idkyetxoxo sideblog

But no. I needed it. One class. One last hoop.

So there I was, dragging myself across campus on a Friday afternoon, already exhausted from the week, already fantasising about my bed like it was a long-lost lover. 

The sun was dipping low, the air crisp, my patience nonexistent.

I got to the lecture hall ten minutes early because of course I did. Anxiety is punctual like that.

The room wasn't empty, but it was close. A few scattered students sat near the middle, laptops open, headphones in. 

I scanned the rows and made a beeline for the back. Always the back. Less eye contact. Less participation. Less chance of being perceived.

As I climbed the steps, I felt it—that unmistakable prickle between my shoulder blades.

Someone was watching me.

I lifted my gaze casually, pretending I didn't care, and that's when I saw him.

One other person sat in the back row. A man. Alone. Turned slightly in his seat, elbows resting casually on the desk, eyes already on me like he'd been waiting.

And—oh. He was... unfairly attractive.

Even sitting down, he gave off tall energy. Broad shoulders wrapped in a fitted, dark sweater that looked soft and expensive and did absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he worked out. 

Golden-brown skin. Hazel eyes that caught the light when he smiled. Tattoos, real ones, inked along his neck, disappearing beneath the collar like a secret.

I nearly missed a step.

His gaze followed me as I took the seat across from him, heat curling low in my stomach. I told myself not to read into it. Plenty of people looked. It didn't mean anything.

Still, I smoothed my skirt when I sat.

"You also early?" he asked, voice warm, amused, lips pulling into a subtle smirk like this was a shared joke.

God. Of course he had that voice.

"Yeah," I replied, setting my bag down and leaned forward onto the desk on purpose. "I hate having to squeeze past people to get a seat."

If the movement happened to draw his attention downward to my chest for a brief, unmistakable second, well, that was between him and God.

His eyes snapped back to mine, grin widening like he'd been caught and didn't regret it.

"Tell me about it," he said, turning more fully toward me, forearm resting casually along the back of his chair. "So—what do you think of the elective?"

I didn't even pretend to think.

I groaned loudly, letting my head fall back against the chair like the answer physically pained me. "Already hate it."

His eyebrows shot up, lips twitching like he was holding back a reaction. "That bad?"

"God, yes," I said, sitting up again, suddenly animated now that I had an audience. "I only had to skim the course description once to know exactly what kind of class this is going to be."

He hummed, clearly entertained, and that was all the encouragement I needed.

"I mean," I continued, "I had to take it for my degree, but it sounds like one of those electives that overcomplicates things everyone already knows. Power corrupts, people are weird, authority changes behaviour—congratulations, you've discovered society."

He nodded slowly, eyes intent now, unreadable. Like he was listening a little too closely.

"And don't even get me started on the title," I added with a scoff. "Psychology of Power, Control, and Human Behaviour? That's not a class, that's a TED Talk waiting to happen."

A corner of his mouth lifted.

"Plus," I went on, lowering my voice conspiratorially, "I've literally never heard of the professor. Not once. And I know the department. Which means he's either brand new or one of those low-profile academics who teaches electives no one wants so the tenured professors don't have to."

I shrugged, unapologetic.

"Either way, I'm betting it's going to be a lot of theory and not a lot of substance. Busywork papers. Abstract concepts. Probably thinks he's being deep."

His head tilted slightly, eyes glinting now. "That's a pretty bold assessment for someone who hasn't taken the class yet."

I laughed. "I mean, statistically? I'm not wrong."

He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head like he couldn't believe me, and something warm bloomed in my chest at the sound. 

God, he had a good laugh. The kind that made you want to say more ridiculous things just to hear it again.

"And," I added, unable to stop myself, "the schedule alone feels hostile. Last class on a Friday and first thing Monday morning? That alone feels like psychological warfare. Like the professor is actively daring us not to show up."

That did it.

He laughed, deep, unrestrained, the sound echoing through the mostly empty lecture hall. It startled me, delighted me, made my lips curve into a grin before I even realised I was smiling.

"Okay, when you put it like that..." he said, amusement threaded through every word.

"Right?" I said, emboldened now. "I'm telling you, I give it three weeks before half the class disappears."

"Good to know," he replied lightly.

Something about the way he said it made me frown. I tilted my head, studying him, but before I could ask what he meant, he stood.

And oh—oh.

He was tall. Broad. Commanding in a way that had nothing to do with volume and everything to do with presence. He grabbed a notebook from the desk, glanced at me one last time, eyes lingering just long enough to make my pulse stutter and then started down the steps.

Toward the front of the room.

Confusion bloomed in me.

The lecture hall filled quickly after that. Seats were taken. Whispers died down. Laptops snapped open. 

And then, once every chair was occupied, he clapped his hands together once, sharp, loud, echoing.

The room went silent. Not gradually. Instantly. Like someone had cut the sound completely. 

"Hello, everybody," he said, voice suddenly authoritative, effortless. "And welcome to Psychology of Power, Control, and Human Behaviour. My name is Cassian, and I will be your professor this semester."

The world tilted.

For a split second, I was sure I'd misheard him. That this was some kind of cruel coincidence. That another man, an actual professor, would appear any second now to correct the mistake.

But he didn't. Instead, he stood there like he belonged there. Like he always had.

My jaw dropped. My stomach plummeted straight to the floor. Heat rushed to my face so fast it felt like I'd been caught doing something illegal. Every careless word I'd spoken replayed in my head at full volume.

Professor. Professor.

I physically sank back into my seat, wishing desperately that I could fold myself into nothing, that the chair might swallow me whole. 

His gaze swept the room as he spoke, measured, unhurried, until it stopped. On me.

My breath caught.

For just a second, something familiar flickered across his face. Recognition. Amusement. And then his lips curved, only slightly, barely there, like a private secret.

And then—he winked.

The air left my lungs. I wanted the floor to crack open beneath my feet. I wanted time travel. I wanted to never speak again.

The hottest professor I had ever seen and I had just spent our first interaction confidently trash-talking his class. And him. To his face.

Power and control, indeed.

Cassian's POV - 

My first class of the semester had gone well.

Better than well, actually, once I got past the opening shock of discovering that one of my students had spent the first ten minutes of our acquaintance very confidently explaining why my course was pointless.

It wasn't the criticism that amused me. I'd heard worse from colleagues with tenure. 

It was her.

The way she spoke without thinking. The way her eyes lit up when she was annoyed. The careless honesty of it. The fact that she hadn't known who I was yet, hadn't filtered herself, hadn't tried to impress me.

That was rare.

The lecture hall emptied slowly, the low hum of conversation swelling and fading as students packed their bags and filtered toward the exits. 

A few lingered at the front, asking predictable questions about readings, assessments, attendance policies. I answered them all with polite ease, my attention split in a way it shouldn't have been.

Because I could see her.

She was still seated all the way in the back row, fingers twisting together in her lap. Her foot bounced against the floor. She stared at the desk in front of her like it had personally wronged her.

Indecision rolled off her in waves.

She glanced up at me once, quick, panicked, then immediately looked away again. I almost smiled. Almost.

Eventually, the last student left. The doors swung shut. The room settled into silence. She exhaled sharply, as if bracing herself, then stood.

Every instinct I had told me to look away. I didn't.

She approached slowly, each step hesitant, shoulders tight, cheeks flushed. 

Up close, the effect was worse. Distractingly so. There was something disarming about the way she carried herself, confident enough to speak her mind, insecure enough to be mortified afterwards.

"I am so, so sorry," she blurted, stopping a careful distance away from me. Her eyes refused to meet mine. "I just—I didn't mean any of that. I didn't know. I swear I wasn't trying to be disrespectful."

I laughed before I could stop myself. Not cruelly. Not mockingly. Amused. Genuinely so.

"Relax," I said, leaning back against the desk, folding my arms. "If I took offence every time someone hated my syllabus, I'd have quit academia years ago."

She didn't laugh with me.

If anything, she looked worse, hands flying up as if she could physically shove the embarrassment back inside her chest.

"I just kept talking," she rushed on. "I don't even know why I said all that. I swear I'm not normally—I mean, I am opinionated, but—" She cut herself off with a groan. "I'm making this worse."

"Yes," I agreed lightly. "You are."

Her head snapped up then, eyes wide, before she realised I was smiling. I straightened. "What's your name?"

The question seemed to catch her completely off guard.

She hesitated, visibly weighing the pros and cons of revealing it, as if saying it aloud would seal her fate forever. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, almost resigned.

I repeated it back to her slowly.

Not for any practical reason, I would have access to it soon enough but because I liked the way it felt in my mouth. Because it fit her. Because it grounded the moment in a way that made me acutely aware of everything I wasn't supposed to notice.

She swallowed.

"I really am sorry," she said again, stubbornly earnest. "The lecture was actually great. Very... um—" She winced. "Informative?"

That did it.

I laughed outright this time, the sound echoing faintly off the empty hall. She physically cringed, squeezing her eyes shut like she expected a verdict to drop from the ceiling.

"It's alright," I said, reaching out without thinking.

My hand landed on her shoulder, brief, appropriate, meant only to reassure.

It felt like a mistake the second it happened.

The contact was innocent. It should have stayed that way. But the awareness of her beneath my palm, the warmth, the tension, the way she froze for half a second, sent something sharp and unwelcome through me.

I dropped my hand immediately.

Her eyes flicked up to mine at last, startled, searching, then just as quickly away again.

"I'll—I'll see you Monday morning," she said, the words tumbling out like an escape route. "I won't be late. Or early. I'll just—normal. I'll be normal."

And then she was gone.

No backward glance. No pause. Just a hurried retreat toward the door and out of it, leaving behind nothing but the faint scent of her perfume and an uncomfortable silence.

I exhaled slowly. Gathered my notes. My laptop. My composure.

As I stepped out of the lecture hall, one thought lingered far longer than it had any right to.

She was beautiful. Not just pretty—gorgeous. In that effortless, dangerous way that snuck up on you when you weren't looking.

And that was precisely the problem.

She was my student and no matter how amused I was, no matter how compelling the spark had felt, it was wrong.

I pushed the thought aside and walked away.

I would see her again on Monday. And that was all it could ever be.

A/N - First part and this was quite literally the best way I could have started it, in my opinion x

She absolutely dives headfirst into talking pure nonsense about the lecture... to the professor himself. And then? Instant mortification :)

The tension is already sizzling, they're both noticing each other, thinking each other's way too attractive, and yes, she does that cheeky little lean-forward thing because, let's be honest, he's fine as hell. Meanwhile, he's quietly thinking she's stunning from the first second she steps in!!

