Cassian nudged Bathsheda’s door open with his elbow, a box of chocolate biscuits under one arm, roses in his other hand, “Let’s go to Iceland,” he said, like it was the sort of thing you suggested over lunch plans. “Auroras, not the Septimas, hopefully, and if we are lucky. Geothermal pools. Possibly a sheep.”

Bathsheda didn’t look up from the scroll she was marking. Her desk was a battlefield… red ink, teacups, and one poor fourth-year essay crumpled beyond salvation.

She didn’t answer.

Cassian sat on her desk, making himself comfortable. “We can build a snow angel and then bash its head with snow bats?”

Still nothing.

He gave the box a shake. “Bribery in progress. Biscuits. The good kind.”

Bathsheda returned to grading. “Are you asking or declaring?”

“Neither. I am escaping. And I am dragging you with me. You can cry about it later.”

“We have work.”

“Not for two weeks. That is the point of holidays. It is when the Ministry pretends children don’t exist so they can focus on pretending the economy does.”

Bathsheda paused, pen hovering just above the page. “Does this plan involve tents?”

Cassian narrowed his eyes. “It involves hot water, steam, and me refusing to grade another essay.”

Bathsheda circled a line of sloppy handwriting looking personally offended by a paper. Which knowing her, she probably was.

She sighed. “Fine. Only for sheep and biscuits, though.”

“Deal,” he said, kicking the leg of her desk as he passed. “I will get the woollier one a name tag.”

***

They left before dawn. Cassian had packed thermal layers, three notebooks, an enchanted flask that did both hot and cold. Bathsheda brought a single bag and one terrifyingly thick book labelled Rune Logic in Pre-Classical Societies. He didn’t ask if she was planning to read it or bludgeon something with it. Either seemed likely.

They Portkeyed to Reykjavík first… She insisted it was safer than flying into a blizzard. He booked a tiny cottage on the edge of a geothermal field, the sort of place that came with its own personal sulphur smell and enough steam to cook a cow.

The moment they stepped inside, Bathsheda dropped her coat, sniffed the air, and made a face. “You brought me to a bog.”

He held up a hand. “Correction. A warm, magical bog. With a roof and working taps.”

“It smells like dragon armpit.”

He shrugged. “Feel like it too once we step in.”

Cassian kicked the door shut behind them, dropped the bag on a low bench. Bathsheda peeled off her gloves and gave the room a once-over. Stone walls, two small rooms. “Didn’t you say this was a cottage?”

“It is,” he said, mouth full of shortbread. “Technically. It has a roof and no ghost to scream when you walk in. That is luxury.”

She opened the bathroom door, peered in, then shut it just as quickly. “The loo is outside.”

He tapped the glass. “There. Nature’s hot tub. And no screaming children or nosy elves. Unless one followed us.”

She rolled her eyes, he hugged her from behind, chin dropping to the crook of her neck, “I missed my girlfriend,” Cassian said, matter-of-fact.

Bathsheda stiffened, but didn’t pull away. “I knew you had ulterior motives.”

He drew a dramatic breath. “How dare you. My intentions are pure.”

She snorted, unimpressed. “Right. You are warm. That is the only reason I am tolerating this.”

“Romance,” he said, walking past her, “is truly dead.”

Shaking her head, Bathsheda started to peel her layers off like an onion, scarf, jumper, second jumper, that weird in-between cloak that only academics seemed to own. Cassian watched, elbow hooked over the sofa arm.

“Are you done yet?” he asked. “Or should I come back when the Bronze Age ends?”

She tossed the scarf at his face. “You picked this weather.”

“I picked solitude. The weather was a bonus.”

He caught the scarf and flung it onto the backrest. The sofa gave a quiet groan under his weight. “I will put the kettle on,” he added, after precisely zero movement.

Bathsheda gave him a look. “Will you?”

“No,” he agreed, not moving an inch. “But I thought you would like the thought.”

She crossed the room and flicked her wand at the old iron kettle. It rattled, then obediently plonked itself onto the stove. And soon, the sound of slow bubbling started to fill the silence.

Cassian watched the steam curl up the glass. “Right, so… once we warmed up, I vote we go find the nearest eldritch cave and throw something into it. For science.”

She arched a brow. “Missed cave toppling over us?”

Cassian gave a short laugh. “It earned me a kiss first time. Reckoned it might take us further this time.”

She narrowed her eyes.

He smirked. “No? Worth a shot.”

Bathsheda turned away, muttering something under her breath that didn’t sound flattering. Cassian caught the kettle before it boiled over, poured two mugs.

