too familiar voice calling her name. It's a voice she told herself long ago that if she never heard it again she would die happy.

Tomas.