Thank you so much for reading <33

"Of course," I muttered under my breath. "Of course you'd betray me today of all days."

I tugged at the stuck tray, coaxing the crumpled paper out inch by inch. A hiss of frustration escaped my lips as I bent over the large printer, arm halfway inside its guts. 

"Just print, you stupid machine," I begged softly, giving it one last pleading shake. "Please, please, please—"

"Need a little help, sweetheart?"

My whole body tensed. That voice, smug, slick, and too close. I didn't even have to turn around to know who it was.

Trent Fisher. Resident tech bro, self-proclaimed "project manager," and the human embodiment of why the company handbook needed a harassment section thicker than the accounting reports.

"I've got it," I said tightly, not looking back, still focused on the tray.

He chuckled. "You sure? Looks like it's giving you a hard time."

"I said I've got it."

But he didn't back off. I heard his footsteps, lazy, confident, draw closer. And then I felt it. 

A hand. On my ass.

Fingers pressing where they had no right to be, a slow, testing squeeze that made my blood run cold before it burned.

I froze, disbelief flashing into fury. The paper I'd been tugging slipped from my fingers as I spun around, shoving him hard in the chest.

"I said I've got it!"

Trent stumbled a step back, laughing—laughing like this was some harmless joke. "Relax," he said, grin sharp and condescending. "I was just trying to help."

"Help?" My voice shook with barely contained anger. "You think groping me is helping?"

A few nearby heads turned. He saw them, and the grin widened, smug and performative now.

"Now, now, no need to get all technical," he drawled. "No reason to make a scene." 

He gestured lazily to the other men around us, the ones who'd stopped pretending not to listen. A few of them chuckled quietly, eyes sliding away when I met them.

"Make a scene?" I repeated, incredulous. "You literally just grabbed my ass!"

He scoffed, rolling his eyes like I was overreacting. "I was trying to help," he said louder this time, his tone hardening, brittle around the edges. "Everyone here knows how badly you need it. You were practically asking for it—bending over like that, like some goddamn por—"

The word caught in his throat.

Because another voice, cool, sharp, and utterly unyielding cut through the air like a blade.

"Trent Fisher, do not finish that sentence."

The entire floor went silent. Even the printer stopped beeping.

My heart lurched as I turned toward the sound. Nesta stood at the end of the aisle, perfectly composed in a charcoal-grey suit, her arms crossed and expression carved from stone. 

Cassian was beside her, broad and dark against the glow of the corridor lights, not smiling, not this time.

A few of the men suddenly found their monitors very interesting. Trent swallowed, the colour draining from his face.

Nesta's heels clicked against the tile as she walked closer, slow, deliberate, every step a warning. Cassian followed, silent but steady, his eyes locked on Trent in a way that promised this wasn't going to end well.

I stood there, hands trembling, cheeks burning, torn between fury and humiliation, between wanting to disappear and wanting to scream.

Every inch of me felt hot, my skin prickling under the weight of a dozen curious stares from the office around us. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. 

The only sound was the blood roaring in my ears and the quiet hum of the overhead lights.

Nesta stopped beside me.

"Is there something about our assistant you feel entitled to, Mr Fisher?" she asked softly, each word measured, lethal in its restraint.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

Trent's laugh was thin, nervous, and entirely misplaced. "I was trying to help," he said quickly, his gaze flicking straight past her to Cassian. 

Of course. Even when confronted by a woman, he looked to the man in the room for validation.

Cassian's jaw tightened. "I'm not the one speaking to you," he said, voice low and dangerous.

That got Trent's attention. He turned back to Nesta, exhaling sharply like this was all beneath him. "She was practically asking for—"

"Finish that sentence," Nesta cut in, her voice like a blade sliding from its sheath. "I dare you."

Silence. I could feel the stares of the entire floor, the way people tried not to look too invested but they were. Every single one of them.

Trent's mouth twisted, the colour rising in his face. "You can't just talk to me like—"

"You're fired," Nesta said.

Two words. Perfectly enunciated. And somehow louder than a shout.

Trent blinked, stunned. "You can't just fire me!" he sputtered, looking around as if someone might rush to his defence.

Nesta didn't flinch. "I can," she said evenly, "and I just did." She folded her arms, every inch the embodiment of control. "Effective immediately, your employment at Valkyrie Enterprises is terminated."

Her tone didn't waver once. Calm. Cold. Final.

Trent's face darkened, his composure cracking. "Just because of some ditzy assistant?" he snapped, pointing at me like I was the problem, like I'd done something wrong.

I froze. The word hit like a slap. Ditzy. As if everything I did, all the long hours, all the effort meant nothing. My throat tightened.

Nesta's lip curled. "Ditzy assistant?" she repeated, her voice a dangerous purr. "She has a name."

Cassian stepped forward then, his presence filling the space beside her. He didn't have to say anything, the look he gave Trent was enough to make the air feel heavier, charged.

"Oh, I see what this is," Trent continued, his voice rising. "Some kind of silly feminist thing, right? Have all the women band together—"

"No," Nesta interrupted smoothly, a razor-sharp smile ghosting across her face. "It's because you suck at your job."

It was such a simple sentence, so perfectly delivered, that for a moment the entire office just... stared.

Trent opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Cassian took a slow step closer, his voice low, firm, the kind of tone that made people listen. "Gather your things," he said. "Security will escort you out."

Trent's jaw clenched. He didn't move. Not until Nesta tilted her head ever so slightly, her voice soft as silk but edged in steel.

"Now."

One word. That was all it took. The sound of it cut through the room like the crack of a whip.

For a beat, no one breathed. Then Trent's composure shattered. His face twisted, muttering something bitter, something cowardly before he spun on his heel and stalked toward his desk. The thud of his shoes against the polished floor was loud in the quiet that followed.

He swept a few things into a box, movements sharp and jerky, muttering to himself under his breath. No one dared to look up, but the entire floor was listening. Pretending to work. Pretending not to hear.

Cassian and Nesta didn't move.

They just stood there, silent, immovable watching him pack up what was left of his arrogance.

When security appeared, Trent didn't even look back. He just walked out, the glass doors closing behind him with a soft, final click.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Heavy.

I realised I'd been holding my breath, my pulse still hammering in my ears. My hands were trembling faintly, from adrenaline, from anger, from everything I'd had to swallow down while he'd stood there sneering at me.

No one said anything. No one dared to.

Around us, the office slowly resumed its rhythm, keyboards tapping, whispered conversations restarting, a printer coming back to life as if nothing had happened. 

But it wasn't the same. It couldn't be. Because they had seen it. Everyone had seen it.

Nesta and Cassian turned then, and for a heartbeat, I thought they were going to say something to me, to the room, I didn't know. But they didn't.

They just exchanged a look. A quiet, wordless understanding that passed between them like a current.

Then Nesta brushed past me, the faint scent of her perfume trailing behind her, sharp, clean, decisive as Cassian followed, his expression unreadable.

I stood frozen in their wake, the echo of their footsteps fading toward their office. The tension in my chest had nowhere to go. I could still feel every eye in the room pretending not to watch me.

My fingers curled into my palms. I exhaled, slow, uneven trying to steady myself.

It was over. 

Nesta's POV - 

The day had been long and not the satisfying kind of long that came from a challenge conquered or a deal closed. 

No, this was the kind of day that left a sour taste in my mouth. The kind that ended with the sound of raised voices and the sight of some smug, misogynistic fool being escorted out of the building.

Necessary, yes. Satisfying, a little. But mostly exhausting.

I'd dealt with plenty of men like Trent Fisher before, arrogant, careless, puffed up by their own mediocrity. Still, watching him sneer at her had stirred something sharp in me. 

Anger, certainly. But also something... else.

Our assistant had stood there, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with humiliation she didn't deserve, and all I could think was how small the world must have made her feel in that moment.

So now, long after the office had settled into its usual rhythm again, I found myself carrying a mug of hot chocolate, not coffee, not tea, but something softer toward her desk. 

A small, peace offering. Or maybe an acknowledgement.

She didn't hear me approach at first. Her focus was fixed on her computer screen, fingers tapping quickly across the keyboard as if burying herself in work could erase what had happened. 

When she did finally glance up, her eyes widened. She sat straighter at once, swiping a quick hand over her face and smoothing down her hair.

"Can I help you, Ms Arch—" She caught herself mid-syllable, a flicker of panic crossing her expression. "Nesta?"

Her voice wavered just slightly, and I could tell she was trying very hard to sound composed.

I set the mug down on her desk. "You've helped enough today," I said simply. "Thought you could use this."

Her gaze darted to the cup, then back to me. "Hot chocolate?" she asked, like she couldn't quite believe I wasn't here to assign her more work.

"It's a personal favourite on days like this," I replied, leaning lightly against the edge of her desk. "Not everything can be fixed with caffeine."

She smiled faintly, hesitating before wrapping her hands around the mug. Her fingers were trembling slightly, not from fear, but from exhaustion.

"Thank you," she murmured.

The words were soft, but something in them tugged at me.

I folded my arms, studying her for a moment. "I wanted to apologise for earlier," I said, the words coming more easily than I'd expected. "Trent Fisher was... an idiot. And that's me being generous."

Her eyes flicked up in surprise. "You don't have to apologise. It wasn't your fault."

"Maybe not," I said, "but it happened in our office. And for that, I am sorry. You were doing your job—and doing it well. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise."

Colour rose to her cheeks. "I just... I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't have—"

I cut her off with a small shake of my head. "No. Don't finish that sentence. You did nothing wrong."

Silence settled between us for a moment, not uncomfortable, but charged in some quiet way. She looked down at the mug, tracing the rim with her thumb, and I watched her shoulders slowly unclench.

It was strange, this instinct to reassure. To protect. It wasn't something that came easily to me. 

But something about her, about the softness she carried even in the middle of chaos made it feel almost natural.

I pushed off her desk, smoothing the sleeve of my blazer. "You handled yourself better than most would've," I said. "Don't let that fool's words stick to you."

She nodded, her gaze fixed on the mug. "Thank you, Nesta. Really."

I turned to leave, already cataloguing the rest of the day's unfinished tasks in my head but something in her posture made me pause. The way her eyes flicked up, uncertain, like she was debating something with herself.

And then, before I could step away, she stood.

"Wait," she said, voice barely above a whisper.