After warming up a bit, he stripped his top layers off with the sort of confidence only found in people who knew full well they were being watched. Just jumper, shirt, and undershirt peeled off, rest were still on. He was still a man and the place was cold. Okay?

He flexed, not for her benefit, probably. “Let’s test the water. What do you say?”

Bathsheda raised a brow, summoned her wand with a flick, and conjured a curtain between them. Semi-transparent, thin as breath, but enough to block everything except the silhouette. Her shadow moved, excruciatingly slow, each motion exaggerated.

First the cloak came off, dropped like a silent dare. Then something that could’ve been a blouse. Her hands went behind her back next, fiddled with the clasp. Cassian didn’t blink.

“Oh come on,” he groaned, forehead meeting the side of the doorway with a dull thunk. “Damn woman, you are killing me.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” she said. Her voice came through muffled, “This is restraint.”

“If that is restraint, I would hate to see enthusiasm.”

“You would not survive it.”

Cassian muttered something rude under his breath and ran barefoot across the short hallway, shoving the door open. The cold slapped him first, the outside bath was steaming, white vapour curling around the edges of the stone rim, already silhouetting a hand in the air, inviting Cassian in.

He dipped a toe in, then another, before sinking himself in with a sigh that sounded vaguely religious. The heat crawled up from his spine to the back of his skull like a potion poured directly into his marrow.

“Right,” he said, chin dropping to the water, “if I die here, bury me here.”

The door creaked open again. Bathsheda stepped out, wrapped in a towel.

“You are taking up half of it.”

He opened his arms. “I was planning to keep you warm with my body. You said you loved it.”

Bathsheda gave him a look. “Let’s go with that,” she muttered, and stepped in anyway.

Her towel ended up near the edge, kicked aside without a second thought. She slid in beside him with the grace of someone deeply unimpressed by theatrics but not above enjoying the outcome. The water shifted as she settled, her back rested against his chest as she hummed in contentment.

Cassian wrapped his arms around her, chin dropping to her shoulder. “There we go. Like two frogs in a fancy soup.”

“You are the worst,” she said, eyes closing.

“You say that, but you are here. In my arms. In the soup.”

“You lured me here with biscuits.”

He grinned into her damp skin. “And you fell for it like a child in a gingerbread shop.”

She elbowed him. Not hard. Just so to get the point across. Cassian winced and tightened his grip.

Steam curled off the pool, so thick it blurred the world past the stone rim. The stars above barely managed to peek through the mist. Their breaths came in visible puffs, though the water was warm enough to dissolve the chill that clung to them.

Her head tilted back slightly against his shoulder, damp curls brushing his jaw. He let one hand trail along the curve of her thigh under the surface.

“So,” he said, dragging it, “on a scale of one to ‘Cassian is a genius,’ how brilliant was this plan?”

She hummed. “Twelve.”

He grinned. “I knew you loved me.”

“I said the plan. You, I tolerate.”

“Semantics,” he said. “You love me.”

“Do not.”

“You do. Deep down. Like fungus.”

She snorted and didn’t move. Which, by his reckoning, was basically a confession.

Somewhere off to the side, snow crunched, some nocturnal beast, probably regretting its life choices.

Bathsheda sighed and tucked her legs across his. Her skin was cold in spots, warmer in others, but she settled into him like he was furniture. Cassian rested his chin on her head, content to be furniture. Always.

He started to play with her sides, hands climbing teasingly. Quickly turned into a game of whack-the-mole. He dared, she swatted. Relentless, like a trained reflex. He barely got past her ribs before the flat of her hand caught his fingers with a smack. He retreated, briefly, then came back at a sneakier angle.

Another slap. “Stop that.”

“Never,” he said, already aiming higher. “It is tradition now.”

“You made it up thirty seconds ago.”

“Exactly. Tradition, Bathsheda. The ink isn’t even dry on the sacred scrolls yet.”

She elbowed him again, this time sharper. Water sloshed, and he nearly inhaled a lungful of steam.

“You are ruining the peace,” she muttered.

“I am the peace. That is the whole point of me.”

She didn’t answer, just caught his wrist mid-climb and dunked it under the surface.

Cassian wiggled his fingers against her thigh under the water.

“Do that again,” she warned, “and I will freeze this entire tub.”

“Bluff. You like it too much.”

“You won’t be saying that with icicles hanging off your…”

He pulled his hands back like they touched a live wire. “You go there, really? Attack my…” he caught himself, dragged his arm protectively across his chest. “…most sensitive assets while I am defenceless, half-cooked?”

Spoiler

[collapse]

I could get used to the silence.

But I’d rather not.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep