Finnish Mafia Lover

Contents -

»-♡→ One | The Hollow Between | 2.8k words

»-♡→ Two | A Soft Miracle | 2.1k words

»-♡→ Three | The Sound of Silence | 2.9k words

»-♡→ Four | Muted | 2k words

»-♡→ Five | What Remains | 2.3k words

»-♡→ Six | The Slow Return | 2.6k words

»-♡→ Seven | Hope | 2.8k words

»-♡→ Eight | A Light in the Dark | 2.4k words

ACOTAR Masterlist

A/n - As always content warnings will be at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.

This was another requested fic!! It focuses on the topic of fertility struggles and pregnancy loss. The request left the ending up to me and I will reveal that I chose a happy ending—a little comfort after all the heavy emotions :)

I know this can be a sensitive topic for some, so please read it with care. I've tried my hardest to handle everything thoughtfully and respectfully!!

Also, just a quick note, the title of this fic "Fallow" means land left unused for a time to restore its fertility—I'm really proud of it and I just wanted to mention it x

You had known Mathew for so long that you couldn’t remember meeting him.

There was no clear beginning to your friendship. No first introduction preserved in either of your memories. There had simply always been Mat.

Mat stealing pieces of fruit from your lunchbox during elementary school, Mat waiting outside your house with his bicycle discarded carelessly on your lawn, Mat convincing you to sit through hours of hockey practice because he promised to buy you hot chocolate afterward, Mat calling you from tournaments when he was supposed to be sleeping, whispering into the phone so his teammates wouldn’t hear him admit that he missed home.

You had been there before the packed arenas and screaming fans. Before the expensive suits, endorsement deals, magazine covers, and verified social media accounts. Before strangers began behaving as though they knew him because they watched him play hockey a few nights each week.

To you, he was still the boy who had broken your mother’s kitchen window while attempting to prove he could hit a tennis ball farther than you.

He was still the teenager who had shown up at your house after being drafted, clutching his new jersey in trembling hands because the magnitude of his dream coming true had finally overwhelmed him.

He was still your best friend.

And that was precisely why you had never allowed yourself to believe he could become anything more.

Mat’s arm was stretched along the back of your couch as he watched you move around your tiny apartment kitchen “You’re avoiding me,” he announced.

You didn’t turn around. “I’m making pasta.”

“You’ve been making pasta for forty minutes.”

“The sauce requires patience.”

“You poured it out of a jar.”

You glanced over your shoulder, glaring at him, Mat grinned, completely unbothered. He was wearing a dark sweatshirt and gray sweatpants, his hair still slightly damp from the shower he had taken after practice. He looked unfairly comfortable in your apartment, his long legs spread out beneath your coffee table like he lived there.

In some ways, he practically did.

He had a key. He kept extra clothes in the bottom drawer of your dresser. His preferred coffee creamer was permanently stocked in your refrigerator, despite the fact that you hated it. Your neighbors no longer blinked when they saw one of the most recognizable athletes in New York walking through the building with takeout bags balanced in his arms.

But during the past few weeks, something had shifted between you.

Mat had become more attentive than usual, More affectionate. He touched your waist when he moved behind you in the kitchen. He rested his hand on your thigh while you watched movies. He looked at you for too long, his expression softening whenever you caught him.

At first, you had tried to convince yourself it was nothing.

Mat was naturally affectionate. He hugged his teammates, kissed his mother’s cheek, and regularly invaded your personal space without invitation. It was simply who he was. Then he had asked you to attend the Islanders’ charity gala with him.

Not as his friend, as his date. You had laughed because you assumed he was joking, he hadn’t laughed with you. Since then, you had been avoiding the conversation “You still haven’t answered me,” Mat said.

You stirred the sauce even though it didn’t need stirring. “About what?”

“The gala.”

“I told you I’m working.”

“You’re not.” Your hand stopped, Mat leaned forward, resting his forearms against his knees. “Your coworker switched shifts with you.”

You slowly turned around. “How do you know that?”

“I asked.”

“You asked my coworker about my schedule?”

“I went to get coffee. She was there.”

“You hate the coffee from my job.”

“I don’t hate it.”

“You once said it tasted like boiled cardboard.”

“It does.” He shrugged. “But you work there.”

That was Mat’s irritatingly simple explanation for everything. Why had he sat in the corner of the café for four hours while you worked a double shift?

Because you worked there.

Why did he drive almost an hour through traffic to eat reheated leftovers in your apartment?

Because you lived there.

Why had he flown you to Vancouver when your mother had surgery, rearranging his entire offseason schedule without telling you?

Because you needed him.

He made devotion sound ordinary. As if loving you—in whatever way he loved you—was as natural as breathing. You turned back toward the stove. “I don’t want to go.”

“Why?”

“I just don’t.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

Mat stood. You heard his footsteps cross the kitchen before he stopped behind you, he didn’t touch you, although you could feel the heat of him against your back “Did I do something?” he asked quietly.

The vulnerability in his voice made your chest ache “No.”

“Then why have you barely looked at me since I asked you?”

“Because you shouldn’t have asked.” Silence filled the kitchen, you immediately regretted the words. When you turned, Mat was staring at you with his eyebrows drawn together “What does that mean?”

“It means you should take someone else.”

“I don’t want someone else.”

“You could have anyone.”

“I know.” The confidence of his answer irritated you more than it should have, you released a humorless laugh. “Right. Exactly.”

Mat’s frown deepened. “Exactly what?”

“You’re Mathew Barzal.”

“Yes. We established that about twenty-eight years ago.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I genuinely don’t.”

You switched off the stove and pushed past him, suddenly unable to stand inside the small kitchen with his body occupying most of the available space. Mat followed you into the living room “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There obviously is.”

“Can you please drop it?”

“No.”

You spun around. “Why not?”

“Because you’re my best friend, and you’ve been acting like I proposed that we rob a bank instead of asking you to come to a party with me.”

“It isn’t just a party.”

“It is to me.”

“You’ll be photographed.”

“So?”

“People will assume things.”

“What things?”

“That we’re together.”

Mat held your gaze, you waited for him to laugh. To look uncomfortable. To dismiss the possibility immediately. Instead, he took a step closer “Would that be so terrible?”

Your heart stumbled painfully “Mat.”

“What?”

“You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t mean them.”

His expression changed, the playful impatience disappeared, replaced by something quieter and more serious “You think I don’t mean it?”

“I think you’re confused.”

“I’m not.”

“You’ve been single for a while, and I’m familiar. I’m safe.”

“You are familiar. You are safe.” He paused. “Neither of those things means I’m confused.”

You folded your arms over your chest, attempting to protect yourself from a conversation you had spent years avoiding “Mat, please.”

“No. You don’t get to decide what I feel and then tell me I’m wrong.”

“I’m trying to save us from making a mistake.”

“Wanting you isn’t a mistake.” The words landed between you with enough force to steal your breath, Mat watched you carefully. There was no teasing in his expression. No uncertainty.

He meant it.

Somehow, that frightened you more, you shook your head. “You don’t want me.” His jaw tightened. “I just said I do.”

“You think you do.”

“Stop telling me what I think.”

“You date models, Mat.”

“I’ve dated two models.”

“That’s two more than most people.”

“What does that have to do with you?”

“Everything!” Your voice broke through the apartment, louder than you intended, Mat fell silent.

The embarrassment came immediately, burning across your face and down your neck. You looked away from him, fixing your gaze on the worn rug beneath your feet “You don’t understand,” you whispered.

“Then help me understand.”

You wanted to refuse.

You wanted to pretend there was nothing wrong, serve the pasta, and return to the comfortable version of your friendship where Mat was yours without truly belonging to you.

But he was standing there, waiting and perhaps you had grown tired of carrying the truth alone

“You belong with someone who fits into your life.”

“You fit into my life better than anyone.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean?”

You swallowed hard “A hockey girlfriend.”

Mat blinked. “What is a hockey girlfriend?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Someone beautiful. Someone who knows how to dress for events and looks good in every picture. Someone confident who can walk into a room full of strangers and doesn’t spend the entire night wondering if everyone is laughing at her.”

Mat’s face softened, but you continued before he could interrupt.

“Someone with an interesting career who doesn’t come home smelling like burnt coffee and cleaning products. Someone who doesn’t spend half her paycheck on rent for an apartment where the bedroom door doesn’t close properly.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the crooked door down the hallway “It really doesn’t close,” he admitted. You glared at him through the tears beginning to blur your vision “Not helping.”

“Sorry.”

You wiped beneath your eyes impatiently. “Someone skinny,” you forced yourself to add. “Someone who doesn’t have to change outfits six times because everything makes her feel enormous. Someone blond, probably, because that seems to be what hockey players like.”

“I like brunettes.”

“You’ve dated blonds.”

“I’ve also eaten raisins. That doesn’t mean they’re my preference.”

Despite yourself, a strangled laugh escaped you, Mat stepped closer, but you immediately moved back. His smile disappeared.

“You’re not listening,” you whispered. “People would look at us and wonder what you’re doing with me.”

“People wonder why I make half my decisions. I’m still allowed to make them.”

“I would embarrass you.”

“You could never embarrass me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I watched you throw up in a decorative planter at my cousin’s wedding.”

“I had food poisoning.”

“You drank eight glasses of sangria.”

“The fruit made it difficult to count.”

“My point is, we survived it.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“I know.” Mat’s voice softened, He closed the remaining distance slowly, giving you enough time to move away, you didn’t. “I know it isn’t funny,” he repeated. “But listening to you talk about yourself like this is killing me.”

You stared at the logo printed across his sweatshirt because looking into his eyes felt impossible. His fingers gently touched your wrist “Do you honestly think I care what color your hair is?”

“It isn’t only about my hair.”

“I know. You think you aren’t skinny enough. You think your job isn’t impressive enough. You think you’re too quiet, and that your clothes aren’t expensive, and that somehow any of that matters more than the fact that you’re you.”

“You make it sound simple.”

“It is simple to me.”

“Well, it isn’t to me.”

“I know.” His thumb moved slowly over the inside of your wrist “That’s the part I didn’t understand,” he admitted. “I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That I’ve been in love with you for years.” Your head snapped upward, Mat looked terrified.

Mat, who played in front of thousands of people. Mat, who faced reporters after terrible losses and tolerated strangers dissecting his every mistake. Mat, who had always seemed incapable of being intimidated by anything. He was terrified of you.

“You’re lying,” you breathed.

“I’m not.”

“You would have said something.”

“I tried.”

“When?”

“When we were seventeen and I asked if you’d ever date a hockey player.”

“You asked whether I would date Sidney Crosby.”

“I was testing the waters.”

“You chose the most famous hockey player in Canada.”

“I panicked.” A disbelieving laugh left you, Mat’s mouth lifted slightly “Then there was your twenty-first birthday,” he continued. “I tried to kiss you outside the restaurant.”

“You tripped.”

“I leaned in, you stepped backward then I tripped.”

“I thought you were drunk.”

“I was drunk. I was also trying to kiss you.”

Your mind searched through years of memories, suddenly rearranging moments you had misunderstood. The lingering hugs, the jealousy he denied whenever you dated someone, the way every girlfriend Mat had ever had seemed to dislike you before properly meeting you.

The late-night calls, the spare key, the coffee creamer, the fact that Mat always came home to you.

“You never said anything,” you whispered.

“You never acted like you wanted me to.”

“Because I didn’t think I was allowed to.”

His forehead creased. “Allowed?”

“You were my best friend. Then you became…” You gestured helplessly at him. “This.”

“A guy standing in your apartment?”

“A famous professional athlete.”

“I was already playing professional hockey when you made me drive across the city because you saw a spider.”

“It was huge.”

“It was the size of a blueberry.”

“It moved quickly.”

“You trapped it under a mixing bowl and put a chair on top of the bowl.”

“I didn’t want it escaping.”

Mat’s lips twitched, but his eyes remained serious “You never treated me differently,” he said. “Do you know how rare that is?”

“You’re still you.”

“And you’re still you.”

“That isn’t the same.”

“It is to me.”

He lifted your hand and pressed it against the center of his chest. Beneath your palm, his heart was beating rapidly “You think I need someone who understands the cameras and the events and all the other bullshit that comes with hockey,” he said. “I don’t. I need someone who understands me.”

Your fingers curled slightly against his sweatshirt.

“You know when I need space before I ask for it. You know I pretend I’m not upset after a bad game because I hate feeling like I disappointed people. You know I can’t sleep when I’m anxious, so you talk to me about absolutely nothing until I stop thinking.”

His hand covered yours “You knew me before anyone was watching. And after everyone started watching, you were the only person who still saw the same kid.”

“Mat…”

“You’re the first person I call when something good happens. You’re the person I want when everything goes wrong. When I picture going home, I don’t picture Coquitlam or New York. I picture wherever you are.”

Tears slipped silently down your cheeks, Mat released your hand only to cup your face “And for the record,” he continued, brushing one tear away with his thumb, “I think you’re beautiful.”

“You have to say that now.”

“I absolutely don’t.”

“You’re trying to convince me to date you.”

“I’m doing a terrible job if you still think I’d lie to accomplish that.”

You gave him a watery smile, his gaze moved over your face with such open affection that you almost had to look away “I love your hair,” he said. “Especially when you complain about it being impossible and then leave it all over my bathroom.”

“I have never used your bathroom.”

“You stayed at my place for three weeks while your building had a plumbing problem.”

“That was different.”

“I found a hair on my jersey months later.”

“Brunette hair is easily identifiable.”

“That’s not the argument you think it is.” You rolled your eyes, but Mat’s expression grew serious again “And I love your body.”

Your smile faded. His hands dropped from your face, resting carefully against your waist “Not despite anything,” he said. “Not because I’m being nice. I love you exactly as you are.”

You tensed instinctively beneath his touch, Mat noticed, he always noticed. His hands immediately loosened, but he didn’t remove them “You don’t have to believe everything tonight,” he whispered. “I know I can’t undo years of you feeling like you’re not enough in one conversation.”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever feel like enough for your world.”

“Then maybe my world needs to change.”

“You can’t change your entire life for me.”

“I’m not changing my life. I’m telling you that you’re already part of it.”

You looked at him, searching for hesitation, there was none “What about my job?”

“What about it?”

“It’s awful.”

“You hate it?”

“Most days.”

“Then I’ll support you while you find something you like. But I’m not embarrassed that you work at a café. You work harder than nearly everyone I know.”

“It isn’t glamorous.”

“Neither is hockey. I spend half my life in sweaty equipment with grown men yelling at me.”

“You earn millions of dollars.”

“That does improve it.”

You laughed again, shaking your head, Mat smiled, relief briefly softening his features, then his thumb brushed over your side “And you don’t need to become one of the women you see online,” he said. “You don’t have to dress like them or look like them or act like them. I don’t want a hockey girlfriend.”

“What do you want?”

“You.”

One simple word, it shouldn’t have been powerful enough to dismantle every defense you had built, but it did.

“I’m scared,” you admitted.

“I am too.”

“You don’t look scared.”

“I’ve been trying to tell my best friend I’m in love with her for ten minutes, and she keeps accusing me of having a blond fetish.” A surprised laugh burst from you, Mat grinned “There you are.”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are a little.”

“Only enough to stop you from crying.” His thumbs brushed beneath your eyes, you looked at him for a long moment “What happens if we ruin everything?”

“What happens if we don’t?”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“No, but it’s the question that has kept me awake for years.”

Your breath caught, Mat leaned closer, slowly enough that you understood exactly what he was asking. His forehead touched yours “I’m not asking you to suddenly become confident,” he whispered. “I’m not asking you to walk into that gala and pretend you aren’t nervous. You can spend the entire night holding my hand. We can leave after ten minutes. We can skip it completely and eat pasta here.”

“The sauce might be burned.”

“It came from a jar. We’ll recover.”

You closed your eyes briefly “What are you asking me for, then?”

“A chance.” His nose brushed yours.

“One real chance to love you the way I’ve wanted to.” Your heart was beating so hard you wondered whether he could feel it through the small distance between you “And if I’m terrible at this?”

“You’ve watched me attempt to assemble furniture. You know I have a high tolerance for failure.”

“You put an entire bookcase together backward.”

“The instructions were unclear.”

“They had pictures.”

“I was under pressure.” You smiled, your hands finally settling against his chest, Mat’s expression softened as he looked down at them, then he looked at you again “Can I kiss you?”

You had imagined this moment more times than you would ever admit.

In those fantasies, you had always been different. Thinner. More confident. Wearing something beautiful instead of old leggings and a faded sweater. Your hair had been styled, your skin perfect, and your hands hadn’t trembled when they reached for him.

But Mat wasn’t looking at an imaginary version of you, he was looking at you. The real you.

The woman who smelled faintly of tomato sauce and had cried hard enough that her eyes would be swollen in the morning and he still wanted you

“Yes,” you whispered.

Mat kissed you gently. There was no desperate urgency. No dramatic collision of mouths after years of suppressed feelings. It was soft, patient. His hand cupped the back of your neck while the other remained at your waist, anchoring you against him without pulling you closer than you were prepared to be.

It felt familiar and entirely new at once, like discovering that the home you had been searching for was the place where you had always lived.

When he pulled back, his lips remained close to yours “You okay?”

You nodded, dazed “That was…”

“Good?” he suggested.

“Unexpected.”

“I confessed my love first. There was some warning.”

You lightly shoved his chest, Mat laughed and caught your hand, bringing it to his mouth. His lips brushed your knuckles. The tenderness of the gesture made your chest tighten again “You really want me to go to the gala with you?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“As your date?”

“Yes.”

“People might say things.”

“People always say things.”

“What if they don’t think I’m pretty enough for you?”

Mat’s amusement disappeared, he brought your hand back to his chest “Then they’ll be wrong.”

“It won’t bother you?”

“It’ll bother me that it hurts you.” He paused. “But it won’t make me question you and it definitely won’t make me ashamed of you.”

You studied his face “What will you do if someone asks who I am?”

A slow smile spread across his lips “I’ll tell them you’re the girl I’ve been in love with since I was seventeen.”

Your cheeks warmed “You cannot tell reporters that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s embarrassing.”

“For you or for me?”

“For me. You apparently have no shame.”

“Correct.”

You rested your forehead against his chest, hiding your face, Mat wrapped both arms around you. His cheek settled against the top of your head, and for several quiet seconds, neither of you spoke.

You could hear the rhythmic beating of his heart “You know,” he murmured, “my mom is going to be unbearable.”

Your stomach dropped. “Your mom?”

“She has been waiting for this since we were kids.”

“She knows?”

“Everyone knows.”

You pulled back sharply. “Everyone?”

“My parents. Your parents. My sister. Half my childhood friends.”

“And nobody told me?”

“They assumed you knew.”

“I didn’t know!”

“Apparently, I was obvious.”

“You dated other people.”

“I was trying to move on.”

The admission erased your outrage “Did it work?”

Mat looked at you as though the answer was self-evident “I’m standing in your apartment while pasta burns behind us.” Your eyes widened “The pasta!”

You rushed toward the kitchen, but Mat caught you around the waist before you could escape, a laugh left you as he pulled you back against his chest. “Let it burn,” he murmured, pressing his face into your hair.

“I haven’t eaten since lunch.”

“I’ll order something.”

“You complain every time I order delivery.”

“I’m feeling generous.”

“You’re only saying that because you finally kissed me.”

“Exactly. This is the happiest day of my life.”

“You were drafted into the NHL.”

“Second happiest.”

“You won the Calder.”

“Third.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love me.” The words stilled you, Mat seemed to realize what he had said at the same moment. His grip loosened slightly, giving you room to step away.

You didn’t.

You turned in his arms “I do,” you admitted quietly. Hope transformed his entire face “I’ve loved you for years. I just never thought I could have you.”

Mat’s eyes shone as he leaned down “You’ve always had me.” This kiss was different. Still gentle, but no longer tentative.

Mat kissed you like someone who had spent years waiting for permission. Like someone finally arriving at the destination he had been moving toward his entire life and for the first time, you allowed yourself to believe him.

Not completely.

The insecurities didn’t disappear because Mat loved you. You knew there would be difficult days. Photographs you would hate. Comments you shouldn’t read but inevitably would. Events where you would compare yourself to every woman in the room.

Loving Mat wasn’t going to magically teach you how to love yourself.

But when you finally attended the gala two weeks later, wearing a simple dark dress you had nearly returned three times, Mat looked at you as though every other person in the room had vanished.

He didn’t release your hand when the cameras began flashing, he didn’t hurry you through the photographs when you stiffened beside him, Instead, he leaned toward your ear “You look beautiful.”

“You’ve said that twelve times.”

“I’m trying to make it thirteen.”

“You don’t have to keep reassuring me.”

“I know.”

His fingers intertwined with yours.

“I want to.”

A reporter called Mat’s name and asked him to identify the woman standing beside him. You felt his hand tighten around yours, Mat looked at you first.

A silent question. You swallowed your fear and nodded, his smile was immediate “This is YN,” he said proudly. “My girlfriend.”

The title sent a wave of warmth through your chest.

Another reporter asked how you had met, Mat’s smile softened as he glanced at you “She’s my childhood best friend.”

“And now?”

His eyes never left yours “Now she’s finally letting me take her on a proper date.”

The reporters laughed, but you barely heard them. Mat lifted your joined hands and kissed your knuckles.

You knew the photographs would spread online before you even reached your table, you knew strangers would have opinions.

Some would call you beautiful. Others wouldn’t understand. A few might decide you weren’t thin enough, glamorous enough, or interesting enough to stand beside him.

But Mat wasn’t looking at them, he was looking at you.

The brunette girl from Coquitlam who had sat through his hockey practices and answered his midnight phone calls, the girl with the tiny apartment and the terrible job. The girl who had never believed someone like Mathew Barzal could choose her.

Except Mat hadn’t chosen you because he had become famous and suddenly noticed you standing nearby.

He had chosen you when you were children, he had chosen you through every city, every season, and every version of himself. And when the room became too loud, Mat leaned down and whispered the truth he intended to spend the rest of your lives proving.

Contents -

𓇢𓆸 One | Parallel Lines | 2.6k words

𓇢𓆸 Two | Absence | 2.9k words

𓇢𓆸 Three | Lessons in Restraint | 2.1k words

𓇢𓆸 Four | A Gallery of Ghosts | 2.2k words

𓇢𓆸 Five | Familiarity | 2.5k words

𓇢𓆸 Six | Second Chances | 2.5k words

ACOTAR Masterlist

A/n - As always content warnings will be at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.

Another requested one! I'll admit I was a little nervous writing this because I wanted to handle it carefully and do the emotions justice. Hopefully it's what you were looking for anon—this one took me a while to get right :)

It's a second-chance romance centred around healing, distance and finding your way back to someone even after things fall apart. A little bittersweet at times, but full of love all the same xx

Contents -

⚲ One | The Collision | 2.1k words

⚲ Two | Sparked by Fate | 3.3k words

⚲ Three | A Figure in the Dark | 2.5k words

⚲ Four | Gold Light and Fast Rides | 2.3k words

⚲ Five | Something Sweet | 3k words

⚲ Six | Unavoidable | 2.5k words

ACOTAR Masterlist

A/n - As always content warnings will be at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.

Another requested fic, and I had so much fun writing it! The meet-cute is... intense, and fate seems determined to keep throwing these two together at every turn ;) 

It's a shorter story, but packed with sparks, flirty banter, and, of course, motorcycle chaos (my bike knowledge mostly came from Google, but I did my best x)

Contents -

✎𓂃 One | Tension and Theories | 2.1k words

✎𓂃 Two | A Study in Power | 2k words

✎𓂃 Three | Behind Closed Doors | 2.5k words

✎𓂃 Four | Thin Ice | 2.1k words

✎𓂃 Five | Lose Control | 2.1k words

✎𓂃 Six | A Step Too Far | 2.2k words

✎𓂃 Seven | The Great War | 2.1k words

✎𓂃 Eight | No Turning Back | 2.2k words

ACOTAR Masterlist

A/n - This series will include content warnings at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.

This was a requested fic, and honestly... writing it was way too much fun. I practically devoured every word like I was genuinely excited every single time I sat down to write. The whole concept? Steamy, sinful, and absolutely delicious x

In my very humble opinion, this is some of my best work yet—I was so into it, tweaking every scene, perfecting every moment of tension, and savouring every flirty glance and stolen touch :)

He purses his mouth involuntarily when a girl sitting in front of him on the bus has her hair gathered in a ponytail that reveals the nape of her neck. She’s wearing a thin chain necklace that pulls on the tiny hairs. His hands itch to brush the skin and untangle the mess carefully, then place the whole breadth of his palm there, from tendon to tendon, to ease the sting. Before he gets to live his life’s most torrid affair, the girl yanks on the chain viciously, plucking out singular strands with a small hiss, and gets off the bus.

When he falls in love again, he is disastrously unready for the prospect of permanence. Handshakes and congratulations muttered over keys passed to the flat next door have far too much of long-term arrangement about them for his peace of mind. Duncan’s beloved of today is wearing paint-stained dungarees, the knees pushed out and sagging with age. Her hair is messy and her cheek smudged with dust. Her socks do not match either. She’s thanking the building manager with glassy eyes and a smile pulled so wide she looks about to cry.

The manager delivers one last pat to her back, then reveals Duncan’s presence by bidding him a quick, “Morning.” Duncan nods once, then keeps his head down as he passes by. Before descending the staircase, he allows himself one last glance: you sigh, pause, and step into your flat. Certainty floods him cold: he’s in love with his neighbour.

He spends the day at work trying to reason with himself. You are only one girl who happens to live on the other side of his bedroom wall. Duncan hardly ever sees the other neighbours as it is. For all he knows, you keep odd hours and spend weekends elsewhere and have a boyfriend already hanging pictures in that flat in his head. If luck is willing to show him some mercy, he will not be sentenced to pine after the girl next door. By lunch he has bargained himself into a kind of peace. By the end of the day, he almost believes it.

Then he comes home.

Your door is ajar. Passing by, Duncan catches through the crack the beginning of a new life. The hallway yawns open to the room beyond, where a mattress—not nearly wide enough for two—lies on the floor with its sheets crumpled up in a twist. There is a mug sitting on the windowsill with a teabag string dangling over the rim. A charger. A few cardboard boxes hunch by the wall, half-opened and all of it kills him a bit with tender, domestic ache. You’re really here, starting from scratch.

From deeper in the flat comes your voice, frayed by an argument with a consultant. It grows louder. Nearer. Duncan finds what is left of his wit and slips past as quietly as he can, key already in hand. He is through his own threshold and turning the lock on a held breath before you come into view. A second later, your door slams shut hard enough to carry through the wall. He hears you thank someone over the phone tightly and end the call. Then, he catches the cutest little growl of frustration he’s heard in his life. When he closes his eyes he can see you again in all your disarrayed glory and decides the girls from cafés and pubs and buses may as well pack it in, and Duncan is in trouble.

He wakes the next day hoping the universe will spare him permanence, only to get sucker-punched by the sight of you fighting your post box in the main hall. The same girlish growl he already knows leaves you when the box will not budge (despite you asking it very nicely by rattling the lock with the key stuck inside it). He tries to disguise his gasp and it comes out as a dumb, hiccuped chuckle, which, of course, gets your attention.

“Is something funny?” you ask, face dangerously frowned, yet still the prettiest thing Duncan’s ever seen.

“N-no. No,” he gulps, loudly. “You have to, uh… bully it a bit. Here—can I?”

His hands come out and you step away at once, making Duncan wonder whether it is because you believe his good intentions, or is it merely his intimidating size.

He leans in, presses on the little door and turns the key between his fingers until it clicks.

Your eyes are on him, bewildered. “That’s ‘bullying’ in your world?”

Duncan shrugs. “I mean…”

“Good to know.” Before he realises what is happening, your palm is out and disappearing in his, and he learns your name, and from this moment he will remember it forever. “Thirteen C,” you add, as if he has not noticed.