I turned just in time for her to close the distance between us.

Her arms went around me, tentative at first, then firmer. It caught me off guard. She was warm, soft, smaller than I expected, her head fitting against my shoulder like it belonged there.

For a heartbeat, I froze. Physical affection wasn't something I was good at, not in the office, not anywhere. But something about the honesty of the gesture disarmed me. There was no awkwardness in it, no expectation. Just gratitude. Sincerity.

When I finally exhaled, I found myself returning the embrace, briefly, gently.

Her scent lingered faintly, something light and floral that didn't belong in the sterile air of the office. 

I could feel the curve of her smile against my collarbone when she murmured, "You're... really kind, you know that?"

Kind. The word almost startled me.

I wasn't used to being called that. I wasn't sure I deserved it.

But when she stepped back, cheeks flushed, eyes shining in a way that made it impossible to stay detached, I found I didn't mind hearing it.

"Get some rest when you can," I said softly, the corners of my mouth curving before I could stop them.

And as I walked back toward my office, I couldn't quite shake the ghost of her warmth or the way her touch had lingered, light but impossible to forget.

A/n - Me and my printer have personal, generational beef btw... Trent being a little shit was a nice opportunity to let Cass and Nesta remind everyone that they take exactly zero nonsense when it comes to their assistant :)

Also Nesta's POV!! I was both excited and mildly terrified to write her because she's such a layered and emotionally complicated character. I really hope I did her justice. She deserves all the nuance (and maybe a nap!!)

Thank you for reading <33

I towel-wrapped my hair, bare feet gliding over the marble as I hummed through a melody I'd been playing with for weeks—soft and playful, just a whisper of seduction under the words.

Hair. Makeup. Liner sharp enough to kill. Lashes long, fluttery, dangerous.

I chose a black dress, short, silky and clinging. The kind that whispered yes, I know what I'm doing, even if I didn't. A few delicate gold rings. Bare neck. And a spritz of jasmine and sandalwood, smoky and wild. My signature. Something that lingered.

It was 6:59 when the knock came.

I checked myself in the mirror one last time—lips glossed, nerves fraying and opened the door with a smile I hoped looked effortless.

Azriel stood there like a thunderstorm in human form. Dark suit, darker eyes, and a bouquet of deep red roses clenched in one gloved hand. 

Irresistible velvet danger, I thought. He was so much more handsome than I remembered. Uncomfortably so.

"Wow," he murmured, handing me the flowers, gaze sweeping over me like a caress. "You look... breathtaking."

My smile sharpened as I took the roses, fingers brushing his. Electric. "Thank you. And you didn't have to come all the way up—a text would've worked just fine."

"Nonsense," he said smoothly, offering his arm. "What kind of man would I be, darling, if I didn't walk you down myself?"

Darling. 

The word wrapped around me like velvet rope. I slipped my arm into his, trying not to visibly melt as we stepped into the private elevator.

His car was waiting downstairs—sleek, polished obsidian, purring with quiet menace. It wasn't the one I'd smashed into. This one looked even more expensive.

"I see you work fast," I said, tracing the leather interior as he opened the door and slid in beside me. "Your car looks... brand new."

He chuckled, low and smooth. "Different car."

I laughed, sinking into the seat. "Well, mine's still a mangled mess. My driver looked like he aged a decade when he saw it."

The silence between us was... comfortable. Unusual. Unnerving. I turned toward him slightly, curiosity tugging at me. "So. What is it you do, exactly?"

There was the smallest flicker in his expression, but he recovered smoothly. "I own a few businesses around the city. The boring kind of power."

I raised a brow. "Sounds... suspiciously vague."

He smirked. "It's meant to."

"Ah," I said, mirroring his smirk. "Man of mystery."

"And you?" he asked, reclining slightly, his body angled toward mine now, all dark grace and quiet intensity. "What do you do, when you're not getting into collisions?"

I laughed, shaking my head. "I sing. Model sometimes."

He nodded slowly. "Anything I might have heard?"

I blinked. Was he serious? I studied him. No recognition. No thinly veiled 'I saw your leaked photos' smirk. Just genuine curiosity.

"I'm not sure," I managed, a flush creeping up as I considered how little he seemed to care about the glitzy labels the world had imposed on me.

"Not to be, like... snobby," I started, adjusting the strap of my dress, "but... where exactly are we going for dinner? Because there's a chance—a strong chance I might get recognised."

He didn't laugh. He just smiled, slow and confident, like he'd been waiting for that question. "I booked the entire restaurant."

I blinked. "You what?"

"High Tide," he said casually. "Top floor. Waterfront view. Michelin stars. The whole place is ours for the night."

"Wait—you rented out High Tide? That place has a two-year waitlist."

"Not for me."

I gaped. "Azriel... that's insane."

"Maybe," he said, eyes glittering. "Or maybe I just didn't want to share you with anyone."

The car eventually rolled to a smooth stop. A suited valet opened my door. He stepped out, then held out a hand.

"Shall we?" he asked, voice like silk over smoke.

I slipped my fingers into his. Heat. Electricity. That quiet, dangerous thrill you only get right before the fall.

And as I stepped out of the car, dress catching the breeze, his fingers still wrapped around mine—I knew one thing.

I had absolutely no idea what I was walking into but I wasn't turning back.

The elevator glided to the rooftop like a whisper, opening directly into the restaurant. 

The space was aglow with warm candlelight, golden reflections dancing off crystal glasses and black marble floors. Not a single other soul in sight. 

Just a private waiter by the host stand, bowing with silent precision.

Azriel led me inside with an ease that made me wonder if he did this often—commandeering restaurants like emperors claimed thrones.

"You really weren't joking," I murmured, taking in the view from the glass walls, city lights like a sea of stars below us, the river glinting far in the distance.

"I never joke about food," he said with a soft smile.

He pulled my chair out for me, slow and deliberate, and when I sat, he pushed it in with the kind of care that felt both old-fashioned and intimate. I couldn't remember the last time a man had done that. 

Hell, I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt this seen.

He took his seat across from me, the flickering candle between us casting shadows across his face—sharp cheekbones, intense eyes, the faintest smile on his lips. 

Dangerous. Magnetic. Totally unreadable.

"So," he said, lifting his menu. "Tell me something real."

I blinked, startled. "Something real?"

"Something not curated for a magazine spread or a red carpet," he clarified, eyes never leaving mine.

I bit my lip, hiding a smile. "I guess I'm not used to skipping small talk."

"I hate small talk," he said, simply. "I'd rather know what song you wrote last week at 2 a.m. when you couldn't sleep."

That disarmed me. Completely.

I found myself relaxing into the chair, tracing the rim of my glass. "It was about control," I admitted. "It started as a piano ballad, but I think I'm gonna turn it into something... darker."

He nodded slowly, like he understood that more than I expected. "That's why you're good," he said, voice low. "You don't sing what's trendy. You bleed through lyrics."

I stared. "You said you didn't know who I was."

"I don't," he said, sipping his wine. "But I can see you."

I laughed, trying to shake off the heat rising up my neck. "That's very poetic of you."

"I have my moments."

We talked through appetisers—grilled scallops and wild truffle risotto. I told him about the way the industry liked to eat girls alive, how being a product could blur the line between who you are and who you're expected to be.

"I love it," I said softly, twirling a bit of pasta onto my fork. "But it's lonely. Sometimes I feel like the more famous I get, the more invisible I become."

He leaned in slightly, arms resting on the table. "You're not invisible. Not to the right people."

I held his gaze for a beat longer than I should've.

When I turned the conversation to him, he remained evasive—always offering just enough to intrigue, never quite enough to reveal.

"I work in... quiet places," he said cryptically. "I help keep certain wheels turning behind the scenes."

"Vague and mysterious," I teased. "Should I be worried?"

He smirked. "Only if you cross me."

The food kept coming—slow-cooked lamb, velvet-smooth wine, dessert that tasted like molten stars. 

Somewhere between the laughter and long looks, I forgot how tired I'd been. I forgot the headlines, the pressure, the persona I'd worn for too long. With him, I was just me.

By the time the plates were cleared, I felt like I could breathe again. Like maybe this wasn't a mistake. Like maybe I wanted to see where this could go.

The waiter approached discreetly with the check, placing it in a leather folder between us.

I reached for it without thinking. "Let me," I said.

Azriel raised a brow, amused.

"Come on," I insisted. "It's the least I can do. Isn't this what we agreed on? My version of paying for the damage?"

He didn't move. Didn't blink. Just watched me, eyes glittering with something unreadable.

Then, slowly, he leaned forward. "Darling," he said, voice silk-wrapped steel, "I never wanted your money."

I tilted my head. "No?"

"The agreement," he said, taking the folder and handing it back to the waiter without so much as a glance, "was for your company tonight. That's all I ever wanted."

Heat flooded my cheeks, but I didn't look away. "Smooth."

He smiled, that lethal kind of smile that promised trouble you wanted to walk into. "I've been accused of worse."

I laughed under my breath, shaking my head. "You're dangerous."

"Only to liars and people who play games," he replied. "You're neither."

He stood and offered his hand again.

And I took it.

Azriel's POV -  

I took her hand in mine, soft, warm, unaware and led her to the balcony as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Truth was, I didn't want the night to end.

Not when she looked like that. Not when her laugh still echoed in my ears like music made just for me. Not when her scent, jasmine and something sharper underneath clung to the air between us. 

She moved like starlight and burned like flame. I couldn't look away. I never had been able to.

She leaned on the railing, gazing out at the glittering city skyline. The wind tousled her hair, lifting the strands like silk threads in the dark, and I reached out before I could stop myself, fingers brushing a rogue lock from her cheek.

Her head turned. Eyes—those wide, expressive eyes dropped to my hand. My bare hand. Scarred. Calloused. Exposed.

Shit.

Before I could draw it back, she caught it in hers, her fingers feather-light as they wrapped around mine. A jolt. Not of fear or disgust—just soft curiosity, a quiet kind of intimacy.

"What happened?" she asked, voice barely louder than the breeze.

"An accident. Long time ago." I pulled it back with practised calm, slipping the glove over it again, sealing away the reminder of what I'd been... what I still was, beneath the suits and charm.

She didn't press. Just offered me a smile so genuine, so disarming, that I felt something uncoil in my chest.

Then the wind shifted again, and she shivered—just the slightest tremble. 

Instinct overrode thought. I slid off my jacket and draped it over her shoulders, letting my hands linger for a second too long against the silk of her skin. 

She looked over her shoulder, glowing under the moonlight, and smiled up at me like I was the only man in the world.

God help me. I was already hers. She just didn't know it yet.

"Tell me about your next show," I asked, voice rougher than I meant it to be. "You're performing at Rose Stadium, right?"

Her head tilted, eyes narrowing just slightly in suspicion. "How'd you know that?"

I gave a casual shrug, leaning on the railing beside her. "Everyone knows that. It's all over the press."

A lie.

I knew the names of her dancers, her lighting crew, her private pilot. I knew the first song she ever wrote, buried in a private account under a pseudonym she thought no one could trace.

I knew the last book she read, the name of her childhood dog, the brand of perfume she wore, and how she took her coffee when she was too tired to function.

I had files. Dozens of them. Not because I wanted to hurt her. No. Quite the opposite.

Because protecting something meant knowing every weakness that could be exploited. And she was more than a woman. More than a pop star. More than a model.

She was mine.

"You should come," she said, dragging me from the darker parts of my mind with a voice so bright it scattered them. "To my next show. I'd like it if you came."

She turned to me fully now, brushing her hair over one shoulder. 

There was hope in her voice, and something soft and uncertain underneath. "I'm performing with this huge artist, we just released a song together and—well, it's kind of a big deal."

She was being humble. It wasn't a big deal. It was the show of the year.

And even though just the thought of crowds made my jaw tighten—and the idea of thundering bass and neon lights clawed at a part of me I kept buried—I nodded.

"I'd love to."

Her entire face lit up. God, it was unfair how stunning she was. I could feel myself unravelling, one quiet thread at a time.

She smiled at me gratefully, her glossy, full lips curving upward like sin wrapped in silk and I had to look away.

Because all I could think about was the taste of her mouth. What those lips would feel like around a kiss, around a lie, around my name... or something far less noble.

But it was too soon.

"Perfect," she said, the tension leaving her shoulders. "I'll send you a couple backstage passes. Just in case you want to bring someone."

I wouldn't.

There was no one else. There never would be now.

She didn't know what she was offering. She didn't know how deeply I already belonged to her. But one day, she would. One day, she'd see the truth—how far I'd go to keep her safe. How many lines I'd cross. How much of the world I'd burn if it meant she never had to flinch again.

Her phone buzzed in her clutch. A reminder, probably. Reality tugging her back. But for now, she was here. With me.

And I wasn't ready to let her go. Not yet.

She'd asked if we could walk.

Just a short stroll around, something simple. Something normal. And I'd said yes, of course I had. Because I would've followed her anywhere.

So we walked.

Her hand in mine. The night cool and quiet. Her heels clicked softly on the pavement like a rhythm only I could hear.

She looked lighter out here—freer. Like the air didn't weigh so heavily on her shoulders when there wasn't a lens pointed at her, waiting to dissect her soul.

But then we turned the corner.

And the flashes went off. Bright. Unforgiving. Like lightning with no storm.

She tensed immediately. Her body went rigid beside mine, and without a word, she stepped into me—folding herself against my chest like it was the only shelter she had left in the world.

"Hey," I said softly, arms going around her. "You okay?"

"Paparazzi," she whispered, her voice so small it barely made it through the collar of my shirt. "I should've known. God, this was stupid..."

I felt it then. That shift. The sadness in her voice. The guilt in her eyes. Like she was the one who'd done something wrong. Like her existence—her fame was a flaw to apologise for.

And I hated that. I hated that the world had made her believe she owed it anything.

I turned my head just slightly and found them. Two men standing behind a nearby car, long-lens cameras still raised, their beady little eyes wide and gloating. 

I didn't smile. I didn't speak. I just looked.

"I'll handle it," I murmured to her, my voice soft, smooth as silk over steel. "Don't worry, angel. They won't get far."

I sent a single message to Rhysand—just one line. No pleasantries, no context. He didn't need any.

By the time we'd made it halfway down the street, they were already packing up—urgently, sloppily, as if they'd just realised they'd been photographing something very dangerous.

Rhys worked fast. Of course he did. But it wasn't enough.

Because when I looked at her, I could still see the sadness behind her eyes. The way it lingered like a bruise. And that? That I couldn't abide.

So I brought her home. Kissed her cheek, slow and careful, like I was memorising the exact softness of her skin. Watched her disappear behind the safety of her door, where no one could twist her smile into a scandal.

And then I went back.

I found them by the river, still trying to argue their way out of the situation Rhys had orchestrated—a mess of excuses and stammering voices.

They didn't see me at first. Not until I stepped out of the shadows.

One look was all it took. The blood drained from their faces in perfect synchrony.

Without a word, I reached for the cameras—snatched them from their trembling hands like plucking wings off flies. 

I didn't care how expensive they were. Didn't care that one of them tried to sputter something about "freedom of the press."

Because the moment those lenses captured her fear—her vulnerability, they became mine to destroy.

I walked to the edge of the Sidra, the cold wind whipping off the water like a blessing. And then I tossed both cameras in. Watched them sink into black, glassy silence.

No one made her feel like that. Not while I was breathing. Not ever again.

I turned back to them, letting my smile flicker—just enough menace to make their knees knock.

"Next time," I said quietly, "you won't get a warning."

Then I vanished into the dark, the taste of her perfume still clinging to my jacket, the memory of her voice tucked into the pocket of my soul like something sacred.

They could take their photos. They could chase their stories.

But I would always get to her first.

And no one, not cameras, not headlines, not the world—was ever going to take her from me.

Not without a war.

A/n - The dinner. The first date. Two emotional disasters already orbiting each other like planets pulled into the same gravitational field of sexual tension and questionable life choices x

Azriel is intense. Obsessive? Maybe. Just a tiny bit unhinged? Absolutely. But this is a mafia AU so there's nothing normal about this!

This chapter is very much the calm before the storm (if your idea of calm is a candlelit dinner with a man who has files on you). So enjoy this fluffy, swoony, very mildly psychotic interlude before we dive into the angst, secrets, and probable emotional carnage ahead :)

Thank you for reading <3

Where Cassian was sunlight, Nesta Archeron was winter incarnate, poised, razor-edged, and impossibly composed. 

Her gaze alone had felt like an X-ray, cool, assessing, as if she could see every hidden thought and insecurity before I could form them. 

Golden-brown hair fell in precise, silken waves over her shoulder, her ice-blue eyes softened only by intelligence and something dangerously magnetic. 

She didn't smile. She didn't need to.

Together, they shouldn't have worked. Fire and frost. Chaos and control. But somehow, they fit. Perfectly. 

A balance that made you want to stare too long and think too much.

Working under them was supposed to be an honour and it was, in theory. 

In practice, Valkyrie Enterprises was crawling with tech bros who thought "assistant" meant "personal coffee dispenser." 

The kind of men who wore the same navy suits, had the same buzzwords locked and loaded, and thought a woman existing in their workspace was a team-building exercise.

They talked over me, around me, sometimes even about me as if I weren't standing right there. 

I learned to smile politely. To nod. To listen, and to never let them see how out of place I felt because I was out of place.

I wasn't like them. I didn't have a background in cybersecurity or a degree from some Ivy League program. I wasn't sleek or sharp-edged enough for this world of glass offices and whispered power plays.

But when Cassian grinned at me from across the conference room, or when Nesta's eyes flicked up from her tablet, just briefly, like she'd remembered I existed, something inside me steadied.

Today had started like any other morning, chaotic, caffeine-fueled, and slightly cursed.

I was late. Again.

To be fair, it wasn't entirely my fault this time. The line at the coffee shop had wrapped halfway around the block, the barista moved at the pace of continental drift, and my heel had decided to wage war against the sidewalk grate right as I was leaving. 

It was a miracle I didn't faceplant in front of half the finance department.

But Cassian and Nesta had an early meeting. The kind with high-profile clients and numbers that made my brain spin. 

And the last thing I needed was to be the reason Valkyrie Enterprises' morning started off on the wrong foot.

So I ran. 

Through the gleaming glass lobby, up the elevators, down the hall, my bag slipping off my shoulder, hair sticking to my lip gloss, heart pounding as if it knew I was about to humiliate myself on a grand scale.

Two cups balanced in my hands, a double espresso for Cassian and a black americano, extra hot, no sugar for Nesta. 

I could practically feel their stares before I even reached the door.

"I'm so sorry I'm late!" I gasped as I burst into the conference room, hair slightly windblown, blouse clinging where I'd started to sweat.

Cassian looked up first, grin already spreading. "All good—you're just in time," he said, taking his espresso from my trembling hand like I'd brought him salvation itself.

And then I turned toward Nesta. Cool, composed, devastating Nesta.

Her blue-grey eyes flicked up from the tablet in her hands just as my heel, that traitorous piece of plastic and pain, snagged on the corner of the conference table.

Time slowed. The cup tilted. And then—chaos.

Boiling coffee exploded down my front. The shock was instant, scalding heat searing through the thin fabric of my blouse, clinging to my skin, soaking the lace of my bra beneath.

"Oh my Gods—"

"Shit! Are you—" Cassian's voice was sharp, alarmed, but I could barely hear him over my own strangled gasp.

"It's fine, it's fine—" It was not fine. "I'm so sorry, I—oh, gods, it's so hot—"

Before my brain could intervene, instinct took over. I started unbuttoning. Fast. The blouse was ruined anyway, steaming, sticking, unbearable and all I could think about was getting it off.

"I'm so sorry!" I babbled, yanking the soaking fabric from my skin. "I'll replace the coffee, I swear, I just—"

And then realisation hit. The air in the room changed.

I froze halfway through my next breath, blinking up to find both of them staring. Not in shock or at least, not just that. 

Cassian's hand was still midair, fingers flexed like he'd meant to help. Nesta's eyes had gone wide, lips slightly parted, her tablet forgotten on the table.

And I—I was standing there. In the middle of the conference room. Half-naked.

My black lace bra was on full display, droplets of coffee still sliding down my stomach, the ruined blouse clutched limply in my hand.

"Oh my—" The sound came out strangled.

Cassian blinked first, throat working like he wasn't sure what to say. Nesta didn't blink at all.

I scrambled to cover myself, fumbling with the buttons, fingers shaking so badly I nearly dropped the shirt again. My skin felt like it was on fire and not just from the coffee.

"I—I have to go," I managed, voice cracking halfway through the sentence.

And then I bolted.

Out of the conference room. Down the hall. Into the nearest bathroom, where I slammed the door, braced my hands on the sink, and stared at my reflection.

My hair was a mess. My cheeks were flaming. My blouse was ruined.

"What the fuck," I whispered, chest heaving as the morning replayed in painful, vivid detail.

The bathroom's fluorescent lights were far too harsh for the morning I was having.

I stood over the sink, blouse damp and wrinkled, dabbing at the coffee stains with rough paper towels that dissolved faster than my dignity. 

My reflection looked like a cautionary tale for all corporate assistants, hair slightly frizzed, mascara smudged from the heat, eyes wide and horrified.

Two weeks on the job, and I'd already managed to flash both of my bosses before eight in the morning. A new personal record.

I scrubbed at the fabric again, but the faint brown shadow refused to disappear. The scent of burnt espresso clung to me no matter how many times I washed my hands. 

Eventually, I gave up, buttoned the blouse as best I could, and took a shaky breath.

I couldn't hide in the bathroom forever.

By the time I slunk back to my desk, the meeting had already started behind the glass conference room doors. Through the frosted panels, I could see shapes moving, Nesta's graceful silhouette, Cassian's broad frame leaning forward as he spoke.

I sank into my chair, praying the ground might open up and swallow me whole.

The next two hours were an eternity. I tried to focus on my inbox, but every email blurred into meaningless text. 

My mind replayed the moment in looping, agonising detail. 

Cassian's startled expression, Nesta's unflinching gaze, the way I'd just stood there, half-dressed and panicking.

By the time the conference room door opened, I was so deep in self-loathing that I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sound.

They approached together, Cassian with his easy stride, Nesta moving like she ruled every inch of space she stepped through. Power and poise, side by side.

I stood immediately, clutching a file to my chest like it could shield me. 

"I completely understand if you want to fire me, Ms Archeron," I blurted out before they could even speak. "It was completely unprofessional and—"

"First of all," Nesta interrupted smoothly, one brow lifting, "I told you, it's just Nesta. I prefer that."

Her voice was calm, cool but there was something beneath it, something softer than I'd ever heard from her before.

Cassian leaned against the edge of my desk, crossing his arms, hazel eyes warm with a hint of amusement. 

"Second of all, no one's getting fired," he said, tone light but genuine. "You nearly burned yourself alive this morning. We were actually worried about you."

"Worried?" I echoed, blinking. 

That was not the word I'd expected to hear.

Nesta set down the sleek leather portfolio she carried and, without missing a beat, reached into her bag. 

From within, she pulled out a folded, crimson silk blouse, elegant, simple, the kind of thing she'd probably bought in a pack of five just to be prepared for emergencies.

She extended it toward me.

"I keep a few spares," she said, her tone casual but her gaze unwavering. "You can borrow this." A faint smile tugged at her lips. "I think red would look good on you."

For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

The fabric was soft between my fingers, expensive in a way that made my own clothes feel like costume pieces. "I—thank you," I stammered, completely thrown.

"Of course," Nesta replied simply, brushing an invisible crease from her blazer sleeve before glancing at Cassian. "Try not to spill anything else on yourself today. We wouldn't want HR to have a heart attack."

Cassian grinned. "Or me," he added, and I could swear there was a flicker of something teasing in his tone like he hadn't quite forgotten the morning either.

They moved on a moment later, heading down the hall toward their offices, leaving me staring after them with the red blouse still clutched in my hands.

For a beat, I just stared after them, at the easy roll of Cassian's shoulders, the effortless grace of Nesta's stride beside him. 

They didn't speak, but there was a rhythm to the way they moved together, like they existed on the same wavelength, perfectly in sync.

The murmur of office chatter faded as they turned the corner, and I let out the breath I hadn't realised I was holding. 

My pulse was still quick, a faint buzz under my skin that had nothing to do with caffeine.

I glanced down at the blouse in my hands, soft, impossibly expensive, smelling faintly of Nesta's perfume, sharp and clean with a trace of something warm beneath it. 

It didn't feel like just a spare shirt. It felt like a test. Or maybe an invitation.

Either way, I wasn't sure which answer scared me more.

Cassian's POV - 

The office was quiet now, the kind of quiet that only came long after everyone else had gone home.

Most of the lights were off, leaving the floor washed in soft pools of gold from the lamps that dotted the corners. Through the glass walls, the city stretched out below us, a sprawl of glowing windows and traffic veins threading through the dark.

Valkyrie Enterprises slept rarely. But tonight, it was just me and Nesta.

She was perched at the edge of her desk, laptop still open but forgotten, the blue glow painting her cheekbones in cold light. A pen dangled between her fingers or rather, from her lips, because she had that terrible habit of chewing on it when she was deep in thought.

I leaned against the opposite side of the desk, rolling my sleeves up past my forearms, the faint scrape of fabric loud in the stillness. 

"What are you thinking about?" I asked, voice low, curious.

Nesta hummed, slow and distracted, pulling the pen from her mouth. Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, a glimmer of amusement lurking behind that calm, calculating exterior. 

"Our assistant," she said simply.

That earned a grin out of me. "Yeah?"

Her mouth curved, not quite a smile, more like a secret she wasn't sharing.

"And no," she added before I could say anything else, swatting my stomach lightly with the pen. "Not in the way you're thinking."

I laughed quietly, because of course she knew exactly what I was thinking. 

The image had been burned into my brain since that morning, the startled sound she'd made when the coffee spilt, the way she'd panicked and started unbuttoning before she even realised what she was doing. 

The lace, black and delicate, against flushed skin. The stunned silence that had followed.

I'd tried not to think about it again. I'd failed miserably.

Nesta tilted her head, studying me the way she always did, sharp, assessing, like she could read the direction of my thoughts before I could form them. 

"We shouldn't have hired her the way we did," she said, setting the pen down with a soft click. "You know that."

"Probably not," I admitted, pushing off the desk to pace a few steps. "But are you really telling me you regret it?"

Her silence was answer enough.

Nesta's gaze flicked toward the glass wall, to where the city lights reflected faintly in the pane. "She's... different," she said finally. "Bright, but not polished yet. There's a rawness to her. She doesn't know how capable she is."

I smirked. "You mean she's a little ditzy."

Her eyes cut back to me, sharp as ever. "She's inexperienced, Cassian. Not unintelligent."

There was something thoughtful in her tone, almost protective. I'd known Nesta long enough to recognise the rare moments when her ice cracked just slightly to let something warmer show through.

I moved back to the desk, leaning beside her, shoulder brushing hers. 

"You're not wrong," I said quietly. "She's been thrown into a building full of tech bros who think charm is a personality trait. And yet she's still here. Still trying."

Nesta's lips quirked faintly. "Still spilling coffee on herself, apparently."

That pulled a laugh from me, low and genuine. "True. But she's learning fast. You've seen the way she anticipates what we need before we even ask? That's not ditzy, Nes. That's instinct."

For a long moment, neither of us said anything. 

The only sound was the hum of the city through the glass, and the faint buzz of the fluorescent light overhead.

Then Nesta turned her head slightly, meeting my gaze. Her voice was softer when she spoke next. "She doesn't fit here," she said. "Not yet. But I think she will."

I nodded slowly, my grin fading into something more thoughtful. "Yeah," I murmured. "She will."

Nesta closed her laptop, the click echoing softly in the quiet room. "Come on," she said, sliding off the desk. "It's late."

As we headed toward the elevators, I glanced back once, at the faint outline of her desk through the glass wall, the red blouse Nesta had given her earlier draped neatly over the back of her chair.

Different, Nesta had said.

She was right. There was something about our new assistant I couldn't quite name, something that made the silence between me and Nesta tonight feel heavier than it should have.

Something that made me wonder what exactly we'd started.

A/n - First part and we're starting with a little backstory and give a peek at how she feels about the corporate circus she's just been dropped into :)

The coffee and blouse disaster was absolutely intentional to officially introduce our delightfully ditzy reader and the spark of that spicy little tension brewing between her, Cassian, and Nesta x

Cassian's POV shows up purely so we can see what's going on in their pretty heads and yes, they're noticing more than they should!!

Thank you for reading, let me know what you think <33

That strange, detached clarity that lives in the space between before and after. The moment where everything slows, and instinct tightens like a fist around your spine.

My hand twitched toward the holster beneath my coat, the motion as familiar as breath. 

I should've reached for the weapon. That's what years in this life had carved into me, always ready, always two steps ahead of bloodshed.

But I didn't. I paused.

A stillness filled my chest that didn't belong to instinct or calculation. Something ancient and wordless, like gravity tilting. Like fate had turned to stare directly at me.

Our driver swore, rough, panicked and wrenched the wheel. 

Tires screeched across the asphalt in protest, rubber burning as we skidded to a halt, the city spinning sideways for a breathless instant.

Cassian moved first, predictably. He cursed under his breath and slammed the door open, his frame disappearing into the storm-lit street. 

Rhysand muttered something low beside me, his voice a black thread curling through the air, dark and deliberate.

I followed. Not rushed. Not hurried. But deliberate. Every motion weighted with purpose.

The air outside bit colder than expected, sharp with ozone, scorched rubber, and the copper-bright tang of danger. 

Rain misted down, catching on my coat. The scent hit me just as my shoes struck the pavement. Gasoline. Smoke. And something else. 

Wild. Floral. Expensive. Like perfume spilt in haste. Like silk torn in a hurry.

Then I saw her. She wasn't just stepping out of the car—she burst from it. 

A black Maserati, crumpled like a snarling beast where it had collided with ours, its sleek lines now mangled in defiance. The driver's door flung open like it had been kicked.

She stumbled out fighting with the seatbelt in frantic, jerky motions.

Her coat clung to her wrong, as if she'd flung it on while running late, the hem caught in her heel. Her hair was damp at the ends, falling over her shoulders like silk, framing a face that was flushed, frantic, and heartbreakingly beautiful.

I didn't breathe. Not couldn't. Didn't. Because something about her stilled the world.

She looked like chaos incarnate, vibrating with raw adrenaline and tight frustration. 

Her muttering filled the space between us, a stream of self-directed curses, as if she was trying to outrun the tangled mess of her own thoughts.

"I knew this would happen," she hissed under her breath, eyes darting to the car, her hands shaking as they dug through her coat pockets. "I knew I shouldn't have driven. I hate driving. I never—God, this is exactly why I pay people to do this for me—"

Her words unravelled like thread yanked from a seam, each one trembling with exhaustion more than fear. 

