What do you mean? Oh, oh

When you nod your head yes

But you wanna say no

What do you mean? Hey-ey

When you don't want me to move

But you tell me to go

What do you mean?

Oh, what do you mean?

Said you're running out of time, what do you mean?

Oh, oh, oh, what do you mean?

Better make up your mind

What do you mean?

"What Do You Mean?" -Justin Bieber

Cassian is an idiot.

Nesta might as well have kneed him in the balls again for all the pain that Cassian's feeling. For once in his life Cassian is at a complete loss as to what to do. As much as he wants to chase after her, something in his gut tells him he can't. Tells him he needs to wait, to give himself time away from her and her scent and that thing that calls him to her and makes his very blood sing.

They'd been so close. Close to what Cassian isn't sure, kissing perhaps, but it felt like something… something more. Her outright rejection stings. Stings enough that all Cas wants is to punch something, or maybe get a drink, or two. So he heads back to the bar.

For a drink, he tells himself, and if that asshole, what's his face—Terrance? Tommy? Whatever the hell his name was, if that little pissant who upset Nesta enough that she'd be willing to dance with him—is there then maybe Cassian won't hesitate to pick a fight.

So Cassian throws himself down into the nearest bar stool. Elbows on the counter he presses his face into his hands, running them through his hair. He makes eye contact with the girl tending the counter. The girl, Cerridwen Cassian realizes with a start, sets down a glass startling him out of his thoughts. Bourbon neat, his usual for when he's nursing his wounds, as though she's been watching from the shadows, and if she's seen, there's no telling what his family's seen. Because he doesn't even know how he'd explain it to everyone.

To Mor.

His blood chills at the thought. Given their history and the torrent of emotions he can't make sense of.

She'd already made it clear how she felt, and just because he'd come to her rescue did not mean that Nesta was the type of girl to throw herself into his arms— even if she technically did. He's known Feyre long enough that any sister of hers wouldn't be won over by a handsome smile and cocky attitude. Hell, it took Rhys months of badgering and playful banter to get Feyre to talk to him without her calling him a prick, and meaning it.

He's going to have to face this as if he hasn't already had to apologize for being an ass already tonight. Man up, and apologize he decides. Because like it or not, Nesta is family now even if his royal pain in the ass brother isn't related to him by blood.

He can do this. Keep it platonic...

Ignore the way her scent calls to him and how he wants to drown in it.

The way her hair beckons to be touched. Even now his fingers twitch.

The way her lips beg to kissed.

Yeah, keep it casual, he tells himself. He throws the drink back toasting to the bitter tone of his inner thoughts and the fact that he knows, regardless of whatever pretty words he throws at her, she's more likely to throw a shoe at him than want to see him again.

Cassian is an idiot, a stupid, arrogant, vain, selfish idiot.

But then again, if Cassian is an idiot, then maybe so is she, Nesta considers, staring at her reflection in the dingy mirror of the club's only bathroom. Blue grey eyes, Feyre's eye, their mother's eyes stare back at her. They're wide with a feral sort of panic. Like a rabbit starring down a wolf, like prey, and Nesta frowns at the sight.

As much as she wants to blame him, to paint herself the victim of alcohol and a pretty face, she can't. Not after she made the choice to dance with him like that. Grinding on him and the whisper of his hands on her and how they might feel on bare skin.

She didn't want this… this… temptation.

Because that's what he is. The temptation to let him continue, to see where going home with him would lead is so very foreign to her that she slams down her hand onto the countertop. The pain temporarily breaking the spell he's cast on her. Nesta won't be swayed by a pretty face, no matter how ruggedly handsome she finds him.

Nesta could have walked back to the table; could have hired a cab and left the club altogether, but that would involve leaving Elain, who's probably drunk by now, alone in a group of people she barely knows and have dubious alcohol levels as well. Feyre's already three sheets to the wind, Nesta knows, based off the question that unequivocally halted 'Truth Drinks or Dare' earlier, and as much as she trusts her youngest sister, her choice in men is still questionable in Nesta's eyes. The last guy Feyre brought home ending up being a giant tool and Nesta knows that she still has the occasional nightmare from the trials she'd gone through trying to make it work with him.

A trickle of water echoes through the room as she turns on the faucet. Cupping her hands beneath it, she splashes her face. The minimal makeup she applied before heading out for the night isn't exactly waterproof, so she's careful where she puts the water.

Nesta braces herself on the counter, looking back into the mirror that's smeared and flecked with grime. Flushed cheeks returning to their normal paleness, she steels herself.

Yes, he is temptation and sin and sex incarnate in a leather jacket, but she is Nesta Archeron and she will not be enticed by some prick, no matter how much she wants to run her hands through his hair.

Nope not going to happen.

She dries her hand with a paper towel. The methodical rub of the coarse paper letting her formulate a battle plan. As much as she doesn't want to face him again, longs to put this night and all of it's weirdness behind her, she's going to have to do something. Tell him off for being so forward, or apologize for not being clear enough, she's not sure. She'll know once she gets there. Either way she needs to make a final stance and stick to it.

The cold bite of the doorknob sinks into her skin, solidifying her plan as though the chill has frozen the eddying waters of indecision in her head. Nesta throws open the door, with the grace of a solider entering combat, ready to face Cassian.

But she only makes it a grand total of one step out the door. One measly little step, not quite over the threshold of the doorway and she's stopped dead in her tracks. There's a body in her way, an unmovable force.

"You," she spits. Glare firmly fixed on her face. "What do you want?"

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