“Duncan,” he says. “Fifteen C.”

“Yeah, I know,” you say, smiling.

“So, err… how’s it going?”

“Alright. Just getting to…” Your eyes drag to the post box, then back to him. “—you know. Oh, um… it might get a bit”—your fingers pinch together to present what a bit means—“loud over the weekend. I’m having furniture delivered and I have to assemble it.”

That is it. Duncan’s heart behaves as if it has somehow acquired a brain of its own and is currently attempting an escape by slicing his chest open, lest he say something normal. Words pour out of his mouth and, to him, they sound like begging.

“D’you need a hand? I could—” As he speaks, you go still. Your eyes drop, and Duncan falters at once. “Unless you’ve that sorted already,” he says. “I only meant—I’m good with carrying, is all.”

After a beat, there’s a nod. “Yes,” you say, and Duncan realises you are nervous. “God, okay, yes. I’ve no one. I’m not even going to pretend I’m competent, or that it’s an easy job. My delivery company insists that we’ve agreed on a downstairs drop-off and it’s a ton of bookshelves. If you were just being nice, that’s absolutely fine though. God, sorry,” you mumble, holding your throat. “Moving is stressful.”

He has never seen awkwardness to match his own packed into someone so lovely. He feels an impossible urge to hug you, but knows that could make his affair fleeting, and suddenly finds himself wanting the opposite. “I wasn’t. I mean—I was. I’d gladly help. I’ve the weekend off.”

“Wicked,” you say, a shy curve on your mouth. “They come at eight on Saturday. That works?”

“It does. Yeah,” Duncan says, nodding once, then again, as if the second one might make him sound less like a man who has just been handed a winning lottery ticket in broad daylight. “That works. I’ll, uh… catch you later.”

He turns on his heel and starts back upstairs like a fool.

“Weren’t you heading out?” you ask.

He stops so abruptly he nearly misses the next step. “Right,” he says, and clears his throat. “I was actually—” Jerks a thumb towards the front door, then has to come back down past you with what dignity he can gather. “Going to work.”

Your smile does something unhelpful to his insides. “Thought so.”

“Yeah.” He gives a small nod. “So. Saturday.”

“Saturday,” you echo.

“Deadly.” The word slips out on its own. Duncan feels his ears burn. “I mean—good. Grand. I’ll see you then.”

He goes before his tongue can betray him any further, out through the front door and into the morning with his heart beating high in his throat, having managed to turn a straightforward goodbye into a full display of personal deficiency in under thirty seconds.

And deadly he is. You’re left smiling and so struck, it takes you another thirty seconds to clock that you are wearing an absurdly torn T-shirt, pyjama shorts and mountain climbing boots (classic just going to check mail assembly). Then another five to release a breath.

You were a bit too overwhelmed by the sight of your own four naked walls and a slice of floor to sleep on when you first saw him to assess him properly. Now, though—eyes, first and foremost. Huge, and blue and with lashes that belong on a doll rather than on a grown-up man. Proportional to the rest of him, which is also huge in a way that makes you feel safe and taken care of, not hunted.

Then his voice, which sits warm in your ear after he is gone, low and soft and careful with every word. His face: freckles over the bridge of his nose and across his cheeks, hair that cannot decide whether it is dark blond or ginger, and a blush that rises so easily it almost seems unfair on a man built like that. And his arms—Christ on a stick. They look as if they could hug any worry clean out of you. Crowning all of it is the most endearing smile, all crooked teeth, which he seems to reach for whenever the colour in his face becomes unbearable. Absolutely dear lad.

And he has agreed to spend the weekend with you, playing adult Lego with IKEA bookshelves. An offer you probably shouldn't have accepted, but he’s a sweetheart who, by all rights, ought to take up space more confidently than he does. Instead he ducks his head, fumbles his goodbye and flees, leaving you with your lip bitten raw.

You know damn well it is entirely unwise to develop a crush on your neighbour. Nevertheless, the tiny voice in the back of your head is already chanting, please don’t be a psycho, please don’t be a psycho.

The rest of the day you spend pointlessly cleaning the space that will get obliterated by dust and cardboard come weekend anyway, then listening to his footsteps through the wall in the evening. Saturday, you realise, while you have been busy making goo-goo eyes at him, you completely forgot to give him any actual logistics. Where are you meant to meet? Who carries what? How much time does he have?

You knock on his door at 7:45 a.m. and might as well just kiss the doorknob. Nothing. Try again, and still nothing. By the time the phone starts vibrating in your hand with an unknown number, your stomach has already dropped low enough to bruise. The delivery driver is downstairs. They are waiting for a signature. You swear, apologise, swear again and hang up feeling like an absolute clown for ever believing a kind stranger was something that just happened to you.

When you get down to the main hall, Duncan is already there. Waiting. In jeans and a white T-shirt with paint stains set so deep into it they look permanent. The sight of him hits you hard enough to wipe your mind for a second. Broad shoulders. Sleep still clinging somewhere about his face. Hair not fully decided yet. He turns at the sound of you coming and your heart gives one awful, hopeful kick.

“I thought you, uh—hi,” you say.

“Morning,” he says, straightening. There is a crease between his brows, like he has been wondering where you got to. “Sorry. I went down when I heard the van.” His eyes flick over your face quickly, then away. “You all right?”

That lands badly enough in your chest that you have to clear your throat before answering. “Yeah. Yes. I just thought you’d changed your mind.”

The blush comes up at once, easy as breath. “No,” he says. “No, I’m here.” His eyes flick to the heap of boxes crowding the entrance, then back to you. “And thank God, it seems. How many bookshelves d’you need, anyway?”

You shrug, already flustered. “I have a lot of books?”

Something in his face gives. Worse than a mockery—a smile. “Right.”

The delivery men are in no mood for inept romance. They want signatures, directions, confirmation that yes, all of this misery belongs to you. Duncan takes the handheld scanner from one of them before you can fumble it, passes it back, then bends to the first box with the ease of a man picking up a child’s toy. You stand there a second too long watching his forearms jump under the weight and have to jolt yourself back into usefulness.

So, it’s carry the lighter things. A flat-packed desk. Narrow boxes of shelves. Bags of fittings that clatter and bruise your shins. Duncan gets the proper monsters: the long boxes that seem designed to take out the ankles of whoever dares lift them, the thick ones packed with boards, the pieces that turn every staircase into an insult. By the second trip, his white T-shirt is sticking to the middle of his back. By the third, you have learned that the muscles there move under cotton in a way that ought to be regulated. He goes up the stairs with a box balanced on one shoulder and one hand free for the rail, and every time he turns sideways to clear the landing, you get some fresh reason to stop believing in a merciful god.

“Sorry,” you mutter for the fifth time, wrestling a carton through your front door.

“What for?”

“For owning things.”

He ducks under the doorframe with another box. “Bit late for that.”

You laugh despite yourself. He smiles without looking at you, sets the load down exactly where it needs to go and is gone again before you can decide whether to stare at his back or his hands.

Eventually, the entrance hall gets empty, so the one outside your flat can look as though a Scandinavian warehouse has exploded. Inside is worse. Cardboard everywhere. Thick white foam. Plastic corners. Long, baffling pieces of wood in shades with names no tree has ever deserved. You are sweaty and breathing through your mouth. Duncan wipes the back of his wrist across his forehead and leaves a pale streak through the dust there.

You lean against the wall and attempt a joke through your lungs. “If you’re fed up, I can probably handle the rest alone.”

His head comes up at once. “What, you’re kicking me out before the best part?”

“You think this is the best part?”

The blush arrives with such force it nearly does him an injury. “I meant—” He huffs a laugh at himself and looks down. “The building. The shelves.”

“Right,” you say. “The shelves.”

“Mm.”

You let him suffer for one beat longer than strictly kind, then rescue him. “Tea?”

He looks at you with real gratitude. “Go on, then.”

The kettle buys you both a little grace. For a while, it works. He tears through cardboard, stacks the big pieces, gets the general logic of things faster than seems fair. He is excellent at the parts requiring weight, reach or brute confidence. When you come back with two mugs though, Duncan is crouched in the middle of your floor among split boxes and hardware, reading the leaflets with an expression usually reserved for bad news from the doctor.

You pass him a cup, and he mutters an absent, “Ah, thanks, luv,” making your stomach twist. Goes back to frowning. Squinting, while holding the paper a little further away. Then further still, arm almost fully extended. His eyes narrow into slits. He turns the page one way, then the other, like Satan himself may be written on the back in clearer print. Under his breath, he whispers, “Shite.”

You are beginning to enjoy yourself immensely. “Everything all right there?”

“Mm.”

That is plainly a lie. His jaw sets, and finally he reaches into the pocket of his jeans. Out comes a pair of glasses so practical and slightly old-fashioned they look as though they have been with him longer than some friendships. He puts them on with the air of a man making a grave concession to weakness.

You nearly go through the floor. The lenses give him the most ridiculous, endearing bug-eyes. Not distorted exactly, but gentled, opened up. Softer, somehow. Boyish in a way the rest of him does not allow. He glances up and catches you looking.

“What?” he says, already half-defensive.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not lying.” You set your mug down very carefully. “You just look…”

He waits. There are a hundred things you could say and none of them are survivable. Dear. Ridiculous. So lovely it hurts. You land on, “Serious.”

Duncan snorts, unconvinced, and looks back at the paper. “This thing was written by the devil.”

You kneel beside him and lean in. The leaflet rustles between you. Up close, his shoulder is warm. So is the line of his thigh where it nearly touches yours through old denim. He smells of soap and sweat broken by honest work.

“I thought it was the best part,” you say, forcing your gaze onto the tiny drawings instead of his glasses.

Duncan glances up. “Best part’s the company,” he says, and with those huge eyes behind wire frames, your crush leaves the realm of manageable things entirely.

He doesn’t really know what he’s doing. This, leastways, feels natural: helping. And it gives him enough space to push through anxiety and have something like a conversation with you. Nothing that would make his ridiculous in-love feeling flee has happened yet, so Duncan allows it to persist. At least as long as he gets to spend time with you assembling bookshelves.

That goes as expected: he’s tormented by your hands brushing his whenever you pass him a screw. Then by his own indignity at being unable to work with the smaller bits, where you step in—much too close for safety—with your nice-smelling hair and cute jokes. “Whatever would you do without me, hm?” you say, turning the smallest Allen key Duncan’s ever seen.

He clears his throat. “Uh… let’s see. Watch telly? Go down the pub for a game? Go running?”

“How utterly boring,” you mutter, focused on the task.

Duncan nearly rests his chin in one hand. “I know. I consider myself saved.”

You smile. Huff at the key refusing to go any further and deem your job done. “Alright,” you say, then deliver one more nail to his coffin. Your hand comes up to lift the hair off the back of your neck and cool off. He immediately goes to judge the kissability of it. Duncan, who in his lifetime has inspected necks’ napes in abundance, considers himself an expert on the matter. The verdict: yours is everything-able. Grabbable. Lickable. Kissable, and when he focuses enough he can imagine it smells heavenly too. Before he can blink himself out of it, you turn and ask, “Hungry?”

“Always,” Duncan says, and curses internally at how breathy he sounds. “Where d’you want these?” he asks, pointing at the whopping four assembled bookshelves, which currently create a little maze in your living room/dining room/bedroom—a room serving as all three.

“Oh, wherever you think,” you say, already scrolling through the food ordering app. That one hits him square in the gut, being allowed to do something domestic in the home of a girl he’s known for not even a week and is still deeply, hopelessly fallen for.

When he’s put everything where it looks best, you reappear with two beers in hand. He’s managed to find himself a spot on the floor where he’s sitting cross-legged, fully engrossed in the manual of the furniture already assembled, and your mind briefly goes to what it would feel like to wedge yourself onto those thighs.

You pass him a bottle, plop down next to him, and say, “Got us pizza. Fastest.”

“Grand,” he says. Leans back, trying to find something to stare at that is not your feet. “So—” The bottles clink. “How’s it feeling?” he asks, then pauses to watch you down half of yours in approximately five greedy gulps and chuckles, all helpless.

“Jesus, sorry.” You stop when you catch him staring like you have grown horns. Wipe your mouth. “It’s, um… less echo-y. Weird. But good. Like I’m starring in a rom-com. Oh shi—”

One of the shelves tips and starts falling face-flat. Duncan is up before you can properly register him moving, catching it with one hand.

“Got it. Got it. Yeah, the floors.” He wedges a folded bit of cardboard underneath to keep it straight. “They’re round as the earth.”

You blink, then slam the bottle onto the floor so hard some beer erupts from the neck. “Fuck, so I was right all along? It does feel like I’m going downhill from that corner.”

“Seems you were,” Duncan says, sitting back down. “Got to screw those to the walls, or you might get flattened in the night.” He points out the trajectory of it. If it went, it would go straight for the mattress. “We can do it tomorrow?”

“Two days in a row? Guess I bought you dinner, so everything’s by the book,” you mutter, and Duncan chokes on his beer. “Sorry. God, sorry. It’s the beer, I promise I’m not an obnoxious neighbour.”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “If that’s obnoxious, I’d say I’m managing.”

You blink at that, then smile fully, teeth and all, and Duncan counts them before licking the backs of his own in a poor imitation of what it might be like to kiss you.

You turn towards him and lower your voice. “So you’re saying I should keep plying you with pizza and lager?”

There is a crust of dust in the corner of your eye. A strand of hair curled at your temple. The hinge of your jaw, where he would gladly suck a pretty pale bruise, just so you’d remember him as a man who leaves souvenirs. The collar of your T-shirt is darkened with sweat, and he can smell it and wants to press his nose there. On the floor between you, your hands point towards each other, fingers a hair’s breadth apart. He has half a mind to lean in.

The buzzer goes off roaring so suddenly you jump.

“God, that’s… loud,” you say. “One minute.”

The pizza arrives in a flurry of apologies, change, the brief humiliation of you having to shoulder the sticking front door with your hip. By the time you come back, Duncan has schooled his face into something he hopes resembles a man here for neighbourly reasons and not because he is one missed interruption away from pressing you into a wall so you can learn another purpose for all this strength.

You sit on the floor to eat because there is nowhere else to do it. The box goes between you. Grease blooms through the paper. Your knee knocks his once and stays there just long enough to keep his heart misbehaving.

The conversation comes in starts. Where you moved from. Whether the building is always this loud. How many books is too many books. He tells you he works mornings more often than not; you tell him this move has already shortened your life by a year. He laughs when you do impressions of the delivery men. You laugh when he tells you the names of the shelves sound like obscure illnesses. It should feel awkward. It does, a little. It also feels good enough that Duncan keeps forgetting to be shy until his own voice brings him back to himself.

He does not want to go. He knows he should. So he puts on the fakest yawn of his life, stretches his arms over his head for effect and says, “Right. Better leave you to it.”

Your face falls so slightly he almost calls it back.

“What time d’you want me tomorrow?” he asks, before he can stop himself.

That brings you back at once. “Whenever works for you.”

Duncan nods like a man with options. “I could do ten?”

“Ten’s perfect.”

“Good.” He gets to his feet and brushes nonexistent dust from his jeans. “I’ll see you then.”

When he leaves, it is with pizza marrying lager in his stomach, your laugh in his ears, and the growing suspicion that the universe has no intention of sparing him permanence at all.

He lies awake in bed, acutely aware that you are just behind the wall, and snorts helplessly into his pillow when a loud Fuck! follows a loud bang—presumably a toe fallen victim to one of the corners in the dark.

There is something insanely erotic to Duncan about a girl who lets him in and allows him to see the raw bones. No objects yet to hide behind or define yourself with; all he gets is your personality, stripped right down, and the version of you made intimate by imperfection. The one whose socks are nearly brown on the soles from cardboard dust, whose fingernails are dark beneath the crescents from handling metal bits all day, who stops herself from downing a whole bottle of beer only because he, in his dumbness, looked at her sideways.

And it feels nothing like his other crushes, which lived in perfect sealed-off vignettes, girls caught on their way somewhere else. You are going nowhere. Better: you are trying to stay. And Duncan has the honour of watching and helping it happen.

On Sunday he is ready at ten sharp and knocking on your door. His hair is still wet, and he is standing there with two coffees because he has no idea whether you have managed to unpack the coffee pot yet. That is the only reason.

Your voice comes muffled from inside. “Coming! One sec—”

He hears fumbling. Water running. Something hits tile and you hiss, “Shit!”

When you open the door, you look like you have only just dragged your shirt down over your back. Your hair is lifted with static. Your feet are bare, and Duncan has to force his eyes up from them. There he finds the corner of your mouth whitened with a trace of toothpaste.

“Hi. Sorry, I overslept,” you say, flattening your hair down with both palms.

“D’you want me to come back later?”

“No! No,” you say. “I’m up, promise. Also, is that for me?” Your finger points at the cups.

“No, luv. Brought them so I could drink two coffees in front of you.”

He presses one into your hands. You snort, then step out of the way. The hallway is narrow enough that he has to turn sideways to get through, and your stomachs still brush faintly. Duncan stops dead, points at his own mouth. “You’ve got a little—”

Your hand flies up and scrubs at your mouth with alarming force. You huff, embarrassed. “Sorry. I don’t drool, it’s just toothpaste.”

“Thank God.” A smile, unguarded and crooked and just so dear you want to squish his cheeks. 

He steps in fully and is met by the sight of the place properly gutted this time. Boxes split open. Books in tottering stacks. Fragile things wrapped in newspaper. Clothes half-freed from bin bags. He crouches over one of the boxes nearest to him, whistles low, and lifts out a hardback thick enough to stun a horse.

“What have we here? Remember how we talked about how many books is too many books yesterday? This—”

Then he leans further into the box, and mind leaves your body.

His shirt rides up over his loins. The muscles there rise in two thick ridges either side of his spine. They deepen the groove between them, pull his waistband tight, make a gap between skin and denim that would fit a flat palm perfectly. Fucking biteable, is what they are. Unbearably hot. You could live there, happy and fed and entirely unbothered, your cheek resting in the well of his back. It doesn’t help at all that his butt is as round as your floors which are as round as the earth.

It takes him a second to turn. When he does, he looks almost pleased with himself. “This is too many books, lass,” he announces. The lass does not help either. His brow pulls in. “Hey. You good?”

“Hm?” you hum, and bury the lower half of your face in the coffee cup in a futile attempt to hide the heat of it. “Yeah. Hunky-dory. And there is no such thing as too many books, Duncan.”

“You can call me Dunk. Friends do.” He stands then, book still in hand, and your body takes that as fresh bad news. “Right,” he says. “You ready?”

“As ever. Are you? I see no glasses.”

Something bright flickers across his face. He sets the book down, reaches into his back pocket and produces the case with a little flourish. Flips the arms open with both thumbs and settles the glasses on his nose like a man about to perform surgery.

“There,” he says. “Happy now, lass?”

“Very.” You clear your throat. “Okay. What should I do?”

He looks round your flat, glasses low on his nose, taking stock. “Might be better to clear some of this first,” he says. “Leave the drilling till later. We’ve the desk still, don’t we?”

Yes, unfortunately. So you unpack the desk while Duncan deals with the cardboard. He breaks boxes down with an efficiency that ought to be illegal, folds them once, twice, then stamps them flat under one boot. It should not do what it does to you, that sound, that force, that careless certainty of a body built to make stubborn things give way, but it does. Repeatedly. By the time he hauls the broken-down mountain downstairs, you need a moment so badly it arrives without asking.

You end up spread flat on the floor, muttering, “Fuck, fucking fuck,” into the air, heels of your palms pressed into your eyesockets hard enough to make your vision exist only in shades of black.

The front door opens quietly. A few steps, and: “Tired already?” Duncan asks.

Off with your head, then. When you look up, he is standing over you with the ceiling nearly on his shoulders. Not really. It only feels that way. A sigh. “Just… regrouping,” you say.

His mouth twitches. He puts a hand out. “C’mere, wee thing. It’s nearly done.”

It stirs your lower belly hot. So does the sight of his hand waiting for yours, broad and open and patient. You give him your arm because the other option is to reject it and scramble yourself up in an entirely undignified way. His palm closes round your elbow. Instead of yanking, he lifts steadily, calmly, as if you simply have no weight. The pressure of him stays even once you are upright. He is still holding you when you straighten fully, and for one daft second you let him.

“Right,” you say, smoothing your hands down your jeans. “I just need some water. Do you want some?”

He nods and follows you into the kitchen.

You reach up for the glasses from the top cupboard. There are only two unpacked. Duncan notices that at once. Notices, too, the way your shirt rides with the stretch and catches there above your hip, folded back on itself, leaving a strip of stomach bare. He feels it clean in the chest. Affection and neighbourly feelings that somehow have managed to fester into want, plain and greedy. He wants a lot, he realises. And he’s certain he’s obvious as daylight in it, and so engrossed in his own inadequacy things elude him.

What he misses is that you are no less obvious, only quieter. The way you hand him the glass so your fingers drag against his and stay a fraction too long. The way you drink from yours fast, quenching thirst that water has nothing to do with. The way your eyes travel down the line of his jaw to his throat as he swallows, unabashed for a second before you blink and pull them back.

Thank god he cannot read minds. Yours is all clatter. He looks right in here. In your kitchen, such as it is. A bit sweaty. A bit messy. Big enough to crowd the room without trying. The flat already warmer and more lived in for having him inside it. And you want him to stay so badly it makes your palms damp round the glass. Spoken aloud, it would sound ridiculous. Inside your head, it has already settled into fact.

You clear your throat and look anywhere but at his mouth. “Right,” you say. “If we stand here much longer, that desk will build itself out of spite.”

That gets a smile out of him. Small. Crooked. Ruinous. “Can’t have that.”

So, the desk gets built. The shelves end up arranged into a final, satisfying shape which, if everything goes to plan, will make a small home library. Duncan measures them up, shifts them by inches, squints, steps back, shifts them again, makes them line as evenly as the old building allows and does the bulk of the work with the drill. You end up his nurse, passing him sleeves and screws when he asks, holding things steady where he tells you, fetching the bits that roll away.

At one point he grunts and squints at the wall with such offence in his face that you ask, “Did BILLY say something rude?”

He snorts. “No. But I might need your hawk eyes here, luv.”

“I see,” you tease. “I’ll tell you a secret. Can’t see shit from afar. I suppose that makes us one properly sighted person between us.”

The prospect of making something whole with you is so enticing Duncan nearly misses the fact that you have slipped under his arm and then between his biceps. From there he gets your neck again. The shape of the space behind your ear. The little hollow where he decides his fingers would sit perfectly, cradling your head while he kissed you stupid. He puts all his strength into pressing the shelf to the wall while you screw the tiny bits in, holds his breath and prays for his body to behave. The space between his stomach and your back is so narrow he could close it in one step. Then he could bury his nose in your nape. Then—

He blinks against the thought so hard something scratches his eyeball. “Bloody fu—” he mutters, trying to wipe his face against his shoulder.

You feel the shift and turn your head a little. “You all right?”

“Yeah, just… something in my eye. Dust, I—”

You crane your neck first, then turn in the cage of his body. Set the screwdriver down. Dust your hands off on your jeans. “Hold it,” you say. “Come here.”

Dear Lord above.

Your hands reach for him. One finds the bridge of his glasses and pushes them up till they catch in his hair. The other comes to his cheek. Then both of them are there, cool skin, cradling his face as you pull him down to your height and look straight into the ruined eye. Duncan goes still from boots to teeth.

“D’you see it?” he chokes out.

“Yeah. Just an eyelash. Long one,” you mutter.

Your knuckle comes to his lid and draws it down gently. The eyelash—a brown curved thing, outrageous in its prettiness, like he has put a bloody curler to it—works itself loose, catches him once more for spite, then blinks far enough free for you to pinch it between thumb and forefinger. You hold it up in front of him, forgetting he likely cannot make out a thing without his glasses.

“There,” you say. “Better?”

“Can’t see it, but I believe you,” Duncan breathes.

He stays bent over you, close enough that the freckles show one by one. You could count them if given the time. You want the time. All day, if possible. Or a year. All year to count them and then find out whether they continue elsewhere. He licks his lips once and then keeps very still, save for the faint trembling in the arms.

You pull him a fraction lower. Then another.

Duncan looks like he wants to say something and rejects each option in real time. His mouth opens. Shuts. When he thinks you are about to kiss him, you slide his glasses back down onto the bridge of his nose and he makes the smallest wounded sound in his throat, near enough a whine to count. But you keep coming. Closer. Closer. He can feel your breath wash warm over the tip of his nose, over his upper lip. Then your mouths are there, set together already, the contact made and held. Soft and dry with the day. Neither of you moving. Both of you letting the other back out if they want it badly enough. There are no takers. 

Duncan closes his eyes. His voice comes out low and strained. “C’mon, girl. Give me something.”

“This?” you say, and then move. And god, what a movement that is. He feels it everywhere. In his toes, where you step on them to lengthen your reach, and he welcomes that weight. On his scalp, where your fingernails scratch him so deliciously a shiver skitters down his spine, making his hips move forth. On his upper lip that gets framed by both of yours and then his mouth opens and his tongue slips out and Duncan is so trustful of his own work his palms finally leave the shelf. They come to gather what there is of you. He wraps you all tight and around in his arms, sets his hands on your waist and hip and with it you lift a little, and in that lift Duncan’s kissing his neighbour.

His glasses get skewed. He steps away from the bookcase and to the nearest wall, where he presses you in. One tug, and your legs know exactly what to do—they cinch him, ankles crossed in the small of his back, and you’re airborne, clutching his neck, thighs supported in his grip. He keeps kissing, because this is simply impossible and if there is news about to be broken to him that permanence is not an option he’d rather receive it later than sooner.

“Wait,” you mutter. “God, I’ve been trying not to do that.”

“Y-you?” he stammers. “Why?”

“Because you’re my neighbour,” you say, swiping hair off his forehead. For once, your faces are level. He’s so damn gorgeous it’s nearly absurd for him to be unaware of it. Angular where it matters, soft where it’s unexpected. You can think of another arrangement where height will not exactly come into play, but first—

You’re overcome with need to glue yourself to him, so you hug him into a full-body shackle: tighten your arms and legs where they keep you up, and bury your face into his neck to mumble a wishful, “You’re not a player, are you? You don’t go around calling women lass like you know what it’s doing, right?”

His palms twitch on your thighs. Face moves towards you, then stops, held there by caution so naked it shreds. He lets out a breath that is a quizzical chuckle. “Jesus, no,” he says. “I can barely talk to you.”

A laugh breaks out of you, and then out of him too. He tips his forehead to yours for a second, still holding you up like it costs him nothing.

“Are you?” he asks, quieter. “A maneater?”

The thing is, you were struck with him from the start. There was lust in it, greedy enough to startle you with your own nerve. But the rest has come on slower and worse. Out of use. Out of kindness. Out of watching him take the weight of things without making a show of it. Out of seeing him go soft-faced with concentration, seeing how badly he wants and how carefully he handles the wanting, as if it is something that could do damage if let loose carelessly. You have known him three days and already the flat feels rearranged around his presence. Maybe this is what blessing looks like in real time. Proximity. Repetition. Two people getting an unfairly clear look at each other too quickly.

You lean back enough to see him. “Do I look like one?”

His eyes go over your face as though the answer might be written there if he studies hard enough. “No,” he says, with such immediate certainty it almost hurts. Then, because apparently that is not enough for him: “You look pretty. And kind.”

A smile tries to happen. Your throat goes tight around it. “That so?”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

You smooth your thumb over the heat in his cheek, the rasp of ginger stubble there. His glasses are still crooked. His mouth is still open the slightest bit from the last kiss. Entirely too dear. Entirely too much.

Oh, and does he. The second time it comes with all his better judgement buried alive beneath it. He gets his mouth on yours like he has finally understood the point of having one. Bolder now. Hungrier. Your lower lip catches between his teeth and there is nothing neat about the way he bites it, only care and the lack of enough care, both at once. Crooked teeth bite just fine, you learn. Better than fine. He mouths you until your breath goes thin, then drops to your neck and inhales so deeply it feels dragged out of the soles of his feet. Nibs, and whatever was warming in you goes past that. Burning now. Clean through.

“Bed,” you mutter, fingers twisted up in his shirt.

Duncan had no idea that was even possible, that one word from you could turn his whole body into a set of orders barked and obeyed in the same second. He does what he is told. Walks with you held high on him, your weight gathered tight and easy, and when he reaches the mattress on the floor he goes down with care, one knee first, then the other, until your back is sinking into bed that is still only a mattress and a fitted sheet half-pulled loose at one corner. He stays over you, breathing hard enough to show it, one hand planted by your head, the other still hooked under your thigh.

“You sure?” he asks.

You nod too fast, then colour. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m just…” Your face does something shy and pained. “Sweaty.”

Duncan looks at you. Thoughtfully. Like this is a thing worth considering from all angles. Weren’t he the biggest sweetheart god ever let loose on the public, that look might be labelled as menacing, too.

“I know,” he says. Then, lowers his face to your belly.

Words leave your body. That is all. They just go. He presses his mouth to you through the shirt first, then rides it up with both hands, bunching cotton inch by inch until your arms have to lift. The chance is taken: his hand slides to your wrists and sets them above your head. Your breath catches so sharply it nearly cuts. Duncan’s nose goes to your skin and he smells you like he means to learn something useful. Belly first. Then higher. He drags slow through the middle, mouth open now and then, breathing in. Your chest. The damp little hollows under your arms, where the tickle of his breath makes you squirm and laugh helplessly. Higher still, until he reaches your throat. He sweeps your hair aside with his cheek to get a clean stripe of skin and settles there, breathing you in as if he has come home to it.

“I like the way you smell,” he says against your neck. His voice roughens on the last word. “Bloody maddening, if you ask me.”

It does something murderous to your insides. You twist under him, wrists flexing in his hold, just to get closer. His grip tightens by a hair from pure absorption. Nose traces the line under your jaw. Another small bite. Your heel drags against the sheet.

“Duncan,” you say, and it comes out wrecked enough to make him lift his head.

Hair is falling into his eyes. Glasses sit crooked on his nose. His mouth is wet and pink from kissing you, cheeks spill red all over his skin and you wonder if that blush exists below the T-shirt too. Sensitive. There is a look on his face like he is trying very hard to keep being good while every part of him is begging for permission to stop.

“Yeah?” he says.

You swallow. Feel his thumb resting on the inside of your wrists. The whole blunt weight of him held off you by restraint alone.

“More,” you tell him.

Lances him clean through, that one. Duncan’s eyes drop to your mouth, then lower, as if he means to be sensible about it and catalogue the options. “Where?” he asks, voice thick. “Tell me where, lass.”

You could laugh at how decent he is, kneeling over you in a state that ought to excuse much worse, still asking like the answer matters more than his own pain. Instead you lift your wrists a little in his hand and he understands. Lets them go. Your palms land on his shoulders and stay a second. On the impressive spread of him and the hard work of holding himself up. “Everywhere,” you say, then, because he looks like he may pass out from being too good, “Start with here.”

You guide him back to your neck. The instruction is taken with shameful gratitude—he might go down as a man who leaves souvenirs after all. Mouth finds the place he’s already put some mind into, perfecting the bruise with focused lips, then the edge of his teeth, then the flat of his tongue to soothe what he has done. Then, he shifts—nose wedging the collar of your shirt aside, finding skin hidden all day under cotton and sweat. Every new inch offends him with how little of it he had before.

Sounds get born in his throat and die into a hiccup every time your body speaks up. There are fingers in his hair. Little gasps. Movement under his groin is particularly unbearable when your leg brushes him. No matter how old and stretched, jeans were simply not made to contain a boner, and Duncan learns it the literal hard way.

“You’re doing me in,” he says into your throat.

It bounces off your pulse. “You seem alive enough.”

He laughs, a breathy little snort. Lifts his head just far enough to look at you. His face is flushed down to the neck. He reaches between your bodies with obvious reluctance and catches the hem of your shirt in both hands. Stops there. “Can I?”

You nod. It still does not satisfy him.

“Mm. And now can you tell me that I can?” he says.

“Yes, you can,” you tell him. “Take it off.”

He strips you with the care of a man undoing bandages. Your shirt goes up in stages, dragged over your ribs, your bra, your face, until it is gone. He stares long enough to make your stomach jump. It’s slower than everything—than a quick skim of current wants or broad hungry looking. Almost dazed. Like each small part of you has to travel the whole way through him before he can move to the next one. His thumb runs along the underside of your breast through the bra, testing nothing more scandalous than weight, and his eyes close briefly at the feel of it.

“Jesus,” he says under his breath.

“What?”

He opens his eyes. “You’re…” Then stops, mouth twisting, unhappy with every word available. “A lot.”

You grin before you can help it. “Good a lot?”

His answer is to lower himself and press his face between your breasts, right into the warm cleft through the bra, as if language is a thing failed beyond repair. The sound you make at that goes straight to his hips. Duncan exhales hard, rubs his cheek on the lace, then wedges his fingers between your back and the mattress, to the clasp at your back with more hope than skill. The first try gets him nowhere. The second worse. He pulls away far enough to glare at your tits like they have personally insulted his family.

“Need help?” you ask.

He looks embarrassed for exactly one second. “Need a miracle.”

You laugh. Arch and bend and press your belly out and your arms briefly make it look like you’ve grown small wings. That is worse for him somehow, watching you undo your own bra for his benefit. When it loosens he sighs like he is the one being let out of it. He peels it away, lets it fall wherever, then just looks again. His hands come up and hover, huge and uncertain, before settling on your ribs. Warm. Shaking faintly.

“Still alright?” he asks.

“Yes.”

You find him. Guide him higher. The effect is immediate. Duncan’s breath leaves him in one stunned pull. Then, it’s roughness on skin. Palms large enough to divide equally, a tit per one. He holds you and smiles like an absolute goof.

“There,” you murmur. “That’s better.”

His mouth opens. Nothing useful comes of it. Which, really, fair.

You slide one hand down from his neck to the hem of his T-shirt, bunch it in your fist and tug. It lifts enough to show a strip of stomach, warm and furred and indecent in its ordinariness. A man’s body right there in your hands. “Can I take your shirt off, Dunk?”

That sobers him by half a shade. Makes his eyes search yours. “Yeah,” he says. Then, because permissions have to be balanced: “You can.”

You peel it up and over him. Duncan helps in the last second, ducking his head, pulling one arm free and then the other. The shirt lands somewhere by the mattress and suddenly there is too much of him at once. Chest broad enough to lay a proper grievance on. Shoulders built for carrying things that have no business being carried by one person. A scatter of pale freckles over the tops of them, which feels like information the public should not have access to. Hair dusting through the middle and down his stomach, where it disappears under the waistband of his jeans and leaves your mind to finish the route unsupervised.

“Oh, Jesus,” you say before deciding whether you mean to.

The colour in his face deepens. As you suspected, it bleeds down: stains that bloom like bruises sketch his neck and lower. “What?”

“Nothing,” you lie. Your hand goes out, palm to his chest, just to see. Warm. Slightly damp. Hard and alive under skin. His heart is going like a thing trapped. “You’re very…”

He watches you try to land it. Offers, “Big?” and somehow even that comes out apologetic.

“Hot,” you say, and the laugh that breaks out of him is so helpless it nearly kills you.

You kiss him to put him out of his misery. Or yourself. Or deepen it. Hard to say. His hands wake up after that. One stays on your breast, thumb dragging over the nipple until your back leaves the mattress. The other travels down your ribs, your waist, the notch of your hip, then lower still until he reaches the button of your jeans and stops there like someone brought up against a locked gate.

His forehead drops to yours. “Can I?”

“Yes.”

The button goes. The zip next. Duncan’s fingers slip below and the sound you make at the first pass of his knuckles is enough to make him shut his eyes. There’s no rush in it, just checking. He decides one yes about bottoms is probably enough, so instead of cramming a palm into denim, he hooks both hands over the waistband and slides your jeans down to your knees. You kick the rest off.

A quick examination of conscience later, Duncan realises he is the victim of the mysterious ways the universe works. One day he sees a girl in a corridor and thinks all the unhelpful thoughts about her. The next, he offers to help because he’s built like that. Now the same girl lies below him, naked as day, clearly wanting him back if he’s learnt anything at all about why girls get wet between the legs. This is the part he wasn’t prepared for. Pining over a face with no name to it is one kind of torture. Being desired is another, because desire asks something back.

He runs a hand the whole length of you, ankle to knee to thigh, until it lands there. The skin is damp, curls glossy, and when he squints hard enough through those goddamn stupid glasses he can see your muscles clenching, impatient. Impatient for him. Your hands get impatient too: they come for his buttons, shake there a little. He lets you fumble a bit, even allows one clumsy tug, until, inevitably, his trousers stay locked round his thighs.

“We in a hurry?” he asks.

“N-no, I just—” Your brows furrow; throat bobs. You inhale, then sigh out, “want you.”

His mouth pulls crooked with it, because the sweetness of being wanted hurts him a little. He comes down next to you, onto his side, one arm sliding under your neck so your head has somewhere proper to go. He kisses your temple once, warm and brief, then the corner of your eye.

“Soon, lass,” he says.

You only huff at that, offended on principle. The offence does not survive long. His hand drops between your legs and one finger presses inside with all the patience he has got, and your whole body gives a startled little jump.

“Oh—”

“Good oh?”

“Best fucking oh,” you say, and a cute smile blooms on him.

He works it slow, watching your face with such naked concentration it ought to count as indecent. The glasses are slipping again. He nudges them up with his shoulder, fails, gives up, so you help by plucking them off. His thumb finds the place above and your breath leaves you in strips. He swallows, looks faintly green around the gills with the effort of saying the next thing, then says it anyway.

“You got a condom?”

“N-no, but—” A sharper thrust of his thumb splits the thought clean in two. “Fuck—I’m on the pill.”

Something truly frightful must cross his face, because you rush to fix it.

“Nothing whorish, I promise. Just health reasons. I’m all alone like a country dunny otherwise.”

Duncan shuts his eyes for half a second and bows his head, not out of judgement but because the opposite has arrived too hard and fast. A blessing to him, that. A crime, otherwise. He gets half a mind to entertain the daftest thought alive—that maybe it was always meant to go this way. You, alone like a country dunny. Him, not much better.

Second finger joins the first. You make a sound into his throat and the silly thought dies happy.

He works you open by degrees so thoroughly you start wondering if there’s going to be a follow up to that condom question. Not that his fingers don’t feel good—the fucking do, almost too much. But from where you’re cradled you can see exactly the way his cock is jerking in his underwear, still framed by the fly of his jeans. Simultaneously you know he’s the kind of guy who’d close your trembling legs after you come, then cuddle into your neck until he softens, because this is not about him. So you try again.

“Duncan,” you breathe. “Enough, I—”

“You’ll need more than that for me,” he says. Abashed. I’m sorry that my cock’s too big to fuck you right away and there will be no quickies in our life kind of embarrassment. It’s unbearably sweet. Insanely hot. Blood pumps your cheeks plump and warm already, and then Duncan nearly ends you by saying, “Need to sort you out first.”

And it’s the first time in your life a man has told you his size might be a problem while making it sound like care came first and ego didn’t show up at all. He’s everything but swagger. Your heart does something daft and soft around the edges while the rest of you clenches hot around his fingers.

“Okay,” you say, cupping his face. “Okay, one more. Just—” A swallow. “Fair warning, I might come.”

It startles a grin out of him. Mean by his standards. Lovely by any other. “How’s that a bad thing?” he asks. Kisses you once, hard enough to shut you up for a second, then gives you that remedy for a cock-too-big problem of his and your vision bleaches.

God, you’re full. If girth blesses every part of him evenly, you may indeed be doomed. You would be already if he wasn’t this thoughtfully slow. You can feel in real time how your muscles adjust round him, then take a second to unclench when he withdraws to the first knuckle.

“You alright?” he asks, and his own voice tells on him. Tight. Thinned out with strain. You look so pretty it’s becoming unendurable. Hair dragged wrong, mouth open, eyes gone bright and glassy in a way that makes him so hard it’s difficult to think with any dignity.

Your nails dig into his nape. “I’m so good I’m gonna lose my mind in a second,” you breathe. A swallow. “Can you please take your pants off?”

He nods, nose brushing yours. “Alright,” he says. “If anything hurts, you tell me, yeah?”

Then he has to do the humiliating bit. First, he drags the shoes off his feet by pressing a sole to each heel. Then, shimmies out of the jeans, dragging the underwear down with them. Kicks that off too, and one leg catches, stubborn, round his ankle. By the time he joins you in nudity, he is red right up to the ears and flat on his back, camped next to you in all his difficult truth, cock heavy on his stomach.

Your eyes drop and your breath does an audible hiccup. You can feel his stare burning a hole through your forehead. He lies there tense, arms pinned to his sides like they are itching to cover himself up. God, what a waste that would be. It hits you then that he is boyish in random places so he can be an exaggeration of a man in others, and somehow all of that adds up to just a lad.

And since the opportunity has presented itself, you take it.

He is large enough that the head reaches near his navel, and yes, the girth is something to reckon with—but haven’t you just been worked open for this exact occasion? There is something insanely lovely about a man who would have half a locker room struck dumb standing for verdict, only to lie there with tension standing out in his forearms like he expects to be judged instead of wanted. He is not carved out of marble either, thank god. There is softness to him. Hair lies over his chest in an even, soft spread and trails down his stomach, which has the smallest give to it, a swell around the navel that looks made for a cheek to rest there. A vein runs the whole length of his cock, and with the pulse inside it he twitches, lifts off his stomach and falls back again. Heavy thing. Solid. Human. Entirely too much and, for that very reason, exactly right.

You put a palm on his arm. Murmur, “Come here,” and squeeze till he gets the message.

Duncan rolls back onto his side to face you, still halfway looking like he might apologise for the state of himself. You hook a thigh over his hip and pull him in until your groins meet. The contact draws a raw little grunt out of him. Good. Let him suffer a bit too. You kiss him—once, slow enough to make it stick, then again with your mouth smiling into his.

“I like you,” you whisper. His face does a helpless thing around the eyes. “Come on,” you say, nudging his nose with yours. “I’ll take it easy on you.”

“Will you?” he asks, while suffering internally. Both a promise of bliss and a difficult animal before him, he fists himself at the base and lines up. Your lips kiss the crown. Arms yoke his neck until noses flatten against each other. He can feel where your thigh, the meat of it, spills over his hip bone, quivers and settles heavier than he’d suspect it can. First inch, and he’s breathing hard. A bit more, and you join him.

“Shit,” you mutter. “Keep… keep going.”

He does, but so slowly it nearly stops counting as movement. Your body loses the line between pain and pleasure. There is excruciating sweetness in his hand. He manages to hold man’s favourite handle (your ass) while rubbing his thumb in compassionate strokes. Mouth hums and lashes tickle your cheek, eyes search for signs of sore that’s unwanted. The stretch he delivers burns, the opening is downright rude in its bluntness, but Duncan remains gentle, and that’s what turns this whole thing so total.

Underneath the turmoil, deeper, stranger, comes fullness that puts your musings about fingers to shame. There’s weight to it, length to it and, fundamentally, intent that makes your body waver between flinching from it or gathering it closer, so it tries both.

Duncan sees the whole war pass through your face and stops dead. “Too much?”

“N-no,” You breathe through it. Feel the wait in the whole of his frame. “Stay a minute. Just let me—”

He goes still at once. By force of patience, and by that old art he has been made to practise all his life and still has not mastered. A man built like Duncan does not get much leave to move through the world carelessly. People take one look at the size of him and hand him a part before he has opened his mouth: lift this, carry that, mind yourself, do not crowd, do not startle, be gentle. So he learns slowness. Learns to take the edge off himself before it reaches anyone else.

Now all of that gets spent on holding still while your cunt drags on the little of him already inside, hot and slick and so tight round the crown and upper body of his cock it feels like a clean seizure. He had let himself think of this in useless scraps. The sight of it. The permission of it. The prospect of being taken in where he has wanted to be since that first day. The actual feel is another beast entirely. The yielding comes by increments. The muscles take him, think better of it, grip again. Heat packs close enough to border on pain. If this much is enough to strip every spare thought out of his head, Duncan has no idea what shape he will be in when you let him deeper.

When your hips start making little lawless attempts at settling further onto him, he asks, “What’re you doing, hm?”

You huff at him. “Bouncing on it crazy-style, what does it look like?”

Insane, is what you are. He lets out a full snort, then another, and it all breaks into a boyish giggle. “Have I got a mad girl, then?”

“Yeah, I’m fully bonkers,” you grin. Sweat breaks on your forehead and it looks pretty. “Probably should’ve told you before—” The angle shifts, minutely. You sink deeper. Moan tears your mouth open and Duncan’s cock jerks inside you. “Oh fuck, it’s getting good. Oh, there—”

“There?”

“Yeah, right there,” you say, hugging him tighter and speaking into his mouth. “Oh God, you’re precious. You were right.” A swallow. “With that sorting-out thing.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “You tell me,” he says. “Tell me if I’m being a bastard.”

“Impossible,” you whisper. “No chance. Fuck, Duncan—”

One of your hands comes loose from his neck and slips between your bodies. You press it low on your belly first, just above where the softness gives way to strain, and when you sink carefully again you can feel it there if you mean to. A hard shape. Buried enough that the knowledge of it makes your face go hot all over.

“Christ,” you breathe.

Duncan’s brow pulls in. “What?”

You catch his wrist and drag his hand from your hip to your stomach. Flatten it there. Make him feel it. Then, because the thing asks to be proved twice, you rock down on him again and pin his palm in place.

“Look,” you say. “Look what you’re doing to me.”

There he is, a proof of blood under flesh—filling you so completely it overspills. His fingers flare over your stomach, press, and Duncan can touch his own cock through the membrane of skin. His mouth falls open. Red surges up his throat so fast you nearly laugh.

“Jesus,” he says, stunned. “Lass.”

You do it once more, slower, both of you feeling for it. “That’s me,” he says, dazed.

You nod against his cheek. “That’s you.”

His eyes shut. One beat. Two. Then he makes a sound into your mouth that is pure loss of it. His forehead presses to yours. “Girl,” he says, thumb twitching over your belly, “you keep doing that and I’ll be no use to either of us.”

“It’s your turn,” you say, wrapping your arm back where it belongs. Wrapping him all over with your limbs until he’s shackled and happy about it. “Fuck me. Please.”

“Okay,” Duncan says. Swallows. “Okay, just—can you tell me again? Please,” he says, hoping you’ll catch the meaning. That’s it’s not about smugness, but for a big bastard like him, needing to hear it twice before he believes someone truly wants him this bad.

“Come on, Dunk. Fuck me.” There’s a kiss on his forehead. “Nice and slow until you come, yeah?”

Before he knows it, he’s nodding like a daft thing, and his hips start moving. Gentle thrusts, deep, fat rolls of pelvis until a smile pulls your lips. “Just like that,” you tell him. “You’re doing so good. God, you feel good, fuck—”

“Take it easy on me, lass,” he breathes. “You promised.”

He holds you, or himself onto, the dip of your hip. Kisses you through it, badly at first because neither of you can keep the rhythm of your mouths and bodies straight, then better, then worse again when the feeling climbs. The heel of his palm presses on your stomach where he bulges you out and the fingers he keeps pointed down so they can brush you whenever you decide a twitch from your side is due. Crude little arrangement, but effective.

“Shit,” you grunt. “How you doing, hm?”

"Barely," he says. "You?"

The truth of it is written all over him. The tremor in his thigh and the way his breath snags. The slow loss of that thoughtful caution he has worn like a second skin all day. He is trying, still, to be good. It only makes the strain of it show more plainly.

"Close," you tell him, feeling your own spine prickling with it. "Fuck, so close. Will you come inside me?" 

His whole face changes around it. “Jesus, luv,” he says, nearly bitten off. Wedges his nose into your neck. Then, lower: “Yeah. God, yes.”

You can tell exactly how sore you are going to be tomorrow and expect your insides to have a different shape starting now. But your body has already made up its mind about him. It is learning him in real time and keeping the record. From the look of him, he would let himself be kept if asked, so you have a growing feeling that this must be the place. And then another thought comes, equal parts romantic and foul: that if he finished there, if he gave you all of it, the ache might turn kinder.

And Duncan, god—he's truly barely holding. He tries to think of neutral things but whenever his lids part your mouth is there, blurred and lovely, and you smell so good skin is about to melt off his cheeks. His balls ride up a notch, tense, and go hard with the strain in the sack, and the whole of his length burns so bright he feels it in his temples. It’s hard to keep his thigh from quivering and his hand from misbehaving. Fingers dig where he holds you and there’s a growing worry he’ll leave you with a palm-shaped bruise on your ass. He hopes you’ll forgive him.

“F-fuck,” you grit. “Duncan—”

You tighten like you mean to choke the soul out of him. Everything—arms, legs, cunt—seizes around him. The skin goes taut under his touch and you stare him dead in the eye from under eyelids so fuck-drunk he’s never been granted a sight like this in his life.

In this entanglement of trembling thighs and shoulders working so hard they seem knocked senseless, he feels it pulled out of him by force. Comes, and keeps coming, with his face pressed into yours, panting, and muttering yes, girl, yes, until his toes go cold and Duncan realises he’s way too long for your mattress and his feet kept touching the floor the whole time he’s been making love to you. 

He blinks and feels the resistance of skin against his eyelashes. Learns that he’s crushed you in a bear hug so tight your breath has gone shallow. His arms loosen. Face comes up to scan for damage and instead of asking if you’re alright, Duncan hears himself saying, “I’ve been half gone on you since the hallway.”

Your eyes are glassy. Your mouth does that helpless pull that’s a smile around something overwhelming. One that happens when people burst out laughing instead of crying.

“I hope I lived up to expectations,” you say. “Because I’ve been half gone on you since the post boxes and now I’m fully.”

“My girl,” Duncan says, swiping hair off your forehead and disbelieving his own boldness. “Are you my girl?”

You nod and hold your arms out for him. It does something quiet and final to his face. Duncan folds himself back down into you, gathers you up proper, then draws back just enough to look. His hand runs the line of your side, careful and searching.

“I didn’t hurt you?”

You shake your head. “No.” A laugh, weak and warm. “I’ve learnt a thing or two, though.”

That gets one out of him too. He ducks his head, grinning into your cheek, then lifts it again with some practical thought arriving behind the eyes. “Hold on a sec.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

He glances down at the mattress, the sheet, the general state of things. “Because that bed’s poor enough without me making a full show of it,” he says. “I don’t see another in here, so I’m trying to save you the mess.”

You do hold on. Arms and legs go round him at once, locking him in place so completely it startles a pleased little huff out of him. Duncan plants a palm behind him and gets to his feet with you wrapped round him. The lift goes through his whole body. A hard breath. A tightening in the jaw. One small adjustment of grip when your weight shifts. Then he is up, broad and warm and breathing a touch harder than before, and you are still exactly where you want to be.

Still, you ask, “I’m sorry, and what exactly are you going to do? Pull out over a bin?”

Duncan looks mildly offended. “You strike me as a lady,” he says. “I had the shower in mind. If you’ve one of those.”

You smile into his mouth. “I’m tempted to say no only to make you march us like this to your flat.”

He fixes his grip by hitching you once higher on him. There’s a small girlish yelp. His nose rubs along yours, playful and mean and soft and—

“Will you take it easy on me, lass?”

You nod with your face still tucked close to his. “Will you?”

He will, or lightning may as well strike him where he stands. Because Duncan is in love with his neighbour, and this one is not going anywhere.

We had been mated for years now. 

I could still remember the day as if it were yesterday, the ceremony surrounded by our family, by laughter and music and too much wine. 

Cassian had cried, Mor had refused to stop dancing, Amren had been insufferable, and Rhys had given Azriel a look that said everything words didn't need to. 

It had been perfect. Warm. Loud. Full of love.

I had thought, standing there with his hand in mine and our bond singing between us, that life could not possibly get better than that moment.

I had been wrong.

Because loving Azriel wasn't a single perfect moment—it was thousands of small ones. 

Quiet mornings. Late nights. Stolen kisses in hallways. His wings wrapped around me while we watched the stars. The way he always reached for my hand without thinking. The way he said my name like it meant something.

Our life had been happy. Truly, unbelievably happy. 

But every happy story has a thorn in its side.

Ours came three years ago, on a quiet night when we had been lying awake, talking about the future in soft voices and half-formed dreams. About what our life would look like in another hundred years. Another five hundred.

About children.

We had decided then together, smiling, excited, a little nervous, that we were ready. 

That we wanted a family. Something more. Someone who was both of us, someone to love, to raise, to watch grow in a way we never could.

Three years later, we were still waiting. Still hoping. Still trying. Still pretending every month that this time would be different.

Immortality had never felt like a curse before.

But sometimes, when the house was too quiet and Azriel thought I was asleep, I would hear him sigh into the darkness, and the sound would break my heart in a way no blade ever could.

The soup had gone cold.

I hadn't noticed when it happened, when the gentle simmer had faded into stillness, when the thin wisps of steam had disappeared into nothing. I just kept stirring, slow, absent circles of the spoon through broth that no longer moved unless I forced it to.

Once. Twice. A third time.

I had added the same herbs four times now.

The kitchen was quiet in that heavy, almost suffocating way, the kind that pressed in on your ears and made your thoughts louder than they should have been. 

Outside the tall windows, Velaris glowed softly under the evening sky, lights flickering like distant stars. 

It should have been beautiful. It was beautiful. But I wasn't really seeing it.

I stared straight through the glass, through the city, through everything, lost somewhere far deeper in my own mind, in the endless spiral of thoughts I couldn't seem to escape.

Three years. 

Three years of hope. Three years of disappointment carefully hidden behind soft smiles and quiet reassurances.

Three years of pretending it didn't hurt as much as it did.

A faint brush of cool air stirred the loose strands of my hair, followed by the soft, familiar whisper of shadows slipping into the room. 

They curled along the counters, drifting with quiet purpose, lifting a spoon, adjusting a bowl, nudging a jar back into place as if trying to keep the world moving when I could not.

Even they knew. Even they could feel it.

"Do tell," a low voice murmured behind me, warm and gentle and far too perceptive, "what's on that pretty mind of yours?"

I didn't startle. I never did, not with him.

Strong arms slid around my waist, pulling me back into a solid, steady chest. 

Azriel's presence wrapped around me just as surely as his wings sometimes did, grounding, anchoring, impossible to ignore. His head dipped, resting in the crook between my shoulder and neck, and I felt the slow inhale he took, as if memorising me, as if reminding himself I was real.

Always real. Always here.

"Nothing," I said softly, turning my head just enough to press a gentle kiss into his dark hair.

The word felt hollow the moment it left my lips.

His grip tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me that he wasn't fooled.

"Don't lie to me," Azriel murmured, voice quieter now, edged with something softer. Something knowing. "You never lie to me."

I swallowed, my fingers loosening slightly around the spoon as it stilled completely in the pot.

"I'm just thinking," I admitted.

That at least, was the truth.

I felt his breath leave him in a slow exhale, warm against my skin, before his hands shifted, guiding me, gently but firmly, until I was turned in his arms. 

The spoon slipped from my grasp entirely, forgotten as I found myself facing him.

Looking up at him.

Those hazel eyes, soft and deep and endlessly patient searched mine like he was trying to read every thought I hadn't said out loud. Like he already knew what he would find.

Like he always did.

"I told you," he said quietly, one hand lifting to brush a strand of hair away from my face, his knuckles grazing my cheek in a touch so tender it almost undid me, "stressing about it won't help."

He didn't need to ask what I was thinking about. He knew. Of course he knew.

My chest tightened, something fragile and aching twisting painfully beneath my ribs. 

For a moment, I tried to hold it in, to keep the words where they belonged, buried deep where they wouldn't hurt him.

But Azriel had never been someone I could hide from.

"Azriel..." My voice faltered, softer than I intended. I looked down, unable to hold his gaze any longer, my hands coming to rest lightly against his chest as if I needed the contact to steady myself. "It has to be me."

The words felt heavier spoken aloud. Realer.

"I mean—" I let out a small, shaky breath, my fingers curling slightly in the fabric of his shirt. "It's been three years. Three years of trying and hoping and waiting, and nothing has happened. Not once."

Silence stretched between us, thick and fragile.

"It's my fault," I whispered, the truth I had been circling for months finally breaking free. "It has to be. There's no other explanation, Azriel. Something's wrong with me."

His hands stilled where they rested on me.

For half a heartbeat, I thought he might let the words sit there. Might let me believe them. But then—

"No."

The word was immediate. Firm. Certain. I looked up, startled by the quiet intensity in his voice.

Azriel's gaze had sharpened, all softness edged now with something unyielding. His hands came up to cup my face, forcing me gently but undeniably to look at him. To really look at him.

"That is not true," he said, each word deliberate, steady. "And I won't let you convince yourself that it is."

"But—"

"No." Softer this time, but no less certain. His thumbs brushed beneath my eyes, as if he could already see tears that hadn't yet fallen. "Listen to me."

I stilled.

"You are not the problem," he continued, his voice dropping, turning quieter in a way that made every word feel more important. "This—whatever this is—it's not something to blame on you. Or on me. It just... is."

My throat tightened.

"But what if it is me?" I asked, barely above a whisper. "What if my body just—can't? What if I'm the reason we don't—" My voice broke slightly, and I had to force the rest out "—we don't get to have that life?"

The life we had dreamed about.

The one we still talked about in softer moments, as if speaking it too loudly might shatter it completely.

Azriel's expression softened then, the sharpness fading into something infinitely more painful. Something full of love.

"If that were true," he said quietly, "then it still wouldn't be your fault."

My breath hitched.

His forehead rested gently against mine, his wings shifting slightly behind him, as if they itched to wrap around us both.

"You think I love you because of what you can give me?" he murmured. "Because of the possibility of children?" His thumb brushed my cheek again, slower this time. "I love you. Just you. Exactly as you are."

The words settled into my chest, warm and heavy and almost too much to hold.

"I would choose you," he went on softly, "in every lifetime. In every version of this world. With or without anything else."

My eyes stung.

"And we are not giving up," he added, voice steady once more. "Do you hear me? We are not done trying. Not now. Not ever—not unless you tell me you are."

A tear slipped free before I could stop it, tracing a warm line down my cheek.

Azriel caught it instantly. "You are not alone in this," he whispered.

And for the first time that night, for the first time in what felt like a long time, the crushing weight in my chest eased, just a little, beneath the certainty in his voice.

Beneath him. Always him.

Azriel's POV - 

It didn't take a genius to notice the difference in my mate.

I had spent centuries reading people, studying the smallest shifts in expression, the quietest changes in tone, the things others missed entirely. It was what made me good at what I did. What made me dangerous.

But with her... it had never been a skill I needed to rely on. I just knew.

I saw it in the way her laughter didn't linger as long as it used to. In the way her smiles came easier for others than they did for herself. 

In the quiet moments when she thought no one was looking, when her gaze would drift, unfocused, her thoughts somewhere far from whatever room she stood in.

And I felt it.

Down the bond. That unbreakable, unrelenting tether between us that carried every flicker of emotion whether she meant it to or not.

Hope. Disappointment. Guilt. That was the one I hated most.

The way she blamed herself.

It was subtle, so subtle no one else would notice. But I did. I noticed every hesitation, every forced reassurance, every time she said "maybe next time" with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

And it killed me.

Because there was nothing I could do to fix it. No enemy to fight. No information to gather. No plan to execute.

Just time. Just waiting.

Just watching the female I loved more than anything slowly start to dim beneath the weight of something that was never hers to carry alone.

"What could you possibly be brooding about now?"

Cassian's voice cut through my thoughts, dragging me back into the present.

Back to the cool night air. Back to the familiar stretch of Velaris's rooftops beneath us. Back to the bottle in my hand that I didn't remember pouring from.

Cassian lounged beside me like he owned the world, one leg dangling dangerously over the edge of the roof as he tipped the bottle toward my glass, filling it without asking. He stretched back on his hands with a careless ease that only he could manage without actually falling.

Rhys sat across from us, quieter, more composed but his violet eyes were sharp, observant. Watching. Always watching.

The three of us. Like we used to be.

Before responsibilities had piled higher. Before titles had weighed heavier. Before life had become... more complicated.

"I'm not brooding," I muttered, knocking back the contents of my glass in one swallow, welcoming the burn if only because it gave me something else to focus on.

Cassian snorted. Rhys didn't even bother hiding his unimpressed look.

Centuries of friendship had stripped away any chance of convincing them otherwise.

"Right," Cassian drawled, dragging the word out as he leaned his head back to look at the stars. "And I'm the picture of restraint."

"You?" I shot back dryly. "Restraint has never been in your vocabulary."

He grinned, unbothered. "And yet here I am, showing incredible patience while you sit there pretending you're fine."

I exhaled slowly through my nose, jaw tightening as I looked out over the city instead of at them. Velaris shimmered below, peaceful, untouched, everything we had fought to protect.

It should have been enough. It was enough.

"Just..." I started, then stopped.

The words didn't come easily. They never did. Not like this.

Cassian shifted beside me, the movement quieter now. More attentive. Rhys leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. Waiting.

I dragged a hand through my hair, the motion sharper than intended.

"We've been trying for a child," I said finally, the words rougher than I liked. "For a while now."

Silence followed. Not awkward. Not surprised. Just... understanding.

Cassian's grin faded. Completely. Rhys's gaze softened, though the sharpness didn't disappear entirely, it never did.

"How long?" Rhys asked quietly.

"Three years."

The number hung heavy in the air between us.

Cassian let out a low whistle under his breath, shaking his head slightly. "And she's taking it hard."

It wasn't a question.

I huffed a humourless breath. "She tries not to."

But I saw it anyway. Felt it anyway.

"She thinks it's her fault," I added, my voice quieter now, edged with something I couldn't quite hide.

Something dangerously close to anger. 

Not at her. Never at her. At the situation. At the helplessness of it. At the fact that I couldn't take that weight from her no matter how much I wanted to.

Cassian swore softly under his breath, pushing himself up so he was sitting properly now, no longer half-sprawled across the roof.

"That's not—" he started, then stopped, running a hand down his face. "Gods, Az..."

"I know," I cut in, sharper than intended. I closed my eyes briefly, forcing myself to rein it back. "I know it's not her fault."

But knowing didn't change what she felt.

Didn't stop the quiet guilt that crept in when she thought I wasn't paying attention. Didn't stop the way her shoulders would tense just slightly every time someone mentioned children.

Rhys was still watching me. "You've told her that?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And she believes you?"

I didn't answer. I didn't need to.

Rhys's expression shifted, something heavier settling behind his eyes.

Cassian let out a slow breath. "Females..." he muttered, not unkindly. "They'll carry the blame for things that were never theirs to begin with."

I glanced at him.

He shrugged slightly, softer now. "You know that. Doesn't matter how many times you tell her otherwise. It's going to take more than words."

"I don't know what else to do," I admitted.

The words felt foreign in my mouth. I didn't say things like that. Didn't admit uncertainty. Didn't admit defeat.

But this was different.

Rhys leaned back slightly, considering. "You're already doing it," he said after a moment.

I frowned faintly. "Doing what?"

"Staying," he replied simply. "Showing up. Not letting her carry it alone, even when she tries to." His gaze didn't waver from mine. "That's what matters."

I looked away again, back out over the city. It didn't feel like enough. It didn't feel like anything close to enough.

"She thinks I'll resent her," I said quietly, the words slipping out before I could stop them. "If... if it never happens."

Cassian's head snapped toward me. "What? That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" I murmured.

Because I had seen the doubt in her eyes.

Felt it. Felt the way she sometimes pulled back just slightly, like she was bracing herself for something that would never come.

Rhys's voice was calm when he spoke again. Certain.

"Then you remind her," he said, "as many times as it takes, that you won't."

I swallowed, my grip tightening slightly around the glass in my hand. "And if it doesn't happen?" I asked, quieter now. "If... this is it?"

Neither of them answered immediately. For once, even Cassian didn't have something ready.

Rhys was the one who spoke.

"Then it doesn't change the fact that she's your mate," he said. "That she's your family." A pause. "That she's enough."

The words settled heavily in my chest because they were true. They had always been true.

I exhaled slowly, some of the tightness in my chest easing, not gone, never gone, but... quieter.

Beside me, Cassian nudged my shoulder lightly. "And for what it's worth," he added, a faint smirk returning, "you two are stubborn enough that I wouldn't rule anything out yet."

A quiet huff of breath escaped me, almost a laugh. Almost.

I stared out over Velaris again, the city glowing beneath the night sky, and let the silence settle around us.

This time, it didn't feel quite as heavy because no matter what happened—I wasn't the only one carrying it.

And neither was she.

A/N - We're starting off with some backstory and getting into the heavier emotions first, I really wanted to show how deeply this affects both of them. Even with all the sadness, Az being so soft and reassuring with her in her POV just makes me melt :(

I also wanted to include Azriel's perspective because there's no way this male would silently go through all of this without Cassian and Rhys eventually noticing. The rooftop scene felt very "brothers having an emotional intervention but pretending they're still cool about it" xx

Cassian trying to be supportive while also being Cassian was extremely important to me!!

Thank you so much for reading <33

You had long since lost count of time, with nothing but darkness surrounding you and no hope for any light to work its way into this godforsaken pit, days were passing by without your knowledge. It had been years at this point, how many, you didn’t know but long enough for the world outside to be a distant echo and for your presence to have faded into a pitiful whisper.

Years passed by with only the reminders of your old life to keep you company; you often dreamed of those times your brother carved out time in his day to braid your hair or when you would both jump out of the windows late at night to fly over Velaris together. You’d dream of your mother, how she’d let you sit and ‘help’ her make dresses or that time you were so outraged when you were learning how to fly and she pushed you straight from the balcony of the House of Wind so that you had no choice but to fly.

Your days were filled with flashes of them all; your mother, Rhysand, Mor and Cassian.

You wondered how much of life had moved on without you.

Was Rhysand High Lord yet?

If he was, how had your father died?

Had Rhysand found his mate?

Had he made her High Lady like you both always spoke about?

In those extra difficult times that your control slipped even further, those memories of the Shadowsinger would linger the harshest.

You did not like thinking of how much his life had moved on without you.

Rhysand and Feyre stood together in the kitchen of the townhouse, looking through the window into the garden where Elain was tending to the flower garden and Azriel was sprawled out nearby, sunning his wings.

“Do you think the Cauldron can make mistakes with mates?” Feyre asked him, a look of confused anguish on her face.

Rhysand looked towards his mate, surprise dancing in his eyes at her question. “Nobody truly knows what makes the cauldron put two people together. They’re not always perfectly compatible, my own parents were examples of that, they never truly loved each other. Others, like us, are lucky to find love with their mate.”

Feyre continued looking out into the garden. “Why couldn’t the cauldron have made Azriel, Elain’s mate, instead of Lucien. Lucien is good but they look good together,” Feyre pointed out to where the Shadowsinger was still sprawled on the grass.

A pulse of pain pulled through their bond causing Feyre to snap her eyes back to Rhys. She was surprised to see the pain in his eyes, it wasn’t just any pain. It was the sort of pain that lingered and dwelled, a grief that would forever remain no matter how much time passed but there was also a subtle protectiveness in his eyes that could almost be missed.

Feyre was confused.

Rhysand swallowed a lump in his throat before speaking. “Do not mistake Azriel’s kindness towards your sister as affection. He is spending time with her because I ordered him too, to try and understand her powers. You’re reading into something that isn’t there.” His voice was stern but not unkind.

Feyre’s brows furrowed at his words. “It would be an honour for Azriel to find his mate, with anyone.”

“Azriel does not want a mate, Feyre.” The sheer confidence in Rhysand’s words only confused her even more.

“But why would he not want a mate? I thought everyone dreams of having one.” She questioned, looking out at Azriel’s figure in the garden.

She thought Azriel of all people would want a mate.

“Azriel has already had his great love,” Rhysand said. “No mating bond could ever live up to that for him. There are loves that even the cauldron cannot compete with.”

“What?” Feyre asked, shock taking over her face. “Who?”

That pain appeared in Rhys’ eyes again, a quick flash but it was there. “I meant it when I said I have no secrets to keep from you but not all stories are solely mine to tell. I am not going to tell you Azriel’s secrets.”

Feyre nodded silently. She understood, it didn’t diminish her curiosity but she would not pry for answers that weren’t hers to have.

Azriel’s footsteps were silent as always, shadows licking at his heals and fingertips as he walked towards Rhys’ office.

Not bothering to knock, his gloved hand unlatched the handle as he stepped inside. “You called, brother?”

Rhys was sat back in his chair, unsurprisingly dressed in his formals but the conflicted look on his face ruffled his demeanour. “I’d like to preface by saying you haven’t done anything wrong, my mate simply is too nosey for her own good and sees things she hopes are there rather than reality at times.”

Azriel’s face remained at an impasse other than the slight narrowing of his golden, hazel eyes.

Rhysand sighed. “Feyre is under the impression that you and Elain may make for a better match than her and Lucien.”

The control Azriel had on himself immediately slipped as he stepped back, eyes widening in shock, fists clenching by his sides as his shadows fluttered around him. “No. Rhys, I would never-”

“I know” Rhys interrupted. “I am not accusing you of doing anything, Az. I just thought it best to let you know.”

Azriel shifted uncomfortably at his words. “You know there is no one else, there never has been and there will never be anyone else.” He insisted, wanting his brother to believe him.

Rhysand’s gaze softened. “I know. I have never doubted that even though it would be okay if eventually-”

“No!” Azriel’s cut him off, “There will never be another.”

“Okay,” Rhys conceded. “I just wanted to let you know, Azriel.”

Azriel nodded his head, not hesitating in taking his exit, leaving Rhys there in a suffocating silence of loss.

“You’re distracted,” Cassian dropped his stance, looking towards Feyre intently.

His High Lady sighed in frustration, leaning back against the ropes of the sparring ring.

“What’s on your mind?” He asked.

Feyre pursed her lips in contemplation before relenting. “Did you three actually used do things in the same room as each other?”

Cassian barked out a deep laugh at her question. “That’s what’s on your mind?”

Feyre shrugged sheepishly.

Cassian shook his head, a large smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, Rhys and I did. It would be a bit weird and incredibly uncomfortable for us all if Azriel did.”

Feyre tilted her head curiously, “Why?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be very nice for Rhys to see his best friend having his way with the girl he loves more than anything, would it?” He said, as though it was obvious. “Besides, Azriel has way too much respect for him to do that anyways.”

Feyre’s eyes widened in shock but there was also a sickening feeling of jealously bubbling in her stomach. “So, Azriel and Rhys loved the same girl?”

Cassian, way too focused now on stretching to acknowledge how his words had been interpreted. “We all love her but those two always have and always will love her most. She’s their number one girl.”

Number one girl.

Feyre did not like the sound of that at all. She hated it and she hated herself even more because of the jealously that gnawed at her. “They didn’t hate each other for that?” She questioned.

Cassian shook his head, mid lunge. “Azriel had no reason to hate Rhys. It was difficult for Rhys to accept in the beginning and Azriel understood that but Rhys saw how much love was there, it was impossible to miss so who was he to stand in the way of that?”

Feyre stood in thought for a moment. “So, Rhys loved her first?”

Cassian laughed. “Of course he did. It’s not really a competition though, is it?”

She didn’t answer him, she simply stood there, thoughts swirling.

Feyre hated herself, she hated that she could not stop thinking about this girl who must have been something really special for both Rhys and Azriel to both love.

She’s their number one girl.

No matter how hard she had tried to not think about it, she couldn’t help it.

“What’s on your mind, Feyre darling?” Rhys’ smooth voice slipped through the silence of their bedroom.

She looked up at him from her place at the edge of their bed. “It’s nothing,” she stated simply.

Rhys frowned at her dismissal, placing his watch on his bedside table before walking to stand in front of her. He pressed a palm to the side of her face. “Tell me what’s on your mind?”

She sighed, mostly in frustration at herself, partially in his insistence to talk about it. “Where you in love with Azriel’s mate?”

The utter bewilderment that appeared on Rhys’ face made her immediately regret her words and watch to shrink back in on herself. “What!?”

Feyre shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she tried to pull away but Rhys kept his hand on the side of her face, steadying her.

“Azriel doesn’t have a mate,” he told her, utter confusion lacing his words.

Feyre shrugged, “Were you in love with the same girl then?”

“I’m so confused, no?” Rhys said, having absolutely no idea where she could’ve gotten this from. “Where have you gotten this from?”

Feyre looked at him, frustration beginning to build within her. “I asked Cassian about how you used to do things in the same room, he said you and him did but not Azriel because it wouldn’t be nice for him to be pleasuring a girl that you loved! He said she was yours and Azriel’s number one girl.”

Rhys pulled his hand from her face and placed it over his mouth. The confusion in his eyes had faded into a an amusing sparkle as his shoulders began shaking with suppressed laughter.

“What!?” Feyre huffed. “What are you laughing at!?”

Rhysand released a full deep chuckle at her frustrations. “Cassian is an idiot and you are utterly beautiful when you’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous!” She argued.

Rhys simply raised an eyebrow at her, completely unconvinced. “You’ve completely misinterpreted Cassian’s words, Feyre darling. It is still not my story to tell but I can promise you that Azriel and I have never been in love with the same girl.”

It had been five centuries since the disappearance of you and your mother and Azriel had never been the same.

Long before he met you, Azriel had learned what it meant to live in loneliness with nothing but his shadows for company but loneliness in response to your absence was never quite something anyone could become familiar with.

It was an endless void of nothing. Normally the thread of silence would at least end somewhere; a place where you simply got used to the feeling of someone not being there; but not with you.

It had been five centuries since your last laugh and that entire time Azriel has spent sleeping in your room. The room that sat right next to his own where your beds were pushed against the shared wall so even in your own beds you would be sleeping as close as you could get to each other.

It remained exactly how you left it, the same books sat on the nightstands, the same jewellery littered across a dressing table and a beautiful dress of deep blue with glittering silver stars on the bodice hung from the door of the closet, preparing to be worn for a day that never came.

Each morning that Azriel woke and got ready for the day, his last words to the House of Wind always remained the same. Leave it exactly how she left it, please.

The House always listened.

Whilst Azriel no longer slept in his own room, it had changed. The walls that were once a basic white had been transformed into a purple so unique it could only reflect the colour of your eyes.

In those rare moments that Azriel was able to relax away from the world, he would lay in his bed and stare at the walls of his room and whilst they could never reflect the light in a sparkle the way your own eyes could, the paint would simply have to do.

The winter chill of the Illyrian Steppes bit harshly into your cheeks as you ran through the thick snow into the forests surrounding the Windhaven camp.

The males were awful here, brutal even but even they knew to leave the daughter of the High Lord alone and so you were free to wander without the risk of your wings being torn from your back.

The trees created sanctuary for you here, as you weaved in between them you thought of your brother, Rhys and how quickly he would lose his mind once he found you gone.

A deep rooted feeling of being watched suddenly stirred in your stomach causing you to pause. It was the most subtle weight you had ever felt and yet you could not help but feel it as it settled into your bones.

You cast a quick glance up into the branches of the trees above you, where their leaves and twigs clashed and combined with one another, it took a moment for you to spot them but eventually you did.

Within a particular tall tree that was shaped in all groves and turns towards the top, deep within the shadows is where you saw him.

A male.

Sitting, observing.

“Hello,” you greeted softly.

No answer.

“What are you doing up there?” You asked.

The shadows fluttered and twitched at first before melting away into a black mist behind the males shoulders, revealing his face.

“Oh,” you whispered, taking in the hard expression of his face. He had hair of a dark midnight sky, eyebrows just a shade lighter that were furrowed deeply, shadowing his eyes that, against his dark features, seemed to glow golden when they narrowed towards you. He was all sharp lines and tensed muscles.

He shifted slightly in his place against the branches of the tree before stepping forward and allowing himself to gracefully drop down in front of you, merely inches away as he stared down into your eyes.

“How did you see me?” He asked, his voice was rough and deep for his age, possibly a couple years older than you, but his tone was steady.

“I didn’t,” you admitted. “I felt your eyes on me.”

It was then that you took notice of just how tightly his wings were pulled in at his back, a complete contrast to yours that were much more relaxed; pulled in just enough to protect them but let out enough that you didn’t have to consciously hold them in all the time, “you’ll get back pain holding them in like that,” you told him, pointing briefly at his wings.

They twitched in response, shadows fluttering wildly around the tips of his wings. It wasn’t a purposeful movement, that you could tell.

“I can’t control them,” He admitted to you.

Your brows furrowed, “what do you mean?”

“I cannot fly,” he said. “I never learned how to control them.”

You stepped back at his words. “You can’t fly!?” You spluttered in outrage. “Why can’t you fly? Are you injured?”

He shrugged in a way that showed this wasn’t a big deal to him, as though it was normal. “I wasn’t allowed outside,” he stated simply.

You frowned, the idea of not being allowed outside was unfathomable to you. “You weren’t allowed?”

“My father didn’t let me,” his words remained even, unaware of the turmoil that was stirring in your gut the more he spoke, a turmoil that you couldn’t quite explain.

“Why?” You asked.

“Because I am a bastard,” he said, his tone empty and detached, as though he had long since accepted that was all he was reduced to.

You did not like how he seemed to convinced that that’s all he was worth.

“You’re a Shadowsinger,” you pointed out, remembering old tales of myths and legends you had read before. “Those are very rare.”

The shadows clinging to him fluttered and preened at the tips of his wings and over his shoulders as though they understood your words.

Azriel nodded in response, feet scuffing into the dirt often forest uncomfortably at your words.

“That’s so cool!” You whispered in awe, the admiration you felt was completely authentic but you were also hoping it comforted him a bit.

He looked at you, the only hint of confusion on his face was the soft crease between his browns and the subtlest tilt of his head. “You’re not scared?” He asked.

“Of what?” You laughed, as though the idea was absurd.

“Of me,” he raised one of his gloved hands, tapping his index finger into his chest.

“Have you given me a reason to be scared?”

He paused at your question, internally baffled at this entire interaction. “I suppose not,” he muttered to himself, the idea of you not being scared simply just from his presence was beyond him.

“What’s your name?” You abruptly changed the subject.

He was silent for a moment, contemplating whether he should tell you or not. “Azriel.”

“Azriel,” you repeated softly, testing how it sounded. “That’s a beautiful name,” you told him.

His shadows twitched, his wings almost flinched at your complement, Azriel shifted uncomfortably.

“Do you want to be my friend, Azriel?”

“I’ve never had a friend before,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t think I’d be good at it.”

You pursed your lips in response, looking around the forest floor before speaking. “I’ve never really had a friend either, there’s my brother, Rhys, but he doesn’t count. Do you have any siblings?”

Azriel tensed at your question, his entire body stiffening, hands clenching in his gloves. “No, it’s just me.”

“Well,” you began, “I’d be honoured to be your first friend, if you’ll be mine?”

You were beyond confusing to Azriel, the first person besides his mother to not look at him with fear or disgust, to look at him and just see a person.

Azriel did not reply verbally but he didn’t need to, you didn’t mind and so he simply nodded in response earning a beaming smile from you.

“Spread your wings out wide,” you instructed softly.

“They’re heavy,” Azriel muttered, wings spreading in stuttering movements, face twisting slightly as he concentrated on holding them.

Your eyes ran along his wings now that they weren’t tucked in painfully right, taking in the large span of them, they fluttered under your gaze, completely against Azriel’s control.

“That’s because your back muscles aren’t used to holding their weight, we’ll need to strengthen them,” you explained, eyes snapping away from his wings, towards his own hazel eyes instead.

“How do we strengthen them?” He asked.

“Exercises, most are trained from babies to use their wings so it comes a lot more naturally but we can do it together.” You smiled at him encouragingly.

You knew this was hard for him, you knew he thought he wasn’t worth your help and you knew that this entire situation was uncomfortable for him but you wanted to help him and you liked spending time with him.

“I struggled with flying at first,” you admitted, hoping it would comfort him in some way.

His eyes stopped glancing to the trees around you, now focused. “Really?”

You nodded. “Yeah, Rhys was flying before he could walk but I was too scared to do it. I didn’t trust myself. I kept imagining my wings just not working one day and falling to my death.”

Azriel shifted subtly, shadows restless. “How did you do it?”

“I had no choice,” you said. “One day my mother and I were looking at the stars from the balcony of our home and she just pushed me off, I had no choice but to trust my wings or fall and I flew for the first time that day.”

Azriel’s eyes widened. “She pushed you off the balcony!?”

You smiled widely. “Yeah, I was so angry, I didn’t speak to her for a week but it worked. I won’t be pushing you off ledges until you can hold your wings properly though.”

You could detect the subtle relief that reflected in the golden hazel hue of Azriel’s eyes, as though he expected you to be able to push him off of any ledge and force him to command his wings that didn’t seem willing to answer him yet.

At some point, you will take great joy in pushing him off a cliff.

Not yet though.

Only when he was ready.

“Where does my starlight keep running off to?” Your mother’s gentle voice filtered through your ears as she brushed through your hair carefully.

You were silent for a moment, contemplating whether to reveal your secret. “I made a friend.”

You felt the comb pause briefly against your head before it continued. Your mother hummed absentmindedly. “Did you? Do I get to meet this friend?”

You pursed your lips in contemplation, an unexplainable feeling of protectiveness surging through your body. “He’s shy, he doesn’t like being around people,” you told her.

You missed the amused smile that appeared on your mother’s face, no doubt intrigued at the strange protectiveness that you had for your age. “He?” She asked, almost teasingly.

You huffed in response but a smile grew on your face that you couldn’t stop. “Yes,” you said strongly before your tone shifted to pride. “He’s my friend, I’m teaching him to fly.”

Your mother paused entirely, turning your body to face her own causing your eyes to meet her own that held the same violet hue she passed down to you and your brother. “Teaching him to fly? How old is this friend?”

Your shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe Rhys’ age. His father never let him outside so he can’t fly.”

Worry clouded your mother’s face at your words. “Is he a good boy?”

A bright smile overtook your face at her question. “He’s the best! He’s very quiet but he still speaks to me and he listens to all of my complaining and his shadows play with my hair!”

“Shadows?” Your mother’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“He’s a Shadowsinger,” you whispered. “Those are very rare.”

“They are,” she repeated. “Don’t tell your father about him, starlight.”

“I would never,” you swore, your voice demonstrating the dramatic outrage of a child who couldn’t fathom sharing information like that to your father. “Mama?”

“Yes, starlight?” She asked, turning you back around so she could start braiding your hair.

“Don’t tell Rhys, okay?” You told her, your brother could get way too protective, it was embarrassing.

“I would never tell Rhys, starlight. Or Cassian.” She promised.

“Definitely not Cassian.” You agreed.

“I’m not ready!” Azriel protested, warily looking over the edge of the cliff you had pretty much dragged him too.

“You are ready!” You argued. “You’ve got great control of your wings and your muscles are as strong as can be!”

Azriel shook his head, shadows darting around him, showing his nerves. “What if I fall?”

“Then I’ll catch you!” You replied simply.

“I’m too heavy for you to catch me!” He protested.