Then her gaze landed on us. Three men in black suits standing perfectly still in the rain. Watching. Measuring.

Her breath caught. The kind of halt that screams in silence.

Her eyes locked on mine, wide, startled, stormy and bright. And in that instant, the edges of the world blurred, sound receded, and she became the centre of everything.

Not the crushed Maserati. Not the slick city streets. Not even Rhysand or Cassian murmuring beside me.

Her panic hadn't touched her beauty. If anything, it sharpened it. 

The way she stood, taut and trembling, reminded me of a string pulled too tight on a bow—one breath away from breaking, or releasing.

"I'm not drunk," she blurted suddenly. "Or high. Or texting. Or whatever this looks like, I swear. My driver cancelled on me last minute, and I just—I had to get across town. I'm not used to this car, and I—"

Her voice cracked, but not with tears. With frustration. Exhaustion. The kind that's almost louder than fear.

I stepped forward without thinking.

"Relax, sweetheart," I said softly, voice low and smooth, built to soothe without asking permission. "You're alright."

She blinked at me. A subtle shift passed through her—the flicker of someone being seen too clearly. Her lips parted slightly, as if she hadn't expected gentleness to come in this shape.

"So... you know who I am," she said, but there was no pride in it.

It wasn't a boast. It was weariness. A shield, lifted instinctively.

I tilted my head, studying her through the silver glow of rain and ruined metal. "Should I?"

Her face flickered, surprise, quickly masked. She shook her head, a bitter little laugh on her breath. "No. No, of course not. I just... I forget, sometimes. It doesn't matter."

Behind me, Cassian murmured something I didn't hear. My focus didn't drift. It couldn't.

Because every inch of her demanded attention. I couldn't focus on anything except her, the way her fingers tugged at her coat's belt like she didn't know what else to do with her hands. 

Her lips, glossed and slightly parted—looked like temptation incarnate, hypnotic even and I was already past resisting.

Before reason could stop me, I stepped closer.

"I'll need your number," I said quietly, letting the excuse wrap around the truth. "For insurance."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. That flicker of wariness again. The instinct of someone who'd been taken advantage of before—more than once.

She was poised, guarded, but utterly captivating.

"Sure," she said slowly, breaking the spell as she took my phone. "Insurance."

Her fingers brushed mine for the briefest second as she typed and that single touch was electric. Brief. Barely anything. And still it scorched.

Just like that, the world around me narrowed to her.

She didn't know it yet but I did.

The car door shut behind me with a soft, final thud. The kind that seals moments off from the rest of the world.

Rain, once a living presence drumming against steel and skin, became a faint murmur against bulletproof glass. 

Silence settled into the car like a living thing—dense, tailored, expensive. But her scent lingered. Unapologetically.

Wild jasmine and something richer, darker. Something that didn't belong on city streets—like burning velvet in the middle of spring, like temptation poured into a crystal vial and worn as a warning.

It clung to me. Branded itself across my skin.

I settled into the leather seat, cool and supple against my back. The engine purred beneath us, restrained power coiled beneath the hood, ready to lunge at the whisper of command.

Across from me, Rhysand was already scrolling, fingers dancing in rapid precision across his phone. 

That look in his eyes, that sharp, glacial calculation meant he'd seen something worth digging into.

Cassian, ever the loud one, leaned an arm over the seat back, his grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like it couldn't quite decide whether this was hilarious or disastrous.

"I want her," I said, my voice low, even. Steel beneath silk.

It wasn't a request. It wasn't even desire. It was truth. Final.

Rhysand's fingers stilled mid-scroll. His thumb hovered above the screen, tension winding through his shoulders. 

He didn't look up at first, but I saw the flicker in his expression. Recognition.

"You don't even know who she is," he said, tone mild. But he knew. Rhys didn't move like that unless the name mattered.

Cassian scoffed, already enjoying himself. "She looked like a startled little doe," he drawled. "Didn't peg you for the Bambi type."

I turned toward him, slow and deliberate. Met his gaze with silence sharp enough to flay. The grin faded. He blinked, rolled his eyes, and looked out the rain-speckled window.

"Tell me," I said, voice soft but anchored in steel. Not a threat. Just inevitability.

In this city, when I spoke, people listened. 

Because when I wanted something, I took it. And when I took, I didn't give it back. 

Rhysand sighed, long and slow. Measuring the risk, weighing the weight of truth against the consequences of withholding it. Then he said her name.

And the world changed.

It wasn't a name I knew. But the sound of it—rich, melodic, sharp as glass rolled through me, unfamiliar yet already rooted somewhere in my chest. 

I repeated it under my breath, testing the shape of it, letting it curl over my tongue. Like I'd heard it once in a dream and had been searching for it ever since.

It tasted expensive. Sweet. Dangerous. Forbidden.

Like everything I wasn't allowed to want but would have anyway.

"She's not just a very pretty face," Rhys said, handing over his phone. I took it, the screen casting a dim glow over my hands.

"Pop star. Model. Vogue covers. Red carpets. Very famous. Very visible. Press follows her like flies on honey. Not your type—not unless you're planning to kill your anonymity by morning."

I didn't hear him. Because I was looking at her.

The image was frozen, her caught mid-laugh in a gown that shimmered like molten gold, champagne flute in hand, lights catching the angles of her cheekbones and the slight, sharp tilt of her smile. 

Even in stillness, she moved. She burned. The camera couldn't catch it. Not entirely. But it tried.

And I knew in that moment—she wasn't meant to be captured in frame. She was meant to be experienced.

Mine.

Rhys's voice cut back through the reverie. "Wouldn't recommend," he said dryly.

I didn't look up at him. "I don't remember asking."

I handed the phone back and ran a hand through my hair, still damp from the rain. But it wasn't the water I was trying to shake loose—it was her. 

The ghost of her voice. The way her hands had trembled. The fire behind her eyes, defiant even through panic.

Cassian let out a low whistle. "You end up in one photo with her, and half the damn country's gonna be watching. Paps. Blogs. FBI. Hell, even the legit cops will start sniffing around."

I caught his gaze in the rearview mirror. "What's the point of having every department on the payroll if I still have to give a damn?"

He didn't have an answer. He never did when I meant it.

The car rolled forward, headlights casting gold onto the slick, rain-slick streets—like we were driving through the veins of the city itself.

"She's not built for this world," Rhysand murmured. "You know that."

I did. And I didn't care.

I wanted her. Not like the others. Not for a night or a moment of distraction. Something about her felt inevitable.

"She's already in it now," I murmured, more to myself than to them.

Cassian groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Oh for fuck's sake—"

"I'll be careful," I lied, knowing full well I wouldn't.

Rhys didn't bother responding. He just looked out the window, jaw set tight.

I leaned back, eyes closed for a moment, the scent of her still seared into my senses. Letting her name burn itself deeper into my mind. 

She didn't know what she'd walked into. She didn't know what I was. What I could do. But none of that mattered.

Because the moment she stepped out of that car, drenched in perfume and panic, shaking like a match waiting to be lit—I'd decided.

And when I decide? It happens. They knew it. The whole damn country knew it. I didn't chase. I claimed.

She didn't know it yet.

But she was already mine.

Reader's POV - 

The damage was worse than I'd imagined.

Even now, parked beneath the soft golden glow of the private valet bay outside my high-rise on the Sidra, the image of the wrecked car lingered like a bruise behind my eyes—crumpled steel, a fractured headlight still flickering pathetically, shards of glass glinting like frost on the asphalt.

I had done that. Me.

I sat in the driver's seat for a full minute, knuckles strained against the wheel, breath shallow. The engine ticked softly as it cooled, the only sound in the cocoon of luxury that couldn't protect me from what I'd just done.

My foot slipped on the brake as I yanked the gear into park, crooked and careless. Definitely ticket-worthy. I didn't care. Not tonight.

I slammed the door, heels clicking in a frenzied rhythm across the drive. 

Eyes followed me—security, a concierge, someone in a tailored suit waiting at the elevator. I ignored them all, jabbing the top-floor button with more force than necessary, praying the ride up would be quick enough to outrun my spiralling thoughts.

It was bad enough to crash. Worse to do it in public. 

But worst of all? It had been my fault.

There'd been no one else. No distractions, no drunk driver swerving into my lane. Just me. A moment of panic. A glance down at my phone—stupid, stupid and then metal screaming against metal.

And then... him.

The man had stepped out of his car with the kind of calm that felt almost surreal. No shouting. No accusations. No camera in my face. 

Just eyes—dark, unreadable, like some deep and ancient thing that couldn't be startled by the ordinary chaos of a city night.

He'd looked at me like he didn't know who I was. Like he didn't care who I was.

And for a second, I felt invisible. Untethered from the screaming headlines, the red carpets, the fans, the vultures.

Just a woman in trouble. A girl who made a mistake.

The curse of fame was still heavy on me. One wrong move and the media would spin it into a hurricane of scandal. 

Reckless Pop Star Crashes While Texting. Too Drunk to Drive? Rehab?

They'd pick it apart like vipers, and I'd be nothing more than a headline.

Inside the penthouse, the weight of the day pressed down all at once. I kicked off my heels, wincing at the dull ache in my arches, peeled out of my coat, and tossed it across the back of a velvet chair. 

It slid off and crumpled to the floor. I didn't bother picking it up.

I dragged myself into the bathroom and twisted the gold tap. Steam surged instantly, warm and familiar, curling up like a soft exhale from the walls. 

Strawberry bubble bath, my comfort scent, foamed into the rising water. I stripped without ceremony, dropping silks and sequins like dead skin, and sank into the tub with a grateful sigh.

The heat was heaven. It wrapped around me like armour, fragile, scalding but mine. 

For a breathless few minutes, I let the silence have me. Let the water erase the guilt, the humiliation, the stupid way I'd trembled under his gaze.

And gods. He was gorgeous.

I hadn't fully registered it at the time, too consumed with embarrassment and adrenaline. 

But now, in the stillness, I remembered the sharpness of his jaw, the way his suit fit too perfectly to be off-the-rack. The ink-black hair, slightly tousled. The way he had looked at me like he already knew what I'd taste like when I shattered.

Who the hell was he?

Because whoever he was, he didn't blink, didn't flinch. Just stood there, composed and unreadable, as if I were the one intruding into his life.

The sharp trill of my phone split the quiet. I jolted, sloshing water over the edge of the tub.

Unknown number.

I stared. My heart thudded once, hard. I picked up. "Hello?"