“You are not, I’m strong!” You argued, outraged at his accusation. “I’ll hold your hands?” You proposed, already reaching out towards his own gloved hands.

Azriel looked down at your outstretched hands, hesitation clear on his face, he really wasn’t sure about this but he did really want to be able to fly.

He relented, placing his hands in yours, earning himself one of your bright smiles, stars twinkling happily in your eyes.

Your wings fluttered slowly, not enough to lift you off the ground, just enough to encourage Azriel to copy your actions.

You slowly increased the force at which your wings beat, air building with the crevice of each controlled flap of the membrane.

Azriel copied your movements, his own wings much larger in comparison to any you’ve seen on other children your age, your own were quite big for a female Illyrian so young.

Azriel felt the change in gravity, the way his feet were itching to leave the ground on their own accord, as though his body was fully attuned and aware to what was currently happening even if it was unfamiliar.

“You’re doing it,” you whispered proudly, your own feet lifting off the ground before Azriel’s but your hands stayed in his as you remained stationary in the air, feet just slightly off the ground as you waited patiently for his own body to rise into the wind.

“You’re so close, just a bit more.” You encouraged him.

The second the air swept beneath Azriel’s feet for the first time, it felt as though his entire body was about to fall backwards as he had nothing to stand on but your hands tightened on his own, keeping him straight as he unsteadily rose with you, trying to focus on keeping his wings moving.

“It’ll come naturally the more you do it,” you told him. “You won’t even have to think about it.”

Azriel wasn’t so sure about that but as he felt the wind beneath his wings as he became airborne for the first time, with your hands holding his, he chose to believe you anyway.

“You’re flying Azriel!” Sheer joy and pride filled your face as you looked at him, he thought you looked beautiful like this.

The wind causing your hair to flutter around your face, eyes sparkling at the freedom that flying gave you and your smile took up your whole face as it always did.

Distracted by the sight of you in your element, Azriel lost focus of his wings causing him to quickly drop a few feet but your hands tightened on his just as his heart dropped in his chest out of panic.

He concentrated on beating his wings again, fluttering slightly higher than previously.

But even as he concentrated on flying, his mind was also on something else.

You had caught him, just like you said you would.

Wake. Wake. Wake.

Their hissing little whispers nudged you from unconsciousness. The cold concrete of the cave dug uncomfortably into your back. You groaned, shifting as your eyes opened, adjusting to the thick, clouded darkness you had been forced to endure for five centuries.

Another day it remained the same.

A sharp, slithering coldness nudged against your cheek, and again against your fingertips. You looked down in confusion, taking in the grey-black strands of darkness fluttering around your hands.

You raised your hands slightly, it was hard to see clearly but they resembled beings you had not seen in a very long time. The dark strands fluttered around your fingertips as you stared intently at them and in a movement so sharp, one lone sentient being jumped to your shoulder.

Your head snapped to the side as you looked at it, moving around, nestling into your clothes that had long since been reduced to scraps of fabric.

The beating beneath your chest stuttered as you stared at them.

Shadows.

They were shadows.

Master. Master. Master.

She hears us. She hears us.

They fluttered around you in a way that seemed to portray excitement.

Was that them talking?

“Azriel?” You whispered, broken yet that sick part of you still held a bit of hope.

Many years you had locked out memories of the Shadowsinger yet it never worked too well, you could never forget him and you would never forget the sentient beings that obeyed him either.

No.

They almost sounded like hisses.

“Not Azriel then.” You muttered. It did not surprise you, not really.

You didn’t understand.

“Another Shadowsinger?” You asked, it earned that same excited fluttering dance as before. Yes.

But who? You wondered.

It seemed they knew your thoughts too.

You. You.

Your face contorted into confusion. You weren’t a Shadowsinger.

You allowed yourself to think of Azriel again. Not of him exactly or the feeling of his love that had faded long ago but of his story.

Azriel had not been born a Shadowsinger.

How had Azriel become a Shadowsinger?

He had been locked in a dark cell for eleven years and had no choice but to find companionship within the darkness itself.

Oh.

“You’re my shadows.” You did not question this time.

Yes. They hissed again.

“But the faebane chains?” You wondered aloud.

“Shadows are not magic, they’re simply part of me.” Azriel had told you that before.

You studied them again, more intently this time and whilst they resembled the shadows of Azriel’s so very much there was the slightest hint of a difference; they weren’t just a grey-black, they had the slightest underlying tint of purple.

They truly were yours.

Release chains. They muttered, not to you, to themselves, fluttering around frantically.

“I can’t,” you whispered in long accepted defeat. “They won’t come off, someone else needs to do it.”

Your newly acquired shadows ignored you, muttering to themselves.

Shadowsinger will do it. Spymaster will do it.

But your energy was draining again, conscious slipping into darkness, your shadows slipping through the cracks of the cave without you knowing.

Azriel had been born alone and he would die alone.

He had accepted that was all life was made for him, there were those years he had you, moments were he thought he’d have you forever but you were taken, brutally slaughtered along with your mother in the spring court.

He had never and will never forgive himself for not being there to protect you. Truthfully he did not know how Rhysand could go on with life after that, not that his High Lord and brother didn’t deserve to live, he did, but how had grief not taken his sanity Azriel would never know.

He would never know how Rhys could look in the mirror and not see the shadows of his mother and sister, not when some days Azriel could not look into his eyes and see the very reflection of the young woman he lost, his woman.

It would forever just be Azriel and his shadows.

Another night that Azriel slept in your room alone, beneath your sheets, on the pillows you always hid that ridiculous stuffed bat beneath.

When he awoke this time though, it was different.

His shadows, usually fluttering lazily were muttering and batting around recklessly, their unease settling in Azriel’s chest, having the spymaster looking around the room carefully.

The only thing that seemed wrong were his shadows themselves, it was as though they were fighting each other?

Intruder. Intruder. They hissed, flying into each other as though they were in a sort of disorientated state. Azriel had never seen anything like it before.

Deep down, Azriel understood that there was no intruder in the House of Wind but he did not understand what they could be referring to.

The bond between himself and his shadows was strange. They told him things yes, but a lot of their communication came down to feelings, he felt their unease, their frustration, as though they were participating in an internal battle.

But why?

He sat up in your bed and observed them closely. He too, could see that there was something off but couldn’t quite put his mind to it.

Intruder. But where?

The shadows hissed at each other, floating around the room in distress, it was when the golden rays of the morning sunrise shone through the balcony window that he saw it.

His eyes, always so sharp, caught that difference in his shadows. Not his shadows, he concluded. Eyes widening, he reached out to that invisible thread and called his shadows back to him with a snap.

There it was.

A small cluster that did not return to him, a cluster of shadows that looked just the slightest different to his own. That underlying purple tint was not his.

He tried to reach out, tried to find that tether to them.

Nothing.

They did not seem threatening though.

They fluttered and danced around before him, as though they were trying to communicate with him but could not.

Help. His own shadows muttered.

“Help?” He questioned.

They plead help. They hissed into his ears. Another Shadowmaster. Trapped.

Azriel shook his head, he was the only shadowmaster.

No. They hissed, more stern this time, as though telling him he was wrong.

Azriel removed himself from your bed, pulling on his Illyrian leathers as quickly as possible, not even strapping his weapons to himself. Instead he simply grabbed Truthteller alone into its sheath.

He approached the bedroom door, turning to see if those other shadows would follow, they were.

He let himself out of the room, shadows, his and not his following behind closely, he barged into Rhys’ study causing the High Lord to jump, not that he would ever admit.

“Azriel?” Rhys greeted, looking up from his papers in barely concealed surprise. “A knock would be nice.”

“We have a problem.” Azriel simply responded earning Rhys’ full attention.

“What is it?”

Azriel held out a gloved hand and while Azriel had no means to communicate with these shadows, they understood him and gathered into his palm, fluttering into a rounded shape.

Rhys simply looked at them in confusion. “What am I looking at? New party trick?”

Azriel shook his head, face contorting as he studied them. “They’re not mine, I can’t communicate with them.”

“What?” Rhys uttered to himself.

“There’s another Shadowsinger out there,” Azriel responded, mostly to himself. “They communicate with my shadows but I can’t understand them myself.”

“Another Shadowsinger?” His High Lord mumbled, shaking his head. “No, you’re the only Shadowsinger alive.”

“Not anymore,” Azriel argued, his and the guest shadows beginning to flutter wildly in their own disagreement. “Apparently they’re trapped.”

Chained. His shadows corrected. Caved.

“Chained,” he spoke aloud.

“Perhaps for good reason,” Rhys argued, whilst Azriel was his brother and he trusted him beyond measures, he was well aware just how powerful Shadowsingers were, if this other Shadowsinger was locked away then perhaps it was because it was deserved.

Azriel shook his head, a sort of confused anguish taking over his features as he observed the shadows sitting in his palm. “They don’t feel threatening, or evil. They’re scared, pleading for help, for freedom.”

“How do you know they’re not pretending? That this other Shadowsinger hasn’t sent these here to play a ruse just to get their freedom?” Rhys asked.

The guest shadows in his palm shrunk down in defeat whilst his own fluttered in agitation around his shoulders and the tips of his wings.

She doesn’t know they’re here. She can’t control it yet.

Azriel listened to their whispers with widened eyes before looking at Rhys. “She cannot control them, this ability must be newly manifested, they came here on their own. Besides, shadows don’t work like that, they can’t fake feelings or emotions.”

“She?” Rhys sat up straighter in his chair at the newfound information.

“I can’t explain it, Rhys,” Azriel muttered, deep in thought. “I have this feeling that I need to free her, I don’t know why, it just feels right to.”

Those lone little shadows of yours clung to Azriel in the following days, against your knowledge. Azriel spent that time preparing himself for rescuing you, not that he knew it would be you he was rescuing, trying to gain as much information as he could through his own shadows translating messages back and forth with yours.

It was strange for Azriel, not only that there were sentient echoes of darkness that for some reason he could not communicate with but also knowing that somewhere out there, trapped and alone, there was another like him, another who could communicate with the darkness and melt into the shadows, even if it was a new manifestation.

The cave you were imprisoned in, he learned, was located somewhere in The Middle, because of course it was.

What other place would be sick enough to have trapped a person so long that the shadows had sought them out?

Trapped for centuries. The shadows had told him.

Bound by faebane chains, tormented by memories of a time that had long since faded.

Azriel, in all he had been through and in all his grief and terror over the years, could not imagine being trapped within the same four walls for hundreds of years.

He had barely lasted eleven, Rhys had hardly lasted fifty and yet out there, a poor woman had lasted hundreds of years, alone.

A woman of his kind.

The cave, as Azriel stood before it, was hardly a cave. It was more a carved hole in the ground, hidden by overgrown moss and shrubbery that even he, a spymaster, would have overlooked had he passed by without your shadows leading him to it.

He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to squeeze his overgrown body into it.

Your shadows shot forward like whips, diving into the underground cave, no doubt snapping back to you, even though your lack of control, they were drawn to you, desired to be close to your being.

Azriel crouched down, inspecting the gap in the ground, his own shadows fluttering around in agitation, some even darting ahead into the cave. He peeled off his outer layers that he strapped his weapons to, sending them down into the cave before him.

Risky, no doubt, but he felt no threat towards whatever presence was inside this cave, only an innocently, trapped Shadowsinger.

One that meant no harm, only desiring freedom.

He heaved himself through the gap, the concrete lining the underground cave scratching against his arms and shoulders as he dragged himself through, gravity doing most of the work, allowing him to drop down onto solid stone and rock.

It smelled awful; blood, dirt, faebane and a hell of a lot like someone had long since lost the will to live.

He saw the chains, loads of them, hanging from the ceiling, from the walls, even some bound to the ground with bolts.

Even as someone bound by shadows and member of the Night Court, Azriel could not see clearly in the darkness of this pit but his shadows led the way, they led him to your shadows.

Your shadows that covered just about every part of you, hiding you as though attempting to protect your presence from anyone who could possibly mean harm, leaving you just the image of a darkened, fuzzy blur.

“I will not harm her,” Azriel promised. “I only want to free her, take her back to the Night Court, help her heal and gain control.”

He saw the way they hesitated, how they debated whether they had made the right decision in finding him or not.

She trusted you. They whispered, confessed. His own shadows translating. Long time ago.

Azriel did not know what they meant by that. Had he known her once upon a time?

It was when they finally relented and made the decision to fade away from covering your body that Azriel, despite all the gore and torment he had witnessed in his life, felt like he was going to be sick as his eyes fell upon the battered figure of a young, fae woman.

His fae woman.

No. He shook his head, as though it would shake the sick illusion from his mind.

Yet you remained in his sight.

He knew that figure, that hair, those lashes. It has all haunted his every sleep and movement for the last five hundred years. The colour beneath your eyelids that he had drenched his walls in, that he would look upon every morning and every night.

Even unhealthily slimmer than you had been five hundred years ago, there would not be a single moment or a single version of you in which Azriel would not recognise.

The first person who had shown him grace, who had shown him that kindness and love does in fact exist, the person who had given him the family that he still clings to today in hopes of grasping at every last remainder of you that he had believed was long lost.

Your name was a ghost on his lips as he surged forward, shadows following, your own fluttering at his shoulders now as he unsheathed truth-teller and sliced through the chains binding you to this sick prison.

The dagger you had given him.

The first gift he had ever received.

He collapsed to his knees beside your battered, unconscious body.

Your breaths shallow, wrists and ankles raw from centuries of imprisonment, body all but skin and bones.

He smoothed a marred thumb over your cheekbone, hands shaking as he took you in, your body surrendered to his touch as though finally, it had found something safe it could relax itself in.

And though you were unaware, still in the depths of your mind, your eyes had fluttered open, a deep purple hue that he had missed for hundreds of years.

Azriel choked on a sob as he gazed upon you again, his soul shattering open at the sight of the only person he had ever loved in his five hundred years walking the lands of Prythian.

He felt the moment part of his soul tore from his chest and landed straight into yours, a golden thread deep within him keeping it tethered to himself even though it now sat with you.

You had long since lost count of time, with nothing but darkness surrounding you and no hope for any light to work its way into this godforsaken pit, days were passing by without your knowledge. It had been years at this point, how many, you didn’t know but long enough for the world outside to be a distant echo and for your presence to have faded into a pitiful whisper.

Years passed by with only the reminders of your old life to keep you company; you often dreamed of those times your brother carved out time in his day to braid your hair or when you would both jump out of the windows late at night to fly over Velaris together. You’d dream of your mother, how she’d let you sit and ‘help’ her make dresses or that time you were so outraged when you were learning how to fly and she pushed you straight from the balcony of the House of Wind so that you had no choice but to fly.

Your days were filled with flashes of them all; your mother, Rhysand, Mor and Cassian.

You wondered how much of life had moved on without you.

Was Rhysand High Lord yet?

If he was, how had your father died?

Had Rhysand found his mate?

Had he made her High Lady like you both always spoke about?

In those extra difficult times that your control slipped even further, those memories of the Shadowsinger would linger the harshest.

You did not like thinking of how much his life had moved on without you.

Rhysand and Feyre stood together in the kitchen of the townhouse, looking through the window into the garden where Elain was tending to the flower garden and Azriel was sprawled out nearby, sunning his wings.

“Do you think the Cauldron can make mistakes with mates?” Feyre asked him, a look of confused anguish on her face.

Rhysand looked towards his mate, surprise dancing in his eyes at her question. “Nobody truly knows what makes the cauldron put two people together. They’re not always perfectly compatible, my own parents were examples of that, they never truly loved each other. Others, like us, are lucky to find love with their mate.”

Feyre continued looking out into the garden. “Why couldn’t the cauldron have made Azriel, Elain’s mate, instead of Lucien. Lucien is good but they look good together,” Feyre pointed out to where the Shadowsinger was still sprawled on the grass.

A pulse of pain pulled through their bond causing Feyre to snap her eyes back to Rhys. She was surprised to see the pain in his eyes, it wasn’t just any pain. It was the sort of pain that lingered and dwelled, a grief that would forever remain no matter how much time passed but there was also a subtle protectiveness in his eyes that could almost be missed.

Feyre was confused.

Rhysand swallowed a lump in his throat before speaking. “Do not mistake Azriel’s kindness towards your sister as affection. He is spending time with her because I ordered him too, to try and understand her powers. You’re reading into something that isn’t there.” His voice was stern but not unkind.

Feyre’s brows furrowed at his words. “It would be an honour for Azriel to find his mate, with anyone.”

“Azriel does not want a mate, Feyre.” The sheer confidence in Rhysand’s words only confused her even more.

“But why would he not want a mate? I thought everyone dreams of having one.” She questioned, looking out at Azriel’s figure in the garden.

She thought Azriel of all people would want a mate.

“Azriel has already had his great love,” Rhysand said. “No mating bond could ever live up to that for him. There are loves that even the cauldron cannot compete with.”

“What?” Feyre asked, shock taking over her face. “Who?”

That pain appeared in Rhys’ eyes again, a quick flash but it was there. “I meant it when I said I have no secrets to keep from you but not all stories are solely mine to tell. I am not going to tell you Azriel’s secrets.”

Feyre nodded silently. She understood, it didn’t diminish her curiosity but she would not pry for answers that weren’t hers to have.

Azriel’s footsteps were silent as always, shadows licking at his heals and fingertips as he walked towards Rhys’ office.

Not bothering to knock, his gloved hand unlatched the handle as he stepped inside. “You called, brother?”

Rhys was sat back in his chair, unsurprisingly dressed in his formals but the conflicted look on his face ruffled his demeanour. “I’d like to preface by saying you haven’t done anything wrong, my mate simply is too nosey for her own good and sees things she hopes are there rather than reality at times.”

Azriel’s face remained at an impasse other than the slight narrowing of his golden, hazel eyes.

Rhysand sighed. “Feyre is under the impression that you and Elain may make for a better match than her and Lucien.”

The control Azriel had on himself immediately slipped as he stepped back, eyes widening in shock, fists clenching by his sides as his shadows fluttered around him. “No. Rhys, I would never-”

“I know” Rhys interrupted. “I am not accusing you of doing anything, Az. I just thought it best to let you know.”

Azriel shifted uncomfortably at his words. “You know there is no one else, there never has been and there will never be anyone else.” He insisted, wanting his brother to believe him.

Rhysand’s gaze softened. “I know. I have never doubted that even though it would be okay if eventually-”

“No!” Azriel’s cut him off, “There will never be another.”

“Okay,” Rhys conceded. “I just wanted to let you know, Azriel.”

Azriel nodded his head, not hesitating in taking his exit, leaving Rhys there in a suffocating silence of loss.

“You’re distracted,” Cassian dropped his stance, looking towards Feyre intently.

His High Lady sighed in frustration, leaning back against the ropes of the sparring ring.

“What’s on your mind?” He asked.

Feyre pursed her lips in contemplation before relenting. “Did you three actually used do things in the same room as each other?”

Cassian barked out a deep laugh at her question. “That’s what’s on your mind?”

Feyre shrugged sheepishly.

Cassian shook his head, a large smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, Rhys and I did. It would be a bit weird and incredibly uncomfortable for us all if Azriel did.”

Feyre tilted her head curiously, “Why?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be very nice for Rhys to see his best friend having his way with the girl he loves more than anything, would it?” He said, as though it was obvious. “Besides, Azriel has way too much respect for him to do that anyways.”

Feyre’s eyes widened in shock but there was also a sickening feeling of jealously bubbling in her stomach. “So, Azriel and Rhys loved the same girl?”

Cassian, way too focused now on stretching to acknowledge how his words had been interpreted. “We all love her but those two always have and always will love her most. She’s their number one girl.”

Number one girl.

Feyre did not like the sound of that at all. She hated it and she hated herself even more because of the jealously that gnawed at her. “They didn’t hate each other for that?” She questioned.

Cassian shook his head, mid lunge. “Azriel had no reason to hate Rhys. It was difficult for Rhys to accept in the beginning and Azriel understood that but Rhys saw how much love was there, it was impossible to miss so who was he to stand in the way of that?”

Feyre stood in thought for a moment. “So, Rhys loved her first?”

Cassian laughed. “Of course he did. It’s not really a competition though, is it?”

She didn’t answer him, she simply stood there, thoughts swirling.

Feyre hated herself, she hated that she could not stop thinking about this girl who must have been something really special for both Rhys and Azriel to both love.

She’s their number one girl.

No matter how hard she had tried to not think about it, she couldn’t help it.

“What’s on your mind, Feyre darling?” Rhys’ smooth voice slipped through the silence of their bedroom.

She looked up at him from her place at the edge of their bed. “It’s nothing,” she stated simply.

Rhys frowned at her dismissal, placing his watch on his bedside table before walking to stand in front of her. He pressed a palm to the side of her face. “Tell me what’s on your mind?”

She sighed, mostly in frustration at herself, partially in his insistence to talk about it. “Where you in love with Azriel’s mate?”

The utter bewilderment that appeared on Rhys’ face made her immediately regret her words and watch to shrink back in on herself. “What!?”

Feyre shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she tried to pull away but Rhys kept his hand on the side of her face, steadying her.

“Azriel doesn’t have a mate,” he told her, utter confusion lacing his words.

Feyre shrugged, “Were you in love with the same girl then?”

“I’m so confused, no?” Rhys said, having absolutely no idea where she could’ve gotten this from. “Where have you gotten this from?”

Feyre looked at him, frustration beginning to build within her. “I asked Cassian about how you used to do things in the same room, he said you and him did but not Azriel because it wouldn’t be nice for him to be pleasuring a girl that you loved! He said she was yours and Azriel’s number one girl.”

Rhys pulled his hand from her face and placed it over his mouth. The confusion in his eyes had faded into a an amusing sparkle as his shoulders began shaking with suppressed laughter.

“What!?” Feyre huffed. “What are you laughing at!?”

Rhysand released a full deep chuckle at her frustrations. “Cassian is an idiot and you are utterly beautiful when you’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous!” She argued.

Rhys simply raised an eyebrow at her, completely unconvinced. “You’ve completely misinterpreted Cassian’s words, Feyre darling. It is still not my story to tell but I can promise you that Azriel and I have never been in love with the same girl.”

It had been five centuries since the disappearance of you and your mother and Azriel had never been the same.

Long before he met you, Azriel had learned what it meant to live in loneliness with nothing but his shadows for company but loneliness in response to your absence was never quite something anyone could become familiar with.

It was an endless void of nothing. Normally the thread of silence would at least end somewhere; a place where you simply got used to the feeling of someone not being there; but not with you.

It had been five centuries since your last laugh and that entire time Azriel has spent sleeping in your room. The room that sat right next to his own where your beds were pushed against the shared wall so even in your own beds you would be sleeping as close as you could get to each other.

It remained exactly how you left it, the same books sat on the nightstands, the same jewellery littered across a dressing table and a beautiful dress of deep blue with glittering silver stars on the bodice hung from the door of the closet, preparing to be worn for a day that never came.

Each morning that Azriel woke and got ready for the day, his last words to the House of Wind always remained the same. Leave it exactly how she left it, please.

The House always listened.

Whilst Azriel no longer slept in his own room, it had changed. The walls that were once a basic white had been transformed into a purple so unique it could only reflect the colour of your eyes.

In those rare moments that Azriel was able to relax away from the world, he would lay in his bed and stare at the walls of his room and whilst they could never reflect the light in a sparkle the way your own eyes could, the paint would simply have to do.

The winter chill of the Illyrian Steppes bit harshly into your cheeks as you ran through the thick snow into the forests surrounding the Windhaven camp.

The males were awful here, brutal even but even they knew to leave the daughter of the High Lord alone and so you were free to wander without the risk of your wings being torn from your back.

The trees created sanctuary for you here, as you weaved in between them you thought of your brother, Rhys and how quickly he would lose his mind once he found you gone.

A deep rooted feeling of being watched suddenly stirred in your stomach causing you to pause. It was the most subtle weight you had ever felt and yet you could not help but feel it as it settled into your bones.

You cast a quick glance up into the branches of the trees above you, where their leaves and twigs clashed and combined with one another, it took a moment for you to spot them but eventually you did.

Within a particular tall tree that was shaped in all groves and turns towards the top, deep within the shadows is where you saw him.

A male.

Sitting, observing.

“Hello,” you greeted softly.

No answer.

“What are you doing up there?” You asked.

The shadows fluttered and twitched at first before melting away into a black mist behind the males shoulders, revealing his face.

“Oh,” you whispered, taking in the hard expression of his face. He had hair of a dark midnight sky, eyebrows just a shade lighter that were furrowed deeply, shadowing his eyes that, against his dark features, seemed to glow golden when they narrowed towards you. He was all sharp lines and tensed muscles.

He shifted slightly in his place against the branches of the tree before stepping forward and allowing himself to gracefully drop down in front of you, merely inches away as he stared down into your eyes.

“How did you see me?” He asked, his voice was rough and deep for his age, possibly a couple years older than you, but his tone was steady.

“I didn’t,” you admitted. “I felt your eyes on me.”

It was then that you took notice of just how tightly his wings were pulled in at his back, a complete contrast to yours that were much more relaxed; pulled in just enough to protect them but let out enough that you didn’t have to consciously hold them in all the time, “you’ll get back pain holding them in like that,” you told him, pointing briefly at his wings.

They twitched in response, shadows fluttering wildly around the tips of his wings. It wasn’t a purposeful movement, that you could tell.

“I can’t control them,” He admitted to you.

Your brows furrowed, “what do you mean?”

“I cannot fly,” he said. “I never learned how to control them.”

You stepped back at his words. “You can’t fly!?” You spluttered in outrage. “Why can’t you fly? Are you injured?”

He shrugged in a way that showed this wasn’t a big deal to him, as though it was normal. “I wasn’t allowed outside,” he stated simply.

You frowned, the idea of not being allowed outside was unfathomable to you. “You weren’t allowed?”

“My father didn’t let me,” his words remained even, unaware of the turmoil that was stirring in your gut the more he spoke, a turmoil that you couldn’t quite explain.

“Why?” You asked.

“Because I am a bastard,” he said, his tone empty and detached, as though he had long since accepted that was all he was reduced to.

You did not like how he seemed to convinced that that’s all he was worth.

“You’re a Shadowsinger,” you pointed out, remembering old tales of myths and legends you had read before. “Those are very rare.”

The shadows clinging to him fluttered and preened at the tips of his wings and over his shoulders as though they understood your words.

Azriel nodded in response, feet scuffing into the dirt often forest uncomfortably at your words.

“That’s so cool!” You whispered in awe, the admiration you felt was completely authentic but you were also hoping it comforted him a bit.

He looked at you, the only hint of confusion on his face was the soft crease between his browns and the subtlest tilt of his head. “You’re not scared?” He asked.

“Of what?” You laughed, as though the idea was absurd.

“Of me,” he raised one of his gloved hands, tapping his index finger into his chest.

“Have you given me a reason to be scared?”

He paused at your question, internally baffled at this entire interaction. “I suppose not,” he muttered to himself, the idea of you not being scared simply just from his presence was beyond him.

“What’s your name?” You abruptly changed the subject.

He was silent for a moment, contemplating whether he should tell you or not. “Azriel.”

“Azriel,” you repeated softly, testing how it sounded. “That’s a beautiful name,” you told him.

His shadows twitched, his wings almost flinched at your complement, Azriel shifted uncomfortably.

“Do you want to be my friend, Azriel?”

“I’ve never had a friend before,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t think I’d be good at it.”

You pursed your lips in response, looking around the forest floor before speaking. “I’ve never really had a friend either, there’s my brother, Rhys, but he doesn’t count. Do you have any siblings?”

Azriel tensed at your question, his entire body stiffening, hands clenching in his gloves. “No, it’s just me.”

“Well,” you began, “I’d be honoured to be your first friend, if you’ll be mine?”

You were beyond confusing to Azriel, the first person besides his mother to not look at him with fear or disgust, to look at him and just see a person.

Azriel did not reply verbally but he didn’t need to, you didn’t mind and so he simply nodded in response earning a beaming smile from you.

“Spread your wings out wide,” you instructed softly.

“They’re heavy,” Azriel muttered, wings spreading in stuttering movements, face twisting slightly as he concentrated on holding them.

Your eyes ran along his wings now that they weren’t tucked in painfully right, taking in the large span of them, they fluttered under your gaze, completely against Azriel’s control.

“That’s because your back muscles aren’t used to holding their weight, we’ll need to strengthen them,” you explained, eyes snapping away from his wings, towards his own hazel eyes instead.

“How do we strengthen them?” He asked.

“Exercises, most are trained from babies to use their wings so it comes a lot more naturally but we can do it together.” You smiled at him encouragingly.

You knew this was hard for him, you knew he thought he wasn’t worth your help and you knew that this entire situation was uncomfortable for him but you wanted to help him and you liked spending time with him.

“I struggled with flying at first,” you admitted, hoping it would comfort him in some way.

His eyes stopped glancing to the trees around you, now focused. “Really?”

You nodded. “Yeah, Rhys was flying before he could walk but I was too scared to do it. I didn’t trust myself. I kept imagining my wings just not working one day and falling to my death.”

Azriel shifted subtly, shadows restless. “How did you do it?”

“I had no choice,” you said. “One day my mother and I were looking at the stars from the balcony of our home and she just pushed me off, I had no choice but to trust my wings or fall and I flew for the first time that day.”

Azriel’s eyes widened. “She pushed you off the balcony!?”

You smiled widely. “Yeah, I was so angry, I didn’t speak to her for a week but it worked. I won’t be pushing you off ledges until you can hold your wings properly though.”

You could detect the subtle relief that reflected in the golden hazel hue of Azriel’s eyes, as though he expected you to be able to push him off of any ledge and force him to command his wings that didn’t seem willing to answer him yet.

At some point, you will take great joy in pushing him off a cliff.

Not yet though.

Only when he was ready.

“Where does my starlight keep running off to?” Your mother’s gentle voice filtered through your ears as she brushed through your hair carefully.

You were silent for a moment, contemplating whether to reveal your secret. “I made a friend.”

You felt the comb pause briefly against your head before it continued. Your mother hummed absentmindedly. “Did you? Do I get to meet this friend?”

You pursed your lips in contemplation, an unexplainable feeling of protectiveness surging through your body. “He’s shy, he doesn’t like being around people,” you told her.

You missed the amused smile that appeared on your mother’s face, no doubt intrigued at the strange protectiveness that you had for your age. “He?” She asked, almost teasingly.

You huffed in response but a smile grew on your face that you couldn’t stop. “Yes,” you said strongly before your tone shifted to pride. “He’s my friend, I’m teaching him to fly.”

Your mother paused entirely, turning your body to face her own causing your eyes to meet her own that held the same violet hue she passed down to you and your brother. “Teaching him to fly? How old is this friend?”

Your shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe Rhys’ age. His father never let him outside so he can’t fly.”

Worry clouded your mother’s face at your words. “Is he a good boy?”

A bright smile overtook your face at her question. “He’s the best! He’s very quiet but he still speaks to me and he listens to all of my complaining and his shadows play with my hair!”

“Shadows?” Your mother’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“He’s a Shadowsinger,” you whispered. “Those are very rare.”

“They are,” she repeated. “Don’t tell your father about him, starlight.”

“I would never,” you swore, your voice demonstrating the dramatic outrage of a child who couldn’t fathom sharing information like that to your father. “Mama?”

“Yes, starlight?” She asked, turning you back around so she could start braiding your hair.

“Don’t tell Rhys, okay?” You told her, your brother could get way too protective, it was embarrassing.

“I would never tell Rhys, starlight. Or Cassian.” She promised.

“Definitely not Cassian.” You agreed.

“I’m not ready!” Azriel protested, warily looking over the edge of the cliff you had pretty much dragged him too.

“You are ready!” You argued. “You’ve got great control of your wings and your muscles are as strong as can be!”

Azriel shook his head, shadows darting around him, showing his nerves. “What if I fall?”

“Then I’ll catch you!” You replied simply.

“I’m too heavy for you to catch me!” He protested.

“You are not, I’m strong!” You argued, outraged at his accusation. “I’ll hold your hands?” You proposed, already reaching out towards his own gloved hands.

Azriel looked down at your outstretched hands, hesitation clear on his face, he really wasn’t sure about this but he did really want to be able to fly.

He relented, placing his hands in yours, earning himself one of your bright smiles, stars twinkling happily in your eyes.

Your wings fluttered slowly, not enough to lift you off the ground, just enough to encourage Azriel to copy your actions.

You slowly increased the force at which your wings beat, air building with the crevice of each controlled flap of the membrane.

Azriel copied your movements, his own wings much larger in comparison to any you’ve seen on other children your age, your own were quite big for a female Illyrian so young.

Azriel felt the change in gravity, the way his feet were itching to leave the ground on their own accord, as though his body was fully attuned and aware to what was currently happening even if it was unfamiliar.

“You’re doing it,” you whispered proudly, your own feet lifting off the ground before Azriel’s but your hands stayed in his as you remained stationary in the air, feet just slightly off the ground as you waited patiently for his own body to rise into the wind.

“You’re so close, just a bit more.” You encouraged him.

The second the air swept beneath Azriel’s feet for the first time, it felt as though his entire body was about to fall backwards as he had nothing to stand on but your hands tightened on his own, keeping him straight as he unsteadily rose with you, trying to focus on keeping his wings moving.

“It’ll come naturally the more you do it,” you told him. “You won’t even have to think about it.”

Azriel wasn’t so sure about that but as he felt the wind beneath his wings as he became airborne for the first time, with your hands holding his, he chose to believe you anyway.

“You’re flying Azriel!” Sheer joy and pride filled your face as you looked at him, he thought you looked beautiful like this.

The wind causing your hair to flutter around your face, eyes sparkling at the freedom that flying gave you and your smile took up your whole face as it always did.

Distracted by the sight of you in your element, Azriel lost focus of his wings causing him to quickly drop a few feet but your hands tightened on his just as his heart dropped in his chest out of panic.

He concentrated on beating his wings again, fluttering slightly higher than previously.

But even as he concentrated on flying, his mind was also on something else.

You had caught him, just like you said you would.

Wake. Wake. Wake.

Their hissing little whispers nudged you from unconsciousness. The cold concrete of the cave dug uncomfortably into your back. You groaned, shifting as your eyes opened, adjusting to the thick, clouded darkness you had been forced to endure for five centuries.

Another day it remained the same.

A sharp, slithering coldness nudged against your cheek, and again against your fingertips. You looked down in confusion, taking in the grey-black strands of darkness fluttering around your hands.

You raised your hands slightly, it was hard to see clearly but they resembled beings you had not seen in a very long time. The dark strands fluttered around your fingertips as you stared intently at them and in a movement so sharp, one lone sentient being jumped to your shoulder.

Your head snapped to the side as you looked at it, moving around, nestling into your clothes that had long since been reduced to scraps of fabric.

The beating beneath your chest stuttered as you stared at them.

Shadows.

They were shadows.

Master. Master. Master.

She hears us. She hears us.

They fluttered around you in a way that seemed to portray excitement.

Was that them talking?

“Azriel?” You whispered, broken yet that sick part of you still held a bit of hope.

Many years you had locked out memories of the Shadowsinger yet it never worked too well, you could never forget him and you would never forget the sentient beings that obeyed him either.

No.

They almost sounded like hisses.

“Not Azriel then.” You muttered. It did not surprise you, not really.

You didn’t understand.

“Another Shadowsinger?” You asked, it earned that same excited fluttering dance as before. Yes.

But who? You wondered.

It seemed they knew your thoughts too.

You. You.

Your face contorted into confusion. You weren’t a Shadowsinger.

You allowed yourself to think of Azriel again. Not of him exactly or the feeling of his love that had faded long ago but of his story.

Azriel had not been born a Shadowsinger.

How had Azriel become a Shadowsinger?

He had been locked in a dark cell for eleven years and had no choice but to find companionship within the darkness itself.

Oh.

“You’re my shadows.” You did not question this time.

Yes. They hissed again.

“But the faebane chains?” You wondered aloud.

“Shadows are not magic, they’re simply part of me.” Azriel had told you that before.

You studied them again, more intently this time and whilst they resembled the shadows of Azriel’s so very much there was the slightest hint of a difference; they weren’t just a grey-black, they had the slightest underlying tint of purple.

They truly were yours.

Release chains. They muttered, not to you, to themselves, fluttering around frantically.

“I can’t,” you whispered in long accepted defeat. “They won’t come off, someone else needs to do it.”

Your newly acquired shadows ignored you, muttering to themselves.

Shadowsinger will do it. Spymaster will do it.

But your energy was draining again, conscious slipping into darkness, your shadows slipping through the cracks of the cave without you knowing.

Azriel had been born alone and he would die alone.

He had accepted that was all life was made for him, there were those years he had you, moments were he thought he’d have you forever but you were taken, brutally slaughtered along with your mother in the spring court.

He had never and will never forgive himself for not being there to protect you. Truthfully he did not know how Rhysand could go on with life after that, not that his High Lord and brother didn’t deserve to live, he did, but how had grief not taken his sanity Azriel would never know.

He would never know how Rhys could look in the mirror and not see the shadows of his mother and sister, not when some days Azriel could not look into his eyes and see the very reflection of the young woman he lost, his woman.

It would forever just be Azriel and his shadows.

Another night that Azriel slept in your room alone, beneath your sheets, on the pillows you always hid that ridiculous stuffed bat beneath.

When he awoke this time though, it was different.

His shadows, usually fluttering lazily were muttering and batting around recklessly, their unease settling in Azriel’s chest, having the spymaster looking around the room carefully.

The only thing that seemed wrong were his shadows themselves, it was as though they were fighting each other?

Intruder. Intruder. They hissed, flying into each other as though they were in a sort of disorientated state. Azriel had never seen anything like it before.

Deep down, Azriel understood that there was no intruder in the House of Wind but he did not understand what they could be referring to.

The bond between himself and his shadows was strange. They told him things yes, but a lot of their communication came down to feelings, he felt their unease, their frustration, as though they were participating in an internal battle.

But why?

He sat up in your bed and observed them closely. He too, could see that there was something off but couldn’t quite put his mind to it.

Intruder. But where?

The shadows hissed at each other, floating around the room in distress, it was when the golden rays of the morning sunrise shone through the balcony window that he saw it.

His eyes, always so sharp, caught that difference in his shadows. Not his shadows, he concluded. Eyes widening, he reached out to that invisible thread and called his shadows back to him with a snap.

There it was.

A small cluster that did not return to him, a cluster of shadows that looked just the slightest different to his own. That underlying purple tint was not his.

He tried to reach out, tried to find that tether to them.

Nothing.

They did not seem threatening though.

They fluttered and danced around before him, as though they were trying to communicate with him but could not.

Help. His own shadows muttered.

“Help?” He questioned.

They plead help. They hissed into his ears. Another Shadowmaster. Trapped.

Azriel shook his head, he was the only shadowmaster.

No. They hissed, more stern this time, as though telling him he was wrong.

Azriel removed himself from your bed, pulling on his Illyrian leathers as quickly as possible, not even strapping his weapons to himself. Instead he simply grabbed Truthteller alone into its sheath.

He approached the bedroom door, turning to see if those other shadows would follow, they were.

He let himself out of the room, shadows, his and not his following behind closely, he barged into Rhys’ study causing the High Lord to jump, not that he would ever admit.

“Azriel?” Rhys greeted, looking up from his papers in barely concealed surprise. “A knock would be nice.”

“We have a problem.” Azriel simply responded earning Rhys’ full attention.

“What is it?”

Azriel held out a gloved hand and while Azriel had no means to communicate with these shadows, they understood him and gathered into his palm, fluttering into a rounded shape.

Rhys simply looked at them in confusion. “What am I looking at? New party trick?”

Azriel shook his head, face contorting as he studied them. “They’re not mine, I can’t communicate with them.”

“What?” Rhys uttered to himself.

“There’s another Shadowsinger out there,” Azriel responded, mostly to himself. “They communicate with my shadows but I can’t understand them myself.”

“Another Shadowsinger?” His High Lord mumbled, shaking his head. “No, you’re the only Shadowsinger alive.”

“Not anymore,” Azriel argued, his and the guest shadows beginning to flutter wildly in their own disagreement. “Apparently they’re trapped.”

Chained. His shadows corrected. Caved.

“Chained,” he spoke aloud.

“Perhaps for good reason,” Rhys argued, whilst Azriel was his brother and he trusted him beyond measures, he was well aware just how powerful Shadowsingers were, if this other Shadowsinger was locked away then perhaps it was because it was deserved.

Azriel shook his head, a sort of confused anguish taking over his features as he observed the shadows sitting in his palm. “They don’t feel threatening, or evil. They’re scared, pleading for help, for freedom.”

“How do you know they’re not pretending? That this other Shadowsinger hasn’t sent these here to play a ruse just to get their freedom?” Rhys asked.

The guest shadows in his palm shrunk down in defeat whilst his own fluttered in agitation around his shoulders and the tips of his wings.

She doesn’t know they’re here. She can’t control it yet.

Azriel listened to their whispers with widened eyes before looking at Rhys. “She cannot control them, this ability must be newly manifested, they came here on their own. Besides, shadows don’t work like that, they can’t fake feelings or emotions.”

“She?” Rhys sat up straighter in his chair at the newfound information.

“I can’t explain it, Rhys,” Azriel muttered, deep in thought. “I have this feeling that I need to free her, I don’t know why, it just feels right to.”

Those lone little shadows of yours clung to Azriel in the following days, against your knowledge. Azriel spent that time preparing himself for rescuing you, not that he knew it would be you he was rescuing, trying to gain as much information as he could through his own shadows translating messages back and forth with yours.

It was strange for Azriel, not only that there were sentient echoes of darkness that for some reason he could not communicate with but also knowing that somewhere out there, trapped and alone, there was another like him, another who could communicate with the darkness and melt into the shadows, even if it was a new manifestation.

The cave you were imprisoned in, he learned, was located somewhere in The Middle, because of course it was.

What other place would be sick enough to have trapped a person so long that the shadows had sought them out?

Trapped for centuries. The shadows had told him.

Bound by faebane chains, tormented by memories of a time that had long since faded.

Azriel, in all he had been through and in all his grief and terror over the years, could not imagine being trapped within the same four walls for hundreds of years.

He had barely lasted eleven, Rhys had hardly lasted fifty and yet out there, a poor woman had lasted hundreds of years, alone.

A woman of his kind.

The cave, as Azriel stood before it, was hardly a cave. It was more a carved hole in the ground, hidden by overgrown moss and shrubbery that even he, a spymaster, would have overlooked had he passed by without your shadows leading him to it.

He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to squeeze his overgrown body into it.

Your shadows shot forward like whips, diving into the underground cave, no doubt snapping back to you, even though your lack of control, they were drawn to you, desired to be close to your being.

Azriel crouched down, inspecting the gap in the ground, his own shadows fluttering around in agitation, some even darting ahead into the cave. He peeled off his outer layers that he strapped his weapons to, sending them down into the cave before him.

Risky, no doubt, but he felt no threat towards whatever presence was inside this cave, only an innocently, trapped Shadowsinger.

One that meant no harm, only desiring freedom.

He heaved himself through the gap, the concrete lining the underground cave scratching against his arms and shoulders as he dragged himself through, gravity doing most of the work, allowing him to drop down onto solid stone and rock.

It smelled awful; blood, dirt, faebane and a hell of a lot like someone had long since lost the will to live.

He saw the chains, loads of them, hanging from the ceiling, from the walls, even some bound to the ground with bolts.

Even as someone bound by shadows and member of the Night Court, Azriel could not see clearly in the darkness of this pit but his shadows led the way, they led him to your shadows.

Your shadows that covered just about every part of you, hiding you as though attempting to protect your presence from anyone who could possibly mean harm, leaving you just the image of a darkened, fuzzy blur.

“I will not harm her,” Azriel promised. “I only want to free her, take her back to the Night Court, help her heal and gain control.”

He saw the way they hesitated, how they debated whether they had made the right decision in finding him or not.

She trusted you. They whispered, confessed. His own shadows translating. Long time ago.

Azriel did not know what they meant by that. Had he known her once upon a time?

It was when they finally relented and made the decision to fade away from covering your body that Azriel, despite all the gore and torment he had witnessed in his life, felt like he was going to be sick as his eyes fell upon the battered figure of a young, fae woman.

His fae woman.

No. He shook his head, as though it would shake the sick illusion from his mind.

Yet you remained in his sight.

He knew that figure, that hair, those lashes. It has all haunted his every sleep and movement for the last five hundred years. The colour beneath your eyelids that he had drenched his walls in, that he would look upon every morning and every night.

Even unhealthily slimmer than you had been five hundred years ago, there would not be a single moment or a single version of you in which Azriel would not recognise.

The first person who had shown him grace, who had shown him that kindness and love does in fact exist, the person who had given him the family that he still clings to today in hopes of grasping at every last remainder of you that he had believed was long lost.

Your name was a ghost on his lips as he surged forward, shadows following, your own fluttering at his shoulders now as he unsheathed truth-teller and sliced through the chains binding you to this sick prison.

The dagger you had given him.

The first gift he had ever received.

He collapsed to his knees beside your battered, unconscious body.

Your breaths shallow, wrists and ankles raw from centuries of imprisonment, body all but skin and bones.

He smoothed a marred thumb over your cheekbone, hands shaking as he took you in, your body surrendered to his touch as though finally, it had found something safe it could relax itself in.

And though you were unaware, still in the depths of your mind, your eyes had fluttered open, a deep purple hue that he had missed for hundreds of years.

Azriel choked on a sob as he gazed upon you again, his soul shattering open at the sight of the only person he had ever loved in his five hundred years walking the lands of Prythian.

He felt the moment part of his soul tore from his chest and landed straight into yours, a golden thread deep within him keeping it tethered to himself even though it now sat with you.

You had long since lost count of time, with nothing but darkness surrounding you and no hope for any light to work its way into this godforsaken pit, days were passing by without your knowledge. It had been years at this point, how many, you didn’t know but long enough for the world outside to be a distant echo and for your presence to have faded into a pitiful whisper.

Years passed by with only the reminders of your old life to keep you company; you often dreamed of those times your brother carved out time in his day to braid your hair or when you would both jump out of the windows late at night to fly over Velaris together. You’d dream of your mother, how she’d let you sit and ‘help’ her make dresses or that time you were so outraged when you were learning how to fly and she pushed you straight from the balcony of the House of Wind so that you had no choice but to fly.

Your days were filled with flashes of them all; your mother, Rhysand, Mor and Cassian.

You wondered how much of life had moved on without you.

Was Rhysand High Lord yet?

If he was, how had your father died?

Had Rhysand found his mate?

Had he made her High Lady like you both always spoke about?

In those extra difficult times that your control slipped even further, those memories of the Shadowsinger would linger the harshest.

You did not like thinking of how much his life had moved on without you.

Rhysand and Feyre stood together in the kitchen of the townhouse, looking through the window into the garden where Elain was tending to the flower garden and Azriel was sprawled out nearby, sunning his wings.

“Do you think the Cauldron can make mistakes with mates?” Feyre asked him, a look of confused anguish on her face.

Rhysand looked towards his mate, surprise dancing in his eyes at her question. “Nobody truly knows what makes the cauldron put two people together. They’re not always perfectly compatible, my own parents were examples of that, they never truly loved each other. Others, like us, are lucky to find love with their mate.”

Feyre continued looking out into the garden. “Why couldn’t the cauldron have made Azriel, Elain’s mate, instead of Lucien. Lucien is good but they look good together,” Feyre pointed out to where the Shadowsinger was still sprawled on the grass.

A pulse of pain pulled through their bond causing Feyre to snap her eyes back to Rhys. She was surprised to see the pain in his eyes, it wasn’t just any pain. It was the sort of pain that lingered and dwelled, a grief that would forever remain no matter how much time passed but there was also a subtle protectiveness in his eyes that could almost be missed.

Feyre was confused.

Rhysand swallowed a lump in his throat before speaking. “Do not mistake Azriel’s kindness towards your sister as affection. He is spending time with her because I ordered him too, to try and understand her powers. You’re reading into something that isn’t there.” His voice was stern but not unkind.

Feyre’s brows furrowed at his words. “It would be an honour for Azriel to find his mate, with anyone.”

“Azriel does not want a mate, Feyre.” The sheer confidence in Rhysand’s words only confused her even more.

“But why would he not want a mate? I thought everyone dreams of having one.” She questioned, looking out at Azriel’s figure in the garden.

She thought Azriel of all people would want a mate.

“Azriel has already had his great love,” Rhysand said. “No mating bond could ever live up to that for him. There are loves that even the cauldron cannot compete with.”

“What?” Feyre asked, shock taking over her face. “Who?”

That pain appeared in Rhys’ eyes again, a quick flash but it was there. “I meant it when I said I have no secrets to keep from you but not all stories are solely mine to tell. I am not going to tell you Azriel’s secrets.”

Feyre nodded silently. She understood, it didn’t diminish her curiosity but she would not pry for answers that weren’t hers to have.

Azriel’s footsteps were silent as always, shadows licking at his heals and fingertips as he walked towards Rhys’ office.

Not bothering to knock, his gloved hand unlatched the handle as he stepped inside. “You called, brother?”

Rhys was sat back in his chair, unsurprisingly dressed in his formals but the conflicted look on his face ruffled his demeanour. “I’d like to preface by saying you haven’t done anything wrong, my mate simply is too nosey for her own good and sees things she hopes are there rather than reality at times.”

Azriel’s face remained at an impasse other than the slight narrowing of his golden, hazel eyes.

Rhysand sighed. “Feyre is under the impression that you and Elain may make for a better match than her and Lucien.”

The control Azriel had on himself immediately slipped as he stepped back, eyes widening in shock, fists clenching by his sides as his shadows fluttered around him. “No. Rhys, I would never-”

“I know” Rhys interrupted. “I am not accusing you of doing anything, Az. I just thought it best to let you know.”

Azriel shifted uncomfortably at his words. “You know there is no one else, there never has been and there will never be anyone else.” He insisted, wanting his brother to believe him.

Rhysand’s gaze softened. “I know. I have never doubted that even though it would be okay if eventually-”

“No!” Azriel’s cut him off, “There will never be another.”

“Okay,” Rhys conceded. “I just wanted to let you know, Azriel.”

Azriel nodded his head, not hesitating in taking his exit, leaving Rhys there in a suffocating silence of loss.

“You’re distracted,” Cassian dropped his stance, looking towards Feyre intently.

His High Lady sighed in frustration, leaning back against the ropes of the sparring ring.

“What’s on your mind?” He asked.

Feyre pursed her lips in contemplation before relenting. “Did you three actually used do things in the same room as each other?”

Cassian barked out a deep laugh at her question. “That’s what’s on your mind?”

Feyre shrugged sheepishly.

Cassian shook his head, a large smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, Rhys and I did. It would be a bit weird and incredibly uncomfortable for us all if Azriel did.”

Feyre tilted her head curiously, “Why?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be very nice for Rhys to see his best friend having his way with the girl he loves more than anything, would it?” He said, as though it was obvious. “Besides, Azriel has way too much respect for him to do that anyways.”

Feyre’s eyes widened in shock but there was also a sickening feeling of jealously bubbling in her stomach. “So, Azriel and Rhys loved the same girl?”

Cassian, way too focused now on stretching to acknowledge how his words had been interpreted. “We all love her but those two always have and always will love her most. She’s their number one girl.”

Number one girl.

Feyre did not like the sound of that at all. She hated it and she hated herself even more because of the jealously that gnawed at her. “They didn’t hate each other for that?” She questioned.

Cassian shook his head, mid lunge. “Azriel had no reason to hate Rhys. It was difficult for Rhys to accept in the beginning and Azriel understood that but Rhys saw how much love was there, it was impossible to miss so who was he to stand in the way of that?”

Feyre stood in thought for a moment. “So, Rhys loved her first?”

Cassian laughed. “Of course he did. It’s not really a competition though, is it?”

She didn’t answer him, she simply stood there, thoughts swirling.

Feyre hated herself, she hated that she could not stop thinking about this girl who must have been something really special for both Rhys and Azriel to both love.

She’s their number one girl.

No matter how hard she had tried to not think about it, she couldn’t help it.

“What’s on your mind, Feyre darling?” Rhys’ smooth voice slipped through the silence of their bedroom.

She looked up at him from her place at the edge of their bed. “It’s nothing,” she stated simply.

Rhys frowned at her dismissal, placing his watch on his bedside table before walking to stand in front of her. He pressed a palm to the side of her face. “Tell me what’s on your mind?”

She sighed, mostly in frustration at herself, partially in his insistence to talk about it. “Where you in love with Azriel’s mate?”

The utter bewilderment that appeared on Rhys’ face made her immediately regret her words and watch to shrink back in on herself. “What!?”

Feyre shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she tried to pull away but Rhys kept his hand on the side of her face, steadying her.

“Azriel doesn’t have a mate,” he told her, utter confusion lacing his words.

Feyre shrugged, “Were you in love with the same girl then?”

“I’m so confused, no?” Rhys said, having absolutely no idea where she could’ve gotten this from. “Where have you gotten this from?”

Feyre looked at him, frustration beginning to build within her. “I asked Cassian about how you used to do things in the same room, he said you and him did but not Azriel because it wouldn’t be nice for him to be pleasuring a girl that you loved! He said she was yours and Azriel’s number one girl.”

Rhys pulled his hand from her face and placed it over his mouth. The confusion in his eyes had faded into a an amusing sparkle as his shoulders began shaking with suppressed laughter.

“What!?” Feyre huffed. “What are you laughing at!?”

Rhysand released a full deep chuckle at her frustrations. “Cassian is an idiot and you are utterly beautiful when you’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous!” She argued.

Rhys simply raised an eyebrow at her, completely unconvinced. “You’ve completely misinterpreted Cassian’s words, Feyre darling. It is still not my story to tell but I can promise you that Azriel and I have never been in love with the same girl.”

It had been five centuries since the disappearance of you and your mother and Azriel had never been the same.

Long before he met you, Azriel had learned what it meant to live in loneliness with nothing but his shadows for company but loneliness in response to your absence was never quite something anyone could become familiar with.

It was an endless void of nothing. Normally the thread of silence would at least end somewhere; a place where you simply got used to the feeling of someone not being there; but not with you.

It had been five centuries since your last laugh and that entire time Azriel has spent sleeping in your room. The room that sat right next to his own where your beds were pushed against the shared wall so even in your own beds you would be sleeping as close as you could get to each other.

It remained exactly how you left it, the same books sat on the nightstands, the same jewellery littered across a dressing table and a beautiful dress of deep blue with glittering silver stars on the bodice hung from the door of the closet, preparing to be worn for a day that never came.

Each morning that Azriel woke and got ready for the day, his last words to the House of Wind always remained the same. Leave it exactly how she left it, please.

The House always listened.

Whilst Azriel no longer slept in his own room, it had changed. The walls that were once a basic white had been transformed into a purple so unique it could only reflect the colour of your eyes.

In those rare moments that Azriel was able to relax away from the world, he would lay in his bed and stare at the walls of his room and whilst they could never reflect the light in a sparkle the way your own eyes could, the paint would simply have to do.

The winter chill of the Illyrian Steppes bit harshly into your cheeks as you ran through the thick snow into the forests surrounding the Windhaven camp.

The males were awful here, brutal even but even they knew to leave the daughter of the High Lord alone and so you were free to wander without the risk of your wings being torn from your back.

The trees created sanctuary for you here, as you weaved in between them you thought of your brother, Rhys and how quickly he would lose his mind once he found you gone.

A deep rooted feeling of being watched suddenly stirred in your stomach causing you to pause. It was the most subtle weight you had ever felt and yet you could not help but feel it as it settled into your bones.

You cast a quick glance up into the branches of the trees above you, where their leaves and twigs clashed and combined with one another, it took a moment for you to spot them but eventually you did.

Within a particular tall tree that was shaped in all groves and turns towards the top, deep within the shadows is where you saw him.

A male.

Sitting, observing.

“Hello,” you greeted softly.

No answer.

“What are you doing up there?” You asked.

The shadows fluttered and twitched at first before melting away into a black mist behind the males shoulders, revealing his face.

“Oh,” you whispered, taking in the hard expression of his face. He had hair of a dark midnight sky, eyebrows just a shade lighter that were furrowed deeply, shadowing his eyes that, against his dark features, seemed to glow golden when they narrowed towards you. He was all sharp lines and tensed muscles.

He shifted slightly in his place against the branches of the tree before stepping forward and allowing himself to gracefully drop down in front of you, merely inches away as he stared down into your eyes.

“How did you see me?” He asked, his voice was rough and deep for his age, possibly a couple years older than you, but his tone was steady.

“I didn’t,” you admitted. “I felt your eyes on me.”

It was then that you took notice of just how tightly his wings were pulled in at his back, a complete contrast to yours that were much more relaxed; pulled in just enough to protect them but let out enough that you didn’t have to consciously hold them in all the time, “you’ll get back pain holding them in like that,” you told him, pointing briefly at his wings.

They twitched in response, shadows fluttering wildly around the tips of his wings. It wasn’t a purposeful movement, that you could tell.

“I can’t control them,” He admitted to you.

Your brows furrowed, “what do you mean?”

“I cannot fly,” he said. “I never learned how to control them.”

You stepped back at his words. “You can’t fly!?” You spluttered in outrage. “Why can’t you fly? Are you injured?”

He shrugged in a way that showed this wasn’t a big deal to him, as though it was normal. “I wasn’t allowed outside,” he stated simply.

You frowned, the idea of not being allowed outside was unfathomable to you. “You weren’t allowed?”

“My father didn’t let me,” his words remained even, unaware of the turmoil that was stirring in your gut the more he spoke, a turmoil that you couldn’t quite explain.

“Why?” You asked.

“Because I am a bastard,” he said, his tone empty and detached, as though he had long since accepted that was all he was reduced to.

You did not like how he seemed to convinced that that’s all he was worth.

“You’re a Shadowsinger,” you pointed out, remembering old tales of myths and legends you had read before. “Those are very rare.”

The shadows clinging to him fluttered and preened at the tips of his wings and over his shoulders as though they understood your words.

Azriel nodded in response, feet scuffing into the dirt often forest uncomfortably at your words.

“That’s so cool!” You whispered in awe, the admiration you felt was completely authentic but you were also hoping it comforted him a bit.

He looked at you, the only hint of confusion on his face was the soft crease between his browns and the subtlest tilt of his head. “You’re not scared?” He asked.

“Of what?” You laughed, as though the idea was absurd.

“Of me,” he raised one of his gloved hands, tapping his index finger into his chest.

“Have you given me a reason to be scared?”

He paused at your question, internally baffled at this entire interaction. “I suppose not,” he muttered to himself, the idea of you not being scared simply just from his presence was beyond him.

“What’s your name?” You abruptly changed the subject.

He was silent for a moment, contemplating whether he should tell you or not. “Azriel.”

“Azriel,” you repeated softly, testing how it sounded. “That’s a beautiful name,” you told him.

His shadows twitched, his wings almost flinched at your complement, Azriel shifted uncomfortably.

“Do you want to be my friend, Azriel?”

“I’ve never had a friend before,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t think I’d be good at it.”

You pursed your lips in response, looking around the forest floor before speaking. “I’ve never really had a friend either, there’s my brother, Rhys, but he doesn’t count. Do you have any siblings?”

Azriel tensed at your question, his entire body stiffening, hands clenching in his gloves. “No, it’s just me.”

“Well,” you began, “I’d be honoured to be your first friend, if you’ll be mine?”

You were beyond confusing to Azriel, the first person besides his mother to not look at him with fear or disgust, to look at him and just see a person.

Azriel did not reply verbally but he didn’t need to, you didn’t mind and so he simply nodded in response earning a beaming smile from you.

“Spread your wings out wide,” you instructed softly.

“They’re heavy,” Azriel muttered, wings spreading in stuttering movements, face twisting slightly as he concentrated on holding them.

Your eyes ran along his wings now that they weren’t tucked in painfully right, taking in the large span of them, they fluttered under your gaze, completely against Azriel’s control.

“That’s because your back muscles aren’t used to holding their weight, we’ll need to strengthen them,” you explained, eyes snapping away from his wings, towards his own hazel eyes instead.

“How do we strengthen them?” He asked.

“Exercises, most are trained from babies to use their wings so it comes a lot more naturally but we can do it together.” You smiled at him encouragingly.

You knew this was hard for him, you knew he thought he wasn’t worth your help and you knew that this entire situation was uncomfortable for him but you wanted to help him and you liked spending time with him.

“I struggled with flying at first,” you admitted, hoping it would comfort him in some way.

His eyes stopped glancing to the trees around you, now focused. “Really?”

You nodded. “Yeah, Rhys was flying before he could walk but I was too scared to do it. I didn’t trust myself. I kept imagining my wings just not working one day and falling to my death.”

Azriel shifted subtly, shadows restless. “How did you do it?”

“I had no choice,” you said. “One day my mother and I were looking at the stars from the balcony of our home and she just pushed me off, I had no choice but to trust my wings or fall and I flew for the first time that day.”

Azriel’s eyes widened. “She pushed you off the balcony!?”

You smiled widely. “Yeah, I was so angry, I didn’t speak to her for a week but it worked. I won’t be pushing you off ledges until you can hold your wings properly though.”

You could detect the subtle relief that reflected in the golden hazel hue of Azriel’s eyes, as though he expected you to be able to push him off of any ledge and force him to command his wings that didn’t seem willing to answer him yet.

At some point, you will take great joy in pushing him off a cliff.

Not yet though.

Only when he was ready.

“Where does my starlight keep running off to?” Your mother’s gentle voice filtered through your ears as she brushed through your hair carefully.

You were silent for a moment, contemplating whether to reveal your secret. “I made a friend.”

You felt the comb pause briefly against your head before it continued. Your mother hummed absentmindedly. “Did you? Do I get to meet this friend?”

You pursed your lips in contemplation, an unexplainable feeling of protectiveness surging through your body. “He’s shy, he doesn’t like being around people,” you told her.

You missed the amused smile that appeared on your mother’s face, no doubt intrigued at the strange protectiveness that you had for your age. “He?” She asked, almost teasingly.

You huffed in response but a smile grew on your face that you couldn’t stop. “Yes,” you said strongly before your tone shifted to pride. “He’s my friend, I’m teaching him to fly.”

Your mother paused entirely, turning your body to face her own causing your eyes to meet her own that held the same violet hue she passed down to you and your brother. “Teaching him to fly? How old is this friend?”

Your shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe Rhys’ age. His father never let him outside so he can’t fly.”

Worry clouded your mother’s face at your words. “Is he a good boy?”

A bright smile overtook your face at her question. “He’s the best! He’s very quiet but he still speaks to me and he listens to all of my complaining and his shadows play with my hair!”

“Shadows?” Your mother’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“He’s a Shadowsinger,” you whispered. “Those are very rare.”

“They are,” she repeated. “Don’t tell your father about him, starlight.”

“I would never,” you swore, your voice demonstrating the dramatic outrage of a child who couldn’t fathom sharing information like that to your father. “Mama?”

“Yes, starlight?” She asked, turning you back around so she could start braiding your hair.

“Don’t tell Rhys, okay?” You told her, your brother could get way too protective, it was embarrassing.

“I would never tell Rhys, starlight. Or Cassian.” She promised.

“Definitely not Cassian.” You agreed.

“I’m not ready!” Azriel protested, warily looking over the edge of the cliff you had pretty much dragged him too.

“You are ready!” You argued. “You’ve got great control of your wings and your muscles are as strong as can be!”

Azriel shook his head, shadows darting around him, showing his nerves. “What if I fall?”

“Then I’ll catch you!” You replied simply.

“I’m too heavy for you to catch me!” He protested.

“You are not, I’m strong!” You argued, outraged at his accusation. “I’ll hold your hands?” You proposed, already reaching out towards his own gloved hands.

Azriel looked down at your outstretched hands, hesitation clear on his face, he really wasn’t sure about this but he did really want to be able to fly.

He relented, placing his hands in yours, earning himself one of your bright smiles, stars twinkling happily in your eyes.

Your wings fluttered slowly, not enough to lift you off the ground, just enough to encourage Azriel to copy your actions.

You slowly increased the force at which your wings beat, air building with the crevice of each controlled flap of the membrane.

Azriel copied your movements, his own wings much larger in comparison to any you’ve seen on other children your age, your own were quite big for a female Illyrian so young.

Azriel felt the change in gravity, the way his feet were itching to leave the ground on their own accord, as though his body was fully attuned and aware to what was currently happening even if it was unfamiliar.

“You’re doing it,” you whispered proudly, your own feet lifting off the ground before Azriel’s but your hands stayed in his as you remained stationary in the air, feet just slightly off the ground as you waited patiently for his own body to rise into the wind.

“You’re so close, just a bit more.” You encouraged him.

The second the air swept beneath Azriel’s feet for the first time, it felt as though his entire body was about to fall backwards as he had nothing to stand on but your hands tightened on his own, keeping him straight as he unsteadily rose with you, trying to focus on keeping his wings moving.

“It’ll come naturally the more you do it,” you told him. “You won’t even have to think about it.”

Azriel wasn’t so sure about that but as he felt the wind beneath his wings as he became airborne for the first time, with your hands holding his, he chose to believe you anyway.

“You’re flying Azriel!” Sheer joy and pride filled your face as you looked at him, he thought you looked beautiful like this.

The wind causing your hair to flutter around your face, eyes sparkling at the freedom that flying gave you and your smile took up your whole face as it always did.

Distracted by the sight of you in your element, Azriel lost focus of his wings causing him to quickly drop a few feet but your hands tightened on his just as his heart dropped in his chest out of panic.

He concentrated on beating his wings again, fluttering slightly higher than previously.

But even as he concentrated on flying, his mind was also on something else.

You had caught him, just like you said you would.

Wake. Wake. Wake.

Their hissing little whispers nudged you from unconsciousness. The cold concrete of the cave dug uncomfortably into your back. You groaned, shifting as your eyes opened, adjusting to the thick, clouded darkness you had been forced to endure for five centuries.

Another day it remained the same.

A sharp, slithering coldness nudged against your cheek, and again against your fingertips. You looked down in confusion, taking in the grey-black strands of darkness fluttering around your hands.

You raised your hands slightly, it was hard to see clearly but they resembled beings you had not seen in a very long time. The dark strands fluttered around your fingertips as you stared intently at them and in a movement so sharp, one lone sentient being jumped to your shoulder.

Your head snapped to the side as you looked at it, moving around, nestling into your clothes that had long since been reduced to scraps of fabric.

The beating beneath your chest stuttered as you stared at them.

Shadows.

They were shadows.

Master. Master. Master.

She hears us. She hears us.

They fluttered around you in a way that seemed to portray excitement.

Was that them talking?

“Azriel?” You whispered, broken yet that sick part of you still held a bit of hope.

Many years you had locked out memories of the Shadowsinger yet it never worked too well, you could never forget him and you would never forget the sentient beings that obeyed him either.

No.

They almost sounded like hisses.

“Not Azriel then.” You muttered. It did not surprise you, not really.

You didn’t understand.

“Another Shadowsinger?” You asked, it earned that same excited fluttering dance as before. Yes.

But who? You wondered.

It seemed they knew your thoughts too.

You. You.

Your face contorted into confusion. You weren’t a Shadowsinger.

You allowed yourself to think of Azriel again. Not of him exactly or the feeling of his love that had faded long ago but of his story.

Azriel had not been born a Shadowsinger.

How had Azriel become a Shadowsinger?

He had been locked in a dark cell for eleven years and had no choice but to find companionship within the darkness itself.

Oh.

“You’re my shadows.” You did not question this time.

Yes. They hissed again.

“But the faebane chains?” You wondered aloud.

“Shadows are not magic, they’re simply part of me.” Azriel had told you that before.

You studied them again, more intently this time and whilst they resembled the shadows of Azriel’s so very much there was the slightest hint of a difference; they weren’t just a grey-black, they had the slightest underlying tint of purple.

They truly were yours.

Release chains. They muttered, not to you, to themselves, fluttering around frantically.

“I can’t,” you whispered in long accepted defeat. “They won’t come off, someone else needs to do it.”

Your newly acquired shadows ignored you, muttering to themselves.

Shadowsinger will do it. Spymaster will do it.

But your energy was draining again, conscious slipping into darkness, your shadows slipping through the cracks of the cave without you knowing.

Azriel had been born alone and he would die alone.

He had accepted that was all life was made for him, there were those years he had you, moments were he thought he’d have you forever but you were taken, brutally slaughtered along with your mother in the spring court.

He had never and will never forgive himself for not being there to protect you. Truthfully he did not know how Rhysand could go on with life after that, not that his High Lord and brother didn’t deserve to live, he did, but how had grief not taken his sanity Azriel would never know.

He would never know how Rhys could look in the mirror and not see the shadows of his mother and sister, not when some days Azriel could not look into his eyes and see the very reflection of the young woman he lost, his woman.

It would forever just be Azriel and his shadows.

Another night that Azriel slept in your room alone, beneath your sheets, on the pillows you always hid that ridiculous stuffed bat beneath.

When he awoke this time though, it was different.

His shadows, usually fluttering lazily were muttering and batting around recklessly, their unease settling in Azriel’s chest, having the spymaster looking around the room carefully.

The only thing that seemed wrong were his shadows themselves, it was as though they were fighting each other?

Intruder. Intruder. They hissed, flying into each other as though they were in a sort of disorientated state. Azriel had never seen anything like it before.

Deep down, Azriel understood that there was no intruder in the House of Wind but he did not understand what they could be referring to.

The bond between himself and his shadows was strange. They told him things yes, but a lot of their communication came down to feelings, he felt their unease, their frustration, as though they were participating in an internal battle.

But why?

He sat up in your bed and observed them closely. He too, could see that there was something off but couldn’t quite put his mind to it.

Intruder. But where?

The shadows hissed at each other, floating around the room in distress, it was when the golden rays of the morning sunrise shone through the balcony window that he saw it.

His eyes, always so sharp, caught that difference in his shadows. Not his shadows, he concluded. Eyes widening, he reached out to that invisible thread and called his shadows back to him with a snap.

There it was.

A small cluster that did not return to him, a cluster of shadows that looked just the slightest different to his own. That underlying purple tint was not his.

He tried to reach out, tried to find that tether to them.

Nothing.

They did not seem threatening though.

They fluttered and danced around before him, as though they were trying to communicate with him but could not.

Help. His own shadows muttered.

“Help?” He questioned.

They plead help. They hissed into his ears. Another Shadowmaster. Trapped.

Azriel shook his head, he was the only shadowmaster.

No. They hissed, more stern this time, as though telling him he was wrong.

Azriel removed himself from your bed, pulling on his Illyrian leathers as quickly as possible, not even strapping his weapons to himself. Instead he simply grabbed Truthteller alone into its sheath.

He approached the bedroom door, turning to see if those other shadows would follow, they were.

He let himself out of the room, shadows, his and not his following behind closely, he barged into Rhys’ study causing the High Lord to jump, not that he would ever admit.

“Azriel?” Rhys greeted, looking up from his papers in barely concealed surprise. “A knock would be nice.”

“We have a problem.” Azriel simply responded earning Rhys’ full attention.

“What is it?”

Azriel held out a gloved hand and while Azriel had no means to communicate with these shadows, they understood him and gathered into his palm, fluttering into a rounded shape.

Rhys simply looked at them in confusion. “What am I looking at? New party trick?”

Azriel shook his head, face contorting as he studied them. “They’re not mine, I can’t communicate with them.”

“What?” Rhys uttered to himself.

“There’s another Shadowsinger out there,” Azriel responded, mostly to himself. “They communicate with my shadows but I can’t understand them myself.”

“Another Shadowsinger?” His High Lord mumbled, shaking his head. “No, you’re the only Shadowsinger alive.”

“Not anymore,” Azriel argued, his and the guest shadows beginning to flutter wildly in their own disagreement. “Apparently they’re trapped.”

Chained. His shadows corrected. Caved.

“Chained,” he spoke aloud.

“Perhaps for good reason,” Rhys argued, whilst Azriel was his brother and he trusted him beyond measures, he was well aware just how powerful Shadowsingers were, if this other Shadowsinger was locked away then perhaps it was because it was deserved.

Azriel shook his head, a sort of confused anguish taking over his features as he observed the shadows sitting in his palm. “They don’t feel threatening, or evil. They’re scared, pleading for help, for freedom.”

“How do you know they’re not pretending? That this other Shadowsinger hasn’t sent these here to play a ruse just to get their freedom?” Rhys asked.

The guest shadows in his palm shrunk down in defeat whilst his own fluttered in agitation around his shoulders and the tips of his wings.

She doesn’t know they’re here. She can’t control it yet.

Azriel listened to their whispers with widened eyes before looking at Rhys. “She cannot control them, this ability must be newly manifested, they came here on their own. Besides, shadows don’t work like that, they can’t fake feelings or emotions.”

“She?” Rhys sat up straighter in his chair at the newfound information.

“I can’t explain it, Rhys,” Azriel muttered, deep in thought. “I have this feeling that I need to free her, I don’t know why, it just feels right to.”

Those lone little shadows of yours clung to Azriel in the following days, against your knowledge. Azriel spent that time preparing himself for rescuing you, not that he knew it would be you he was rescuing, trying to gain as much information as he could through his own shadows translating messages back and forth with yours.

It was strange for Azriel, not only that there were sentient echoes of darkness that for some reason he could not communicate with but also knowing that somewhere out there, trapped and alone, there was another like him, another who could communicate with the darkness and melt into the shadows, even if it was a new manifestation.

The cave you were imprisoned in, he learned, was located somewhere in The Middle, because of course it was.

What other place would be sick enough to have trapped a person so long that the shadows had sought them out?

Trapped for centuries. The shadows had told him.

Bound by faebane chains, tormented by memories of a time that had long since faded.

Azriel, in all he had been through and in all his grief and terror over the years, could not imagine being trapped within the same four walls for hundreds of years.

He had barely lasted eleven, Rhys had hardly lasted fifty and yet out there, a poor woman had lasted hundreds of years, alone.

A woman of his kind.

The cave, as Azriel stood before it, was hardly a cave. It was more a carved hole in the ground, hidden by overgrown moss and shrubbery that even he, a spymaster, would have overlooked had he passed by without your shadows leading him to it.

He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to squeeze his overgrown body into it.

Your shadows shot forward like whips, diving into the underground cave, no doubt snapping back to you, even though your lack of control, they were drawn to you, desired to be close to your being.

Azriel crouched down, inspecting the gap in the ground, his own shadows fluttering around in agitation, some even darting ahead into the cave. He peeled off his outer layers that he strapped his weapons to, sending them down into the cave before him.

Risky, no doubt, but he felt no threat towards whatever presence was inside this cave, only an innocently, trapped Shadowsinger.

One that meant no harm, only desiring freedom.

He heaved himself through the gap, the concrete lining the underground cave scratching against his arms and shoulders as he dragged himself through, gravity doing most of the work, allowing him to drop down onto solid stone and rock.

It smelled awful; blood, dirt, faebane and a hell of a lot like someone had long since lost the will to live.

He saw the chains, loads of them, hanging from the ceiling, from the walls, even some bound to the ground with bolts.

Even as someone bound by shadows and member of the Night Court, Azriel could not see clearly in the darkness of this pit but his shadows led the way, they led him to your shadows.

Your shadows that covered just about every part of you, hiding you as though attempting to protect your presence from anyone who could possibly mean harm, leaving you just the image of a darkened, fuzzy blur.

“I will not harm her,” Azriel promised. “I only want to free her, take her back to the Night Court, help her heal and gain control.”

He saw the way they hesitated, how they debated whether they had made the right decision in finding him or not.

She trusted you. They whispered, confessed. His own shadows translating. Long time ago.

Azriel did not know what they meant by that. Had he known her once upon a time?

It was when they finally relented and made the decision to fade away from covering your body that Azriel, despite all the gore and torment he had witnessed in his life, felt like he was going to be sick as his eyes fell upon the battered figure of a young, fae woman.

His fae woman.

No. He shook his head, as though it would shake the sick illusion from his mind.

Yet you remained in his sight.

He knew that figure, that hair, those lashes. It has all haunted his every sleep and movement for the last five hundred years. The colour beneath your eyelids that he had drenched his walls in, that he would look upon every morning and every night.

Even unhealthily slimmer than you had been five hundred years ago, there would not be a single moment or a single version of you in which Azriel would not recognise.

The first person who had shown him grace, who had shown him that kindness and love does in fact exist, the person who had given him the family that he still clings to today in hopes of grasping at every last remainder of you that he had believed was long lost.

Your name was a ghost on his lips as he surged forward, shadows following, your own fluttering at his shoulders now as he unsheathed truth-teller and sliced through the chains binding you to this sick prison.

The dagger you had given him.

The first gift he had ever received.

He collapsed to his knees beside your battered, unconscious body.

Your breaths shallow, wrists and ankles raw from centuries of imprisonment, body all but skin and bones.

He smoothed a marred thumb over your cheekbone, hands shaking as he took you in, your body surrendered to his touch as though finally, it had found something safe it could relax itself in.

And though you were unaware, still in the depths of your mind, your eyes had fluttered open, a deep purple hue that he had missed for hundreds of years.

Azriel choked on a sob as he gazed upon you again, his soul shattering open at the sight of the only person he had ever loved in his five hundred years walking the lands of Prythian.

He felt the moment part of his soul tore from his chest and landed straight into yours, a golden thread deep within him keeping it tethered to himself even though it now sat with you.

Contents -

⚲ One | The Collision | 2.1k words

⚲ Two | Sparked by Fate | 3.3k words

⚲ Three | A Figure in the Dark | 2.5k words

⚲ Four | Gold Light and Fast Rides | 2.3k words

⚲ Five | Something Sweet | 3k words

⚲ Six | Unavoidable | 2.5k words

ACOTAR Masterlist

A/n - As always content warnings will be at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.

Another requested fic, and I had so much fun writing it! The meet-cute is... intense, and fate seems determined to keep throwing these two together at every turn ;) 

It's a shorter story, but packed with sparks, flirty banter, and, of course, motorcycle chaos (my bike knowledge mostly came from Google, but I did my best x)

Contents -

✎𓂃 One | Tension and Theories | 2.1k words

✎𓂃 Two | A Study in Power | 2k words

✎𓂃 Three | Behind Closed Doors | 2.5k words

✎𓂃 Four | Thin Ice | 2.1k words

✎𓂃 Five | Lose Control | 2.1k words

✎𓂃 Six | A Step Too Far | 2.2k words

✎𓂃 Seven | The Great War | 2.1k words

✎𓂃 Eight | No Turning Back | 2.2k words

ACOTAR Masterlist

A/n - This series will include content warnings at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.

This was a requested fic, and honestly... writing it was way too much fun. I practically devoured every word like I was genuinely excited every single time I sat down to write. The whole concept? Steamy, sinful, and absolutely delicious x

In my very humble opinion, this is some of my best work yet—I was so into it, tweaking every scene, perfecting every moment of tension, and savouring every flirty glance and stolen touch :)

everyone seemed to have an opinion of their own regarding your betrothal and now your marriage. no matter where you went, from your family’s castle all the way to the red keep, there was always someone speaking of something. 

it had only made you all the more nervous. all around you, no one had any faith that your marriage would be fruitful. that you could keep the prince happy. 

you were not of a great house or royal lineage. you had not grown up at court. there were many whispers, likely started by the fathers of daughters who had been pushing for a match with your husband long before he had ever met you, about your marriage.

you had tried to push away the thoughts, but it is not so easy. it had only been a moon’s turn since your wedding, and you had been integrating into court slowly.

it was not only because of you.

baelor had preferred it that way. he had never said the words directly, but you knew it was because he assumed you would become easily overwhelmed by the lords and ladies of the court. they were vipers in waiting, hiding beneath grass until an opportunity arose to struck their target.

and even though you were trying to prove that you were capable—determined to show him that he had not made a mistake in selecting you, that you would not fail him—it did not ever seem that he felt that way.

the two of you had spent the first weeks of marriage mostly in each other’s company. baelor would leave for meetings of the small council and to assist his father, the king, when he was needed. his days were long and consisted of demanding, thoughtful work, though you had noticed he would make his way back to you before the sun had set.

you both knew it would not be like this forever. as sweet as the gesture was, you knew it was fleeting, that rolling around in bed with your new husband was not your only duty, nor his. 

he would resume his usual responsibilities soon, you knew, and you would be taking your place with the ladies of the court. you would be meeting new people every day, helping make decisions for the keep, hosting guests.

you wanted to figure out your own purpose, to see what you could do for the orphans of king’s landing, to see what good your new position and powers could do. 

that final evening, when you knew things would begin to change, that you had to leave the safety of baelor’s chambers beginning tomorrow, you had laid in bed with him.

almost asleep, you played with the rings on his finger, turning them before letting them drop back onto his knuckle, as he often did.

“let us see something,” baelor had said, whispering in your ear. he took your hand into his large one easily as your entire body shivered, despite being pressed against his warmth. 

he had taken the ring you played with, a thick metal band with a dark green stone, and dropped it onto your finger. 

you remember that you had giggled, humored at the sheer difference in size.

“it does not fit,” you had whispered back, smiling, though when you turned to meet his eyes, your smile began to fade, if only due to surprise. 

“then we shall have to make it fit.”

baelor was looking at you with an expression—one that you can still recall to this day. he looked serious, yet you could see happiness swimming deep in his dark eyes. you were only surprised because you had thought it was a jest in good humor.

you should have known that he does not jest when it came to matters regarding you.

he had leaned in for a kiss that day, and you remember it vividly, the feeling of his mouth against yours, your hands gripping his arms, his fingers slipping the ring off of yours. 

the next morning, he had departed early to begin his day, pressing another kiss to your forehead while you slept soundly. 

when you awoke, you found his ring, looped around a chain, waiting for you. you had put it on that morning and not taken it off since.

that was too early, you think, to be the night that the two of you had made the babe that rests in your belly now. it must have been after that, you’re sure, but thinking the thought feels sweet nonetheless. 

you have given me another part of you now. 

you blink, and you are transported back from your memories.

“baelor, i-” you hear maekar begin, before he is interrupted.

baelor does not remove his eyes from yours. you feel frozen, staring at him, your head empty and devoid of all thoughts, save for one.

what you would give to travel back to the day of that memory.

you drop the pendant from between your fingers, and it falls somewhere between your breasts, resting on your chest. his eyes flick down and then back up to yours.

“what are you to me?” he asks, the words a breathless demand. but still, there is no anger behind his words, only concern and fear and something else you cannot discern. “why do you possess my ring? why do you wear it?”

“your grace,” you whisper, tears spilling over, their cascade leaving your skin hot. 

baelor looks towards maekar, and then back to you. his eyes stay singularly focused on your stomach for a moment.

“baelor, perhaps that is enough for today. we do not want to hurt your mind,” maekar starts, before he is again cut off.