"Hello," the voice on the other end was low. Deep. Male. Cool, with just a trace of something gravelly and dangerous curling at the edges.

I blinked. "Yes?" My voice softened, automatically polite.

"This is Azriel," he said. "You crashed into my car today."

I sat up straighter, a hand flying to grip the edge of the tub. Azriel. The name sounded expensive. Edged in steel. "Right. Yes. Oh—God. I'm so sorry. Again."

"No need to apologise," he said, that same maddening calm in his voice. "I just wanted to make sure you got home safely."

My mouth fell open. "Wait—you're calling to check on me? I crashed into you. That's... absurdly noble. No one's that noble."

He chuckled, low and unbothered, like the kind of man who'd seen too much to be rattled by a fender bender. 

The sound curled into me like a velvet rope, tugging something deeper.

I swallowed. "Look, whatever the cost is, I'll pay it. Just send the bill over. Or text me your info. I can write a check, wire money, whatever you need."

There was a pause. A silence. His voice dropped lower. "What about a different kind of payment?"

My mind blanked. "...What kind?" I asked slowly and then, because I had clearly lost every ounce of sense I possessed, I blurted. "I'm not having sex with you."

That earned a full laugh from him, deep, surprised and real. Like no one ever said no to him. Like it had genuinely amused him.

"Relax," he murmured, still amused. "Dinner. I was thinking dinner."

I stared at the ceiling, steam curling above me like smoke from a match I hadn't meant to strike. Dinner?

I should've said no. Should've laughed it off, offered him more money or a thank-you bottle of some expensive whiskey and walked away.

But instead...

I remembered the way he hadn't asked for selfies or autographs. Hadn't looked me up and down like I was meat wrapped in a red carpet. He hadn't wanted anything from me. Just... dinner.

And I hadn't dated in ages.

Not since the tabloid-fueled disaster of a relationship that left me emotionally scorched and socially withdrawn.

Not since I learned that everyone wanted something. My name. My fame. My body. My access.

Since I decided it was safer to be alone than to wonder who was filming what under the table.

But Azriel hadn't filmed. Hadn't even reached for his phone. He'd looked at me like a secret.

"Hello?" His voice pulled me back.

"Sorry," I said. "Spaced out." A breath. "I'd love to have dinner with you.

A beat. Then a smile in his voice, slow and dangerous. "Great. I'll pick you up tomorrow. Seven. Text me your address."

"It's a date," I whispered.

"You bet it is," he said smoothly. "Goodnight, sweetheart."

The call ended. I stared at the phone in my hand for a long time, the screen gone dark, the steam curling around me like a kiss I hadn't yet received.

Tomorrow. Seven. 

I sank deeper into the bath, eyes wide, heart thudding. I didn't know what I was getting into. But I couldn't deny it.

I liked wherever this was heading.

A/n - First part of my mafia AU! If you've ever watched "Desperate Housewives" then you'll know that Azriel and reader's chaotic little car crash moment was very loosely inspired by Gabi and Victor Lang's first meeting :)

Azriel is basc already engraving her name on his heart, while she's just relieved he didn't recognize her from some cover or something equally mortifying. Win-win?

This series was acc such a blast to write because I had sm ideas for where to take it next!

Thanks so much for reading, and please let me know what you think—I love hearing your thoughts and reactions <3

I could still see her as she'd looked that night at the gallery, soft and sure, light in her eyes as she told me next time, don't run. 

I could still feel the ghost of her kiss on my cheek, and Rhys's touch, brief but charged, the kind that lingered far longer than it should have.

I'd told myself I'd moved on. That I'd left them at the gallery, in the paintings, in that moment of recognition.

But every time my phone buzzed, I half-expected it to be her. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw them.

And now here they were again, reaching out, gently, patiently, offering space. Offering time.

It wasn't framed as a date. Feyre had chosen her words carefully, softening the edges, making it sound casual. A chance to talk properly.

But even through the phone screen, I could hear what she didn't say.

She wanted me to come back. Not to their home. To them.

I leaned back against my couch, the ceiling light humming faintly above me. The city outside was still awake, alive, but it felt like I was the only one caught between two heartbeats, between yes and no, between the past and whatever this was becoming.

A weekend away. It shouldn't have felt like a question that big. But it did.

Because deep down, I knew this wasn't about a casual getaway or polite conversation. This was the moment before the fall, the breath before a choice that would change the shape of everything.

I tried to imagine it.

The car ride. The quiet hum of the radio. Feyre's laughter drifting through the open window, Rhys's calm voice from the driver's seat. Maybe a small house by the coast. Salt air and late nights. Too much wine. Too many things said that couldn't be unsaid.

And me—once again standing in the middle of them, not sure where I belonged.

My phone buzzed again.

Rhysand: we promise not to ambush you with art this time.

I laughed, quiet, involuntary, the kind of laugh that slipped past my defences before I could stop it.

It was so them. Charming. Thoughtful. Dangerous.

My heart gave a single, traitorous thump. I typed, deleted, typed again.

Me: Alright. When and where?

The reply came fast, like they'd been waiting for the breath of that word.

Feyre: Friday morning. We'll pick you up. Bring something comfortable and maybe something you love.

Something I love. The message sat there, glowing softly.

And even as I told myself I was being reckless, even as I swore this was just a weekend, just talk, I couldn't stop the small, wild hope blooming in my chest.

By the time the weekend came, I'd convinced myself half a dozen times to cancel.

Every excuse had crossed my mind. Work. A headache. A sudden emergency. Anything to stop me from doing what I was about to do.

But when Friday morning arrived, the car was already waiting outside, sleek and dark and familiar and something in me couldn't quite say no.

The drive felt like a dream I wasn't fully awake for. 

Feyre was in the passenger seat, her hair twisted up messily, a soft smile playing on her lips when our eyes met in the rearview mirror. 

Rhys drove with one hand on the wheel, sunglasses pushed up, his other hand occasionally brushing hers like a quiet reassurance that didn't need words.

They didn't push conversation. The music was low, something with strings and quiet percussion, the kind of song that made the world blur by softly. 

Every now and then, Feyre would glance back, offering a snack or asking if I was okay. I'd nod, smile, say yeah, I'm fine, even though my pulse was anything but steady.

The house was near the coast. A wide stretch of dunes and pale grass that swayed like a heartbeat in the wind. 

The sky was bruised with the beginning of sunset when we arrived, the air thick with salt and smoke from far-off chimneys.

Inside, it was all warmth and wood and glass, large windows that framed the ocean, soft throws draped over worn furniture, a fireplace waiting to be lit. 

It didn't feel like a place to visit. It felt like a place where you stayed long enough to unravel.

Dinner was easy, almost deceptively so. Rhys grilled something outside, Feyre poured wine and told stories about her first art exhibit, how everything went wrong and somehow still turned out right. I laughed. Maybe too loudly. Maybe because it felt good to.

And then the night stretched out around us, slow and honey-thick.

Someone built a bonfire on the sand. The waves hissed softly nearby, and the flames painted everything in gold and shadow.

We sat close, too close, knees brushing now and then, shoulders touching in ways that felt like both accident and design. 

The wine loosened our words, and for a while, it was all teasing and small talk and laughter that came too easily.

Until it wasn't. Until the spaces between the words grew heavier, and silence settled like a held breath.

It was Feyre who broke it first.

"I was scared too, you know," she said, eyes on the fire. Her voice was soft, unguarded in a way I'd never heard before. "After that first night. After you left."

Rhys didn't speak. His gaze flicked toward her, then to me, quiet, patient.

Feyre continued, her thumb worrying the edge of her blanket. "I thought it was supposed to be simple. Fun. But it wasn't. It isn't." She glanced up then, meeting my eyes. "You make it feel like more."

The words hit something deep inside me, something that hurt and warmed at the same time.

I took a shaky breath, staring into the fire. "That's what scares me," I admitted. "Because it already feels like I'm on the outside of something I'll never fully be a part of."

Feyre frowned, a soft line between her brows. "What do you mean?"

I laughed, a quiet, bitter sound. "You two fit. Perfectly. You've built this world together—and I..." I gestured vaguely, helplessly. "I'm just visiting. I don't want to fall in love with people who already belong to each other."

The words hung there, raw and unpolished, crackling louder than the fire.

Rhys finally spoke, his voice low, the kind that always seemed to find its way under my skin. "Maybe we've been waiting for someone who fits with both of us," he said.

My heart stuttered.

Feyre looked at him, then at me. There was something in her eyes, soft, shining, terrified and sure all at once. 

"He's right," she whispered. "You don't have to be an extra. Not if you don't want to be."

For a long moment, none of us spoke. The fire crackled softly, painting everything in gold and shadow, the curve of Feyre's cheek, the gleam in Rhys's eyes, the trembling edges of my resolve.

Something inside me, that cautious, careful part that always pulled away first went very, very quiet.

And in the silence that followed, I realised I wanted to stop running. I wanted this.

Not the uncertainty or the fear, but the way they looked at me like I wasn't something temporary, like I'd been part of the picture all along and just hadn't realised it yet.

I swallowed hard. "Okay," I said, the word barely more than a whisper. "Okay."

Rhys's eyes softened. Feyre's hand found mine, warm and steady, and when I didn't pull away, her thumb brushed a slow, reassuring circle against my skin.

Something shifted.

The wind off the ocean carried salt and smoke, the firelight danced between us. Feyre leaned closer, her forehead almost touching mine, her voice a thread of sound. "You sure?"

I nodded. "I'm tired of pretending I'm not."

Her smile was small, fragile, and then she kissed me, soft, searching, like she was still asking the question even as I answered it. 

My hands found her waist, tentative at first, and the warmth of her sunk through me like sunlight after too long in the cold.

Rhys didn't move to interrupt, didn't intrude, he just watched, the faintest curve to his lips, something reverent in his eyes. 

And when I finally glanced toward him, breathless and unsure, he reached out a hand, steady, grounding and brushed his knuckles down my arm, a touch that sent quiet shivers down my spine.

The world narrowed to the three of us, the crackle of flame, the scent of woodsmoke, the pulse of something fragile and fierce taking root.

There was laughter, somewhere in the mess of it, quiet, almost disbelieving. A tangle of limbs and warmth and the kind of closeness that didn't ask for anything more than this moment.

Later, the fire burned low, leaving only embers and the hush of the waves.

We ended up inside, half-asleep and still tangled together, Feyre's head on my shoulder, Rhys's arm draped loosely around us both.