“no,” baelor starts, his words coated in distrust. “my lady, if you care for me, as i imagine you do, you would tell me the truth.”

some part of you, the logical side that does not want to hurt your husband any further, that wants to avoid whatever it is that maekar has been working so hard to prevent, wants to turn towards your brother-by-law. to ask for what to do now, to not let your emotions prevail.

truthfully, this is your fault.

some part of you wonders if your mind had done it on purpose—forgotten to take it off, even though you never do so, played with it because you wanted him to see. perhaps your mind thought it would trigger the memory for him, as it had done for you.

you do not know what is truth and what is lies anymore.

you keep your gaze focused on your husband. 

you have done enough now, you are sure. and now you must see it through.

“you gave it to me,” you confess through tears, your voice no higher than a scared whisper. “i know you do not remember, but i do. you left it as a gift. because it is too big for my hands.”

baelor stares at you. he looks towards maekar, his expression changing, his mind trying to understand what you have said, what it means. his head hurts.

“so it is not you, brother, that has formed an attachment with her. it is i,” he says, and you watch silently, looking between the two of them.

maekar walks closer. your body tries to make itself smaller, your shoulders tensing, gripping your skirts, eyes shutting tightly. 

the fear that had once possessed you as a child, waiting to be scolded and punished, fills you again. you have done something wrong, you know, and maekar has no such tolerance for disobedience. 

you almost flinch, expecting him to yell. you deserve it. you have ruined everything with an innocent mistake.

but, instead, your brother settles his hand over your shoulder. 

“it is not an attachment,” maekar starts, and you feel more tears streaming down your face. perhaps this is best, a new lie to cover the old. forgive me. “she is your wife, baelor.”

you turn your head sharply, staring up at him. he meets your eyes for only a moment before looking back at baelor. you know how you must look—trembling, your mouth agape, your eyes wide and watery. 

“maekar-” you get out, the word half of a sob itself. with each passing moment, your heart beats faster and faster, and fear takes hold of your body like nothing else.

your hand is shaking, you notice, staring down at it, before looking at baelor again. you are scared, you realize, more frightened than you have ever been before in your life. baelor looks at you, and you think that you know what he is thinking, that you can tell—

that he cannot believe it. that he has no recollection of such a thing. that perhaps the entire thing is a mummer’s farce, that perhaps you need to go back to your family’s home because there is no place for you here, with a husband that does not know you. 

he does not even know my name. 

you stand suddenly, your armchair moving backwards, almost tilting over. maekar jolts at your motion, removing his hand.

“my lady,” baelor begins, polite as ever, though you know your husband well enough to know what is coming next. “do not-”

“this was a mistake,” you cry, approaching a new level of hysteria, you imagine. 

the entire thing is so silly, so stupid, a dream out of a child’s fantasy. that perhaps the sight of your sullen, teary eyes would bring back memories that your husband has likely forever lost.

if you can even call him that anymore. more widow than wife, something in your head echoes, repeating it over and over again until you begin to feel dizzy.

“i only-” baelor starts, before you interrupt him again.

you know you shouldn’t—that you are being selfish. he is the one who has suffered so much, pain you cannot imagine, upholding honor in a way that the most honorable of knights might never be able to accomplish. and yet, it all comes back to your selfish thoughts.

you feared he would never remember you.

now you know it is a truth. 

you bring a hand to your belly. i am sorry, you think, before the room starts to spin.

“i shall leave. i do not feel well,” you say, before everything turns black and the ground slips away from you. 

-

this… this must be what you have felt for the last fortnight, baelor thinks, sitting up painfully straight in an armchair. it is near the bed, though he resists the urge to push it even closer, that he might somehow keep you safe by doing so.

but he cannot. there is nothing he can do now, besides let the maester work.

this and worse, he realizes, because he was far closer to death. 

you must have been so frightened. 

the maester conducts his examination, feeling your forehead and the skin of your hand. your breaths are steady and even. you are not bleeding—malleon checked, as much as baelor felt as though he should be the one to check.

you are his wife, after all, it should be his duty, his responsibility, and yet—

he has failed you. maekar continues to stand by the fireplace now, watching from afar. the grandmaester concludes that it is simply from exhaustion. 

he tells baelor of the tonic he had given you, for a dreamless sleep, but you had not yet had a chance to use it. the maids report barely touched food in your chambers. his sons verify the tale—they have not seen you eat much of anything, despite their urging, in the last few days.

in the days since he woke up. 

what has he done? his mind feels strangely empty, just as he thought he was making progress. first he lost jena, and the sting of the memory still pains him, and now, he almost lost—

baelor gazes upon you. you have stirred a few times in your sleep. the maester uses a cool cloth on your head, but affirms several times, at baelor’s urging, that he has no doubt that you will awaken after your body recovers.

baelor has more pressing concerns. will your mind ever recover from what he has put you through? will your soul?

try as he might, even using all his strength, shutting his eyes and breathing in your flowery scent, he cannot recall your name until maekar tells it to him.

he repeats it on his own tongue once, then twice. getting a taste for it, or rather, reacquainting himself with it. 

it feels familiar, yet strangely new. the thought is confusing altogether. how can a man forget his own wife?

a wife who has been so devoted to him, by all accounts and measures? 

valarr speaks of how you had not left his bedside for an entire fortnight. the cushioned armchair he remembers seeing in the corner of the chambers was occupied by you every single day, from the moment he had been placed in the bed, to the moment he had awoken. 

matarys says that you read him histories, borrowed from the maester. that every other visitor came and went, whilst you stayed. he recalls barely eaten plates of food and cries that could be heard from outside the chamber door, though you put on a brave face whenever he came inside.

and maekar—

maekar tells him of his own misguided plan. to try and keep his condition from getting worse. lies shared only to protect. a rushed plan to ready summerhall and keep you safe and keep baelor ignorant of the wife he has left on this earth while he mourns the wife he had already buried.

maekar apologizes, and at first, baelor thought the apology was for him. but as he watches his brother, he realizes it is intended for you. 

you look more peaceful than baelor has ever seen you appear before. there are no more tears, no forlorn expression now. you sleep soundly, undisturbed by the noises in the chamber.

his sons leave. malleon wanders in and out as he attends to you. maekar paces, addressing servants as they come to seek his guidance as the keep slows down and readies itself for nightfall. 

“you may tell the steward and the master of horse we no longer require the carriages to summerhall. inform the other staff, as well,” maekar says, and the servant bows before departing.

now the truth is in the open, known to them all, there is no need for you to leave. maekar said before he remembered about jena’s passing, you were to begin the journey south in a matter of days, that the maids had already begun packing.

the thought feels strange, baelor thinks, though he does not much dwell on it. maekar had said it was a plan of his own creation, and yet—

“she has never been to summerhall,” baelor states, the sentence more fact than question, for once. he blinks, taken aback at his own words, before turning to look at maekar.

his brother looks surprised.

“indeed,” maekar says. “this would have been her first time. do you—?” he trails off, tilting his head with an anticipation that baelor wishes he would let go of.

that is the beginning and the end of the thought, he thinks bitterly, wondering why his once keen mind has decided to fail him now, when he requires it the most. 

how can he serve as hand in this state? complete his responsibility to the realm? do his duty towards you, with his addled mind?

“no. i do not remember anything else. it-it came to me suddenly.” 

he thinks of why that may be. perhaps he had once planned for you both to take a trip to summerhall, when the weather was suitable, when the journey would not be so arduous. that sounds like something he would promise, especially to a beautiful young bride.

that is the other matter. maekar has tried his best to fill him in on the matters concerning the last three weeks, or so, but he has failed to provide any information on the months preceding their departure for ashford.

for starters, where had baelor met you? when and why had he decided to take a second wife? was this a match arranged for political favor? your house is small, yet proud, not completely negligible, yet he can’t imagine he needed to levy an alliance of marriage against the lord, who must be your father or your uncle. 

in sleep, you look utterly calm. the lines of worry that crowd your forehead ease, disappearing. he stares at his ring, which sits above the neckline of your dress, as your chest rises and falls. your hands had been folded onto your stomach, but now one lies closer to him, and he stares at your fingers, fixated suddenly on the betrothal ring.

it has a glowing, dark red stone. he glances down at his own fingers to find a matching one.

he grasps your fingers in his, holding gently, as though you might break under his touch. your skin is warm and soft.

“did i… did i know already? about the babe?” 

“no,” maekar answers quietly. “she did not know herself until we returned from ashford.” 

that means you had gone to the maester to confirm your suspicions in the last fortnight. it also means your suspicions had begun at least a fortnight before that. 

he uses his other hand to run his fingers over his beard, deep in thought. his head begins to ache again.

what a burden to bear, all by yourself, while your husband laid in bed useless. to know you are carrying a child, a prince or princess of the realm, the first child for you, and to have no one to support you. your own family hundreds of leagues away. his family trying to send you away to summerhall, a strange, new place. 

all the while, your womb nurtures and grows his child. perhaps even the daughter he has always dreamed off—

your stir in your sleep once more, rolling your body closer to the edge along where baelor sit. he does not release your hand, holding on a little tighter, as you finally settle. 

in sleep, he can see all that he had been unable to take in when you lingered by the walls and the door, present but not, a fleeting stranger in his empty head. 

the scent of you is most familiar. he searches for the word in his tired head—calming, even. his eyes begin to flutter shut, senses overwhelmed with it, your hand burning warm in his.

“shall i have the maids ready another chamber for you?” maekar asks, waiting by the door to take his leave.

“no,” baelor says. “i shall stay here.” 

maekar shuts the door and departs, leaving him alone with his wife. 

he rests his head against the mattress, leaning forward, making sure to keep your hands entwined. 

he is trying to evade it, but it is not working. he has not yet recovered to his full strength, but still, he tries, listening to your soft breaths while you slumber.

and just before sleep takes him, he whispers it, so quiet that not another soul could hear him besides you.

ACT I

The water feels wrong.

Neteyam notices it before the pain, before the weight in his chest, before the way his limbs suddenly refuse to answer him with the same sharp precision they always have. The ocean closes over his head as he dives, powerful stroke after powerful stroke, chasing the silhouettes of his siblings toward safety.

The reef blurs past him, light bending and warping through salt and motion. He kicks harder, his muscles burning, his lungs screaming, but then—

His strength falters.

It’s subtle at first. A drag. Like the sea has hooked its fingers into him and decided he should stay.

Neteyam frowns, confusion flickering through him. He adjusts his stroke, tries to correct his form, but his body lags behind his intent. The water presses heavier against his side, each movement suddenly costing more than it should.

He reaches the rock outcropping on instinct alone.

His hand scrapes stone, fingers slipping before finding purpose. He hauls himself halfway out of the water, breath stuttering—sharp, shallow, wrong. The sounds of the battle crash around him now, no longer distant: engines, shouting, the crack of gunfire echoing across the open sea.

He looks down.

Red.

Not the soft glow of reef light or the shimmer of bioluminescence clinging to coral. Something darker, blooming outward in lazy clouds beneath the surface, curling around his thigh and drifting away with the current.

His ears flatten.

He presses a hand to his side and feels warmth.

Too much warmth.

“Oh,” he breathes, barely audible over the crash of waves. Not in fear but in realisation. “No…”

His knees buckle.

Lo’ak is there instantly.

Neteyam barely registers the impact as his brother grabs him, shouting his name, eyes wide and wild. The world tilts as Lo’ak pulls him upright, panic bleeding through every sharp movement.

“I’m shot,” Neteyam manages, the words tearing out of him like they cost something vital.

Lo’ak’s face crumples.

“No.. no, no.!” he says, voice cracking as he swings Neteyam onto his back. “Stay with me. Stay awake. I’ve got you.”

They plunge back into the water.

Neteyam clings loosely to his brother’s shoulders as they move, each second stretching thin. The pressure of the sea is unbearable now, his vision dimming at the edges, sounds muffled around him as if he’s sinking deeper than he really is.

By the time Lo’ak reaches the rock outcropping again, Neteyam is barely conscious.

Lo’ak drags him up, hands shaking as he presses hard against the wound, blood slicking his fingers no matter how hard he tries to stop it.

“I’ll get Dad,” Lo’ak says desperately, voice breaking. “I’ll get Mom. Just—just stay here, okay?”

Neteyam doesn’t answer.

Lo’ak hesitates only a second longer before diving away, fear driving him faster than exhaustion ever could. Tuk’s small form follows, her cries swallowed by the sea.

The rock grows quiet.

Neteyam lies half-submerged, chest rising faintly, blood continuing to leak from beneath his ribs and slide into the water.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃 𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚

You have been waiting for this moment longer than you care to admit.

Not this—not the RDA shooting against a few boys —but the distraction. The fracture. The second where the RDA’s attention splinters just enough for someone small, quiet and expendable to disappear.

You move through the flooded wreckage like a ghost.

The raid has fractured the ocean into chaos. There is a raging noise above the surface, the constant roar of shouting, crashing and movement. Yet there is silence in the surface below, but beneath it all, the water speaks. It always has. You’ve learned to listen to it the same way you listen to a pulse or a breath.

Your waterproof pack is tight against your back, weight familiar and reassuring. Inside: compressed rations, emergency meds, suture kit, antiseptic foam, sealant patches, two spare breathing masks. You packed light on purpose. Everything else waits for you—hidden deep in the mountains, far from sea lanes and patrols. Your avatar body. Your exit.

You slip from the sinking structure without hesitation. The mask seals with a soft hiss as you dive, breath evening out as the sea closes around you.

The water is cold as it envelops you, pressure squeezing your ribs as you kick downward, mask sealing with a soft hiss as it engages. You’ve done this before. You’ve slipped past patrols, sunk into the shadows and stayed unseen against enemy lines.

For years, you’ve walked the edge of this war, patching wounds, issuing orders, following protocols that kept your hands busy and your conscience quiet. You stayed detached because you had to, stayed distant to make no more noise than necessary. Because speaking up meant disappearing in a way no one would ever question nor investigate.

You tell yourself to focus. You remind yourself that it is too dangerous to let your mind wander, even for a moment.

Then you see it.

Blood drifts past your visor in slow, terrible ribbons.

Thin at first. Then thicker. Dark, unmistakable.

Your chest tightens.

This was supposed to be clean.

You were supposed to disappear.

You slow instinctively, adjusting your course, following the trail without thinking. You don’t tell yourself why. You don’t justify it. You just move.

The blood leads you to a rock formation breaking the surface.

There someone lies sprawled across it, massive body barely moving, skin marked with streaks of red that the sea keeps trying to claim. No one else is there. No weapons. No guards.

Just a Na’vi male, young, badly wounded.

You hover at a distance, heart pounding.

This is not your fight.

Surfacing here means risk, a possibility of cameras, patrols and witnesses. Everything you’ve planned could unravel in seconds.

But you’ve watched too many bodies sink quietly into water like this.

You surface.

The air hits your lungs as you pull yourself onto the rock, movements careful and deliberate. You stay low, scanning the horizon once before crawling closer.

The Na’vi male stirs faintly.

His eyes flutter open, unfocused, catching on your shape. A human. Small. Close. His fingers twitch weakly against the stone, confusion and pain etched into every shallow breath.

You lift your hands slowly.

“It’s okay,” you say softly, even though you know he won’t understand the words. “I’m a medic.”

You kneel beside him, hands already working, pack open, supplies laid out with practiced efficiency. The wound is severe—but not beyond saving. Not yet.

As you press gauze to his side, his breath hitches.

He watches you dimly, vision slipping, but something in your touch steadies him. Your hands are sure. Your movements confident.

For the first time in years, you stop waiting for someone else to do something.

You choose.

And you don’t stop.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃 𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Your hands don’t shake.

Not now.

They used to, years ago, when you were still just a nurse moving through bombed-out clinics and half-lit tents, learning how to keep your voice calm while the world came apart around you. They trained that out of you eventually—first through repetition, then through necessity, then through war.

You push fear down where it belongs and let instinct take over.

“Okay,” you murmur, more for yourself than him. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

You start at his shoulders, palms firm and efficient as you sweep down his torso, checking fast for additional wounds. Entry wounds hide. Exit wounds kill. You’ve learned never to assume there’s only one.

Your fingers slide over smooth, warm skin, then around his back, careful but thorough. Blood slicks your gloves, saltwater diluting it just enough to mask how much he’s lost.

“One,” you breathe quietly. “Just one.”

Relief flickers through you, sharp and fleeting. You don’t let yourself linger on it.

You press gauze to his side again, harder this time, and his breath stutters in response. His chest rises shallowly beneath your hand in what you quickly recognise as too shallow, but nevertheless he is present. Still fighting.

“That’s it,” you say softly. “Stay with me.”

He doesn’t answer.

But his eyes don’t leave you.

They’re glassy, unfocused at the edges, but locked on your face with a quiet intensity that makes your throat tighten. You’ve seen this look before—patients anchoring themselves to a single sensation because everything else hurts too much to hold.

You keep talking.

It doesn’t matter that he can’t understand the words. Tone has always mattered more than language.

“You’re doing really well,” you tell him, voice low and steady as you cut away the damaged edge of his armor. The material is intricate—layered and etched with patterns you’ve seen on warriors before but never this close. “This is beautiful craftsmanship,” you add, deliberately conversational. “Someone put a lot of care into this.”

His ears twitch faintly.

Good. He’s still responding.

You peel the armor back just enough to expose the wound properly. It’s ugly—ragged at the edges, still oozing, but clean enough to work with. You irrigate quickly, antiseptic hissing softly as it hits raw tissue.

His jaw tightens.

“I know,” you murmur immediately. “I know it hurts. You’re okay. Breathe with me.”

You exaggerate your own breathing, slow and deliberate, letting him follow the rise and fall of your shoulders. His chest mirrors it, unevenly, but enough.

Shock is the bigger threat now.

You keep him talking by asking gentle, meaningless questions you know he doesn’t have the energy to answer, filling the space so he doesn’t slip too far inward. You tell him about nothing. About the sea. About how the light looks different under water. About how his armor caught the sun when you first saw him.

Your hands move with ruthless efficiency.

Packing the wound. Sealing it. Needle out. Thread through.

You stitch fast but careful, fingers sure despite the blood and the risk and the pounding of your heart. Every second feels stolen. Every sound from the distance makes your spine go tight with the fear of being seen—of being labeled what you already know you are choosing to be.

A traitor.

Like Jake Sully.

The thought flashes through you, cold and sharp, but you don’t let it slow you down.

You’ve lived too long doing nothing.

Neteyam barely registers the pain anymore.

It’s distant, like thunder heard from deep underwater. His body feels heavy, unresponsive, but the pressure on his side lessens slowly, gradually, in a way that tells him something important is happening.

He focuses on you.

On your voice, your soft, steady and grounding voice. On the warmth of your hands as they move over him, purposeful and kind. On the way your fingers trail along his skin as you work without hesitation, and without any fear.

He doesn’t know who you are.

Only that you are here.

His breathing stays faint but constant, each inhale an effort, each exhale shallow. His eyes never leave your face, even when they sting, even when the edges of the world blur.

When you near the end, his fingers twitch.

They lift weakly, drifting until they brush your arm.

Just barely.

You still.

You look down at his hand where it rests against you, blue fingers trembling with exhaustion. A tear slips free from the corner of his eye, tracking slowly along the curve of his ear.

Without thinking, you reach up.

Your thumb is gentle as it wipes the tear away.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “I’ve got you.”

He tries to smile.

It’s small. Crooked. Barely there—but it’s everything he has left to give. Gratitude floods his chest, heavy and warm, even as his body fails him. He wants to thank you. To speak. To offer something, anything.

Instead, he holds your gaze.

Eywa, he thinks dimly. Thank you.

Thank you for sending her.

And then his eyes flutter, his grip loosening, breath still there — still fighting as the world finally, mercifully, slows down.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃 𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚

You don’t hear them.

Not the rush of wings overhead. Not the heavy, rhythmic flapping as skimwings circle low, nor the frantic splashes as bodies break the surface and scramble onto the rock.

Your entire world has narrowed to the rise and fall of his chest.

To the faint warmth still present beneath your palm. To the steady miraculous fact that he is breathing.

You’re adjusting the final dressing, fingers already moving to secure it it, when a shadow falls across you.

Then another.

And another.

A sharp intake of breath slices through the air.

You look up.

They stand there now beside you, suddenly and impossibly close.

Na’vi warriors crowd the rock, wet and wild-eyed, weapons half-raised on instinct alone. Their grief is raw, barely contained, and when their eyes land on you—

A human.

Small. Unarmed. Kneeling beside their son.

Neytiri moves first.

A sound tears from her throat, sharp and broken, and she lunges forward with lethal speed, blade flashing in her hand. Her face is contorted with fury and terror, grief so sharp it borders on violence.

“Get away from him!”

You freeze.

Not because you don’t understand her, but because you do.

You know enough Na’vi to catch the edge of it. The command. A mother’s scream underlying her words. You’ve studied the language in secret for years now, late at night, hunched over stolen files and recordings, telling yourself it was only practical. That if you were going to disappear into Pandora one day, you couldn’t afford to be ignorant.

You had thought knowing the language might help you stay invisible.

It doesn’t help now.

Before Neytiri can reach you, a voice cuts through the chaos.

“Wait—!”

Lo’ak.

He stares at the scene in front of him, eyes darting wildly. His gaze drops to Neteyam’s chest.

To the bandages.

To the stitching.

To the fact that his brother’s chest is rising.

“He’s—” Lo’ak chokes. “He’s breathing.”

That stops everything.

Neytiri falters mid-step, eyes snapping down to her son. She drops to her knees beside him, hands shaking as she presses her ear to his chest, one hand cradling his face.

A sob rips free from her, unrestrained and devastating.

“Oh, my son,” she whispers, voice breaking completely. “My son…”

You understand that too.

Enough that your throat tightens painfully as she clutches him, forehead pressed to his, trembling with the aftershock of a grief she had already begun to accept. Her hands roam him desperately, checking for wounds, for warmth, for proof that he is still here.

Jake is there too in an instant, his presence solid and steady despite the way his jaw tightens as he takes everything in. He helps turn Neteyam carefully, eyes narrowing as he inspects the wound.

It’s clean.

Stitched.

Packed properly.

Jake looks up at you.

Really looks at you.

Recognition hits you like a blow.

You know him.

Everyone does.

Jake Sully. The name whispered through RDA halls like a warning. The human who crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. The example they used when they wanted to scare you straight.

This is what happens when you forget your place.

You meet his gaze without flinching.

“I’m a medic,” you say, voice hoarse but steady. “He had a single entry wound. No exit. His blood loss was bad, but I caught it in time.”

Jake studies you, eyes sharp, guarded. You can see the calculation happening there: threat assessment, intent and risk.

“You RDA?” he asks quietly. His voice is low and controlled. The words are short and clipped, spoken in English, direct and to the point.

“Yes.”

Neytiri stiffens at the word.

You swallow. “Not for much longer.”

Jake’s brow furrows.

“I’ve been waiting for a chance to leave,” you continue, the words spilling out now that they’ve started. “I couldn’t keep pretending anymore. I—” Your voice catches. “I couldn’t keep watching.”

Silence stretches.

Then Jake nods once.

“Thank you,” he says simply. “We’ll take it from here.”

That’s your cue.

You shift back, slowly rising to your feet, suddenly very aware of how small you are among them. You hesitate, eyes drifting back to the Na’vi warrior still lying between his parents—still alive because you chose not to look away.

You kneel again.

Just for a moment.

You reach out, resting your hand gently on his shoulder. His skin is warm beneath your fingers.

“You’re going to be okay,” you whisper instinctively and softly, using the few Na’vi words you trust yourself not to stumble over. It is a small offering of reassurance, not a promise you can guarantee but of the quiet hope you carry that he will be okay. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to mean something.

You start to pull your hand away.

You don’t get far.

His fingers close around yours.

Weak—but deliberate.

The grip isn’t strong, but it’s enough. Enough to stop you. Enough to tell you that somewhere beneath the haze and pain and exhaustion, he knows.

Lo’ak notices.

So does Jake.

You look down at him, breath catching as his hand tightens just a fraction more, like you’re the only solid thing left in the world.

You squeeze back just once.

Then, gently, you try to pull away again.

He doesn’t let go.

And for the first time since you dove into the water, fear gives way to something else entirely.

Connection.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃 𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚

His fingers don’t loosen.

They tighten.

The pressure is shocking—sharp enough that it steals the air from your lungs for a split second. You glance down instinctively, disbelief flickering through you. He has been shot. He has lost blood. You stitched him together with shaking hands and hope.

And yet he holds you like this—like letting go would cost him something vital.

The others notice.

Lo’ak’s eyes widen first. Neytiri stills completely, her gaze snapping from your hand to her son’s face. Even Jake hesitates, registering the way Neteyam’s grip curls around your wrist, knuckles pale, stubbornly alive.

Another explosion tears through the air.

Closer this time.

The rock shudders beneath your feet, spray erupting around its base. Gunfire cracks in jagged bursts, echoing off the water.

Jake straightens instantly.

“We need to move,” he barks, voice cutting clean through the chaos. Commanding. Absolute. The kind of voice that doesn’t ask—it directs. You see it then, fully: not just a father, but a leader forged in war.

“Now!”

The family springs into motion.

Jake crouches beside Neteyam, already positioning himself to lift him. “I’ve got him,” he says, decisive. “We fly.”

But when Jake reaches for his son, Neteyam doesn’t respond the way they expect.

He doesn’t release you.

Jake pauses, eyes narrowing. He follows the line of Neteyam’s arm. Sees the way his son’s fingers are wrapped around your wrist—not frantically in a dazed confusion but in a purposeful way like something important.

It is intentional.

Jake looks at you.

Then at the sky, where tracer fire lights up the clouds.

A decision is made in a heartbeat.

“She comes,” Jake says.

Neytiri whirls on him. “Jake—”

Another blast detonates somewhere too close for comfort, the shockwave rattling your bones. Neytiri flinches, eyes snapping back toward the horizon, calculating the danger with a warrior’s instinct.

She looks at Neteyam again.

At the steady rise and fall of his chest.

At the way his hand still clings to you.

Her jaw tightens.

“Fine,” she snaps. “Move.”

They lift Neteyam carefully, Jake shifting him onto his back with practiced ease. You’re pulled along with them, swept into motion before you can even process what’s happening.

Only then—only when you’re moving, when the decision is no longer theoretical does Neteyam’s grip finally loosen.

His fingers slip from your wrist.

You feel the absence immediately.

His eyes are closed now. His breathing is stronger than before—still weak, but steady enough that relief floods through you in a dizzying rush. You don’t know if he’s conscious, but something in your chest tells you he is.

That he chose this.

Gratitude wells up unexpectedly, fierce and aching. Toward him. Toward fate. Toward the impossible mercy of timing.

You mount behind Neytiri, hands gripping tight as the skimwing launches into the air. The force of it punches a breath from your lungs.

And then—

You are flying.

The world opens beneath you in a way no sim, no cockpit, no briefing ever prepared you for. The eastern sea stretches endlessly below, a living mosaic of color and light. Coral reefs bloom beneath the surface like constellations, in turquoise, gold and a bright and burning pink, threaded together by currents that glow faintly in the fading light.

You gasp, unable to stop it.

The wind roars past your ears, warm and salt-heavy. You glimpse the others flying ahead. Jake flies steady and surely despite the weight on his back, Lo’ak flanking him protectively, the family moving as one unit.

Ahead, the water shifts.

Structures rise organically from the shallows—woven marui homes nestled within the roots of colossal mangrove-like trees. Their trunks arch outward and upward, forming a living cradle above the waterline, shielded from the open ocean by a natural, ring-shaped seawall of coral and stone.

It’s not built against the sea.

It’s built with it.

Your breath catches.

This, this is what they were destroying.

As Neytiri guides the skimwing lower, banking toward the village, something settles inside you. Not peace. Not yet.

But certainty.

You didn’t just save a life.

You crossed a line you could never uncross.

And as Pandora rises to meet you, glowing and alive beneath the sinking sun, you know—without doubt—that you are not going back.