It wasn't perfect. It wasn't planned. But it was real.

And for the first time, I didn't think about what came next. I just let myself want.

The morning unfolded slow and golden.

Light spilt through the wide windows, soft and forgiving, wrapping everything in a hazy glow. The fire from the night before had long since died out, leaving only the faint scent of smoke clinging to the air and the low murmur of the ocean outside.

For a moment, I simply breathed.

Feyre was already awake, curled on her side, hair spilling across the pillow like spun gold. Rhys lay half behind her, arm draped lazily around her waist, but his violet eyes were open, watching me. 

When he smiled, it was small and secret, as though this quiet moment belonged to us alone. "Morning," he said softly.

"Morning," I whispered back, my voice still thick with sleep.

No awkward scramble for clothes. No creeping out the door before anyone could stir.

For the first time, I wasn't looking for an escape.

I wasn't thinking about how to leave quietly or how to explain why I had to go. I just let myself be there, in that stillness, in that warmth, in the gentle rhythm of their breathing.

Eventually, Feyre stirred, blinking into the light. "Coffee," she mumbled, and that, apparently, was the cue for all of us to move.

The three of us drifted to the kitchen, half-dressed, barefoot, and laughing under our breaths. It was all so normal that it almost ached.

Rhys stood at the stove, pretending to know what he was doing with a skillet while Feyre corrected him from over his shoulder. I leaned against the counter, watching them, watching how easily they fit together and how, somehow, I didn't feel like an intruder this time.

"Here," Feyre said, handing me a mug. Our fingers brushed, a fleeting touch, but enough to set my pulse skittering.

"Thanks," I murmured.

She smiled, soft, knowing and reached for a bowl of berries, humming to herself as she moved through the kitchen. I caught myself smiling too, and for the first time, it didn't feel dangerous.

Rhys burned the first batch of pancakes. Feyre rolled her eyes. I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my coffee. It was imperfect and chaotic and real.

When we finally sat down to eat, sunlight poured across the table, glinting off the syrup and the curve of Feyre's smile. 

Rhys reached across her to pour me more coffee, his fingers brushing my wrist in that unthinking, casual way that meant everything and nothing at once. Feyre's hand found my other one, squeezing gently, grounding me.

The moment felt suspended, fragile and infinite.

Feyre turned toward Rhys and pressed a kiss to his temple, soft and fleeting. Then she looked at me, her eyes warm, alive with something I didn't dare name.

"This feels nice," she said simply.

I nodded. "Yeah. It really does."

Outside, gulls wheeled over the sea, their cries faint and distant. Inside, the air was full of warmth and coffee and something new, something that didn't need to be defined to be real.

For the first time, I didn't feel like the outsider.

A/n - Well... here it is, the final part. It didn't turn out exactly like I imagined. I gave everyone their happy ending, but for some reason, it still feels a little sloppy. I'm not entirely sure how else to fix it. I think the fic as a whole could've used more creativity but I did the best I could!

I think Feyre and Rhysand deserve another try in the future because I really want to do them justice, but for now, this is the last part of this fic (i'm already working on another Feysand one x)

The next series is called "Catalyst" and it's a Cassian x Nesta x Reader—the masterlist is already posted for anyone interested and it's basc a bosses x assistant AU!

Thank you so much for reading anyways <33

"I caught her rolling in the mud," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. The picture of sheepishness, though the corner of his mouth tugged upward. "I swear I tried to get her out. But then she looked at me with those big bright eyes and..." He exhaled, defeated. "I couldn't say no."

My mouth fell open. "You—you played in the mud with her?"

He had the audacity to grin.

"You are weak." I crossed my arms, trying very, very hard not to laugh.

"You can't fault me for that," he countered smoothly, stepping closer. "Not when she's just like you. And for the both of you..." His voice dropped, rich with warmth. "I am a weak male."

Heat bloomed across my cheeks before I could help it. "Azriel," I groaned, exasperated, but the smile betrayed me anyway.

He caught me then, muddy arms wrapping around my waist, tugging me against him without hesitation. The damp leather smeared against my dress and I squealed, pushing at his chest.

"You're getting me filthy!"

"Good," he said into my neck, utterly unrepentant. His nose brushed my skin before his lips pressed a soft, lingering kiss there. 

Shadows coiled lazily around us, warm rather than cold, like an embrace.

I sighed against him, my irritation already melting.

"Daddy! Come back!"

We both turned. Amaya stood with her tiny fists on her hips, chin tilted up in challenge. Even covered in muck she was every inch the princess she believed herself to be.

Azriel's face transformed.

That word—Daddy. It had been hers for him since before she could form full sentences. The first time she'd said it, he had cried. Azriel, my stoic shadowsinger, reduced to tears by a chubby-handed babe who knew instinctively who her father truly was.

And he never corrected her. Not once.

Even when I'd tried, fumbling my way through some halting explanation of Garrick. That he was the male who helped make her, but not the male who raised her. Not the one who'd rocked her at night, or walked the halls with her when colic kept her screaming for hours, or knelt in the dirt now to be her playmate.

Amaya had looked at me like I was speaking a foreign tongue. Then she'd said, simply "but Azriel's my daddy."

And that was the end of it.

"Mommy, you too!" Amaya's giggle broke through my thoughts, her little hands clapping as she beckoned me over.

Azriel smirked at me over his shoulder. "Orders from the princess."

"Anything you say, sweetheart," he declared dramatically, peeling away from me to chase after her again.

Amaya shrieked with laughter, looping around to run back toward me. Her small body collided with my legs, and she hid behind my skirts, using me as a shield.

"Mommy! Mommy, save me!" she squealed, peeking out at Azriel's looming figure.

He growled low and playful, letting shadows slither across the grass, twining like harmless snakes. They brushed against her ankles, tickling, making her scream and laugh until she could hardly breathe.

I glanced down at her. My daughter, our daughter, her hair wild, her cheeks flushed pink, her little mouth stretched into the biggest grin.

And beyond her, Azriel, watching her with such devotion on his face I thought my heart might burst.

Three years ago, I had feared I would be doing this alone. I had feared she would grow up never knowing what a father's love looked like.

But the Mother had given me more than I had ever dared to ask for.

I reached down, scooping Amaya into my arms. She squealed, her little legs kicking as she tried to wriggle away, though the effort was more playful than earnest. 

I tickled her belly with my free hand, earning another burst of squeaky laughter, before she finally collapsed against me, giggles tapering off into a soft, breathy sigh. 

Her small hands curled into the collar of my dress, her damp hair sticking to her flushed cheeks.

Azriel crossed the space between us in a few unhurried steps. His presence was always steady, grounding, and I felt the heat of his body before he touched me. 

One hand settled instinctively at the small of my back, his thumb stroking through the fabric in soothing circles. 

With the other, he brushed a damp curl from Amaya's forehead, his calloused fingers impossibly gentle against her soft skin.

I pressed a kiss to her temple, breathing in that warm, earthy scent of sun and mud and child's laughter. "Alright, little terror," I said firmly, even as my lips quirked, "it's time to clean up."

"Nooo," Amaya whined immediately, her bottom lip trembling into a pout she'd perfected far too early in life.

"Yes," I countered, adjusting her in my arms and starting toward the house.

Her pout deepened into a theatrical sigh, and before I could soothe her with another kiss, Azriel swooped in. With a sly grin, he plucked her neatly from my arms and hoisted her onto his broad shoulders as if she weighed nothing at all.

Amaya shrieked with delight, the pout forgotten in an instant. She clutched fistfuls of his dark hair for balance, her laughter ringing out as Azriel straightened to his full height.

"Better, princess?" he asked, glancing up at her perched proudly on his shoulders.

"Mhm!" she hummed, utterly victorious.

I shook my head at them both, but the sight, the two of them together, light and shadow, laughter and strength settled something deep in my chest.

Inside, I wrangled my daughter into the bath, which was an ordeal in itself. She splashed and squirmed and whined dramatically as I scrubbed the streaks of mud from between her fingers and toes, her little face scrunching as if soap were the worst possible torture.

"Hold still, Amaya," I chided, though I couldn't help my laugh when she stuck her tongue out at me in response.

Eventually, though, she yielded, and by the time I rinsed her hair and wrapped her in a warm towel, her protests had softened into happy little hums. 

Clean and sweet-smelling again, she leaned into me as I dressed her in a fresh cotton gown, pressing soft kisses against her damp hair before sending her toddling off to her play corner.

When I turned, I found him.

Azriel leaned lazily against the doorway, still streaked with mud and grass, his shadows curling at his shoulders like they were laughing at me, too. His smirk was unmistakable, that slow, knowing smile that always tugged at something low in my stomach.

"I suppose," he drawled, voice low and edged with wicked amusement, "I should help you bathe."

My breath caught, though I managed an eye roll. "You are impossible."

"And yet," he murmured as he pushed off the frame, stepping closer, "here you are—still in love with me." 

His fingers brushed against my waist, featherlight but deliberate, his hazel eyes smouldering with warmth that was far too much to be casual.

We did clean up, eventually, though not before steam and laughter filled the bathing room, our kisses interrupted by whispered teases and the playful slip of hands. 

By the time we emerged, the sun had dipped low, golden light spilling through the windows and painting everything in warm amber hues.

In the sitting room, we found her.

Amaya had curled up fast asleep on the settee, her small body cocooned in a blanket, her cheeks still rosy from play. Clutched tightly in her arms was the little plush bat Azriel had given her last Solstice, the gift she'd refused to sleep without since.

The sight of her, so safe, so utterly at peace struck something deep inside me. 

My throat tightened as I took in her long lashes resting against her cheeks, the way her tiny fingers clung so fiercely to that toy.

Azriel bent low beside her, his hand brushing over her blanket, his shadows caressing her like a lullaby. His voice came out as a whisper, raw and reverent, as if even speaking louder might shatter the fragile perfection of the moment.

"I love you both. More than anything."

I reached for him, slipping my hand into his, grounding him the way he'd always grounded me. My thumb brushed over his knuckles as I leaned closer, my own voice thick with quiet joy.

"We love you too."

And there it was. Our family. Our everything.

Azriel's POV - 

Flying with two extra bodies had never been a challenge for me. My wings could carry more than their fair share of weight.

But when those two bodies were the ones who meant everything, the ones I would bleed, kill, or die for every wingbeat felt more deliberate. Every shift of wind made me hold them closer.

Amaya was nestled snugly between us, her little body warm against my chest as she clung to me with tiny but determined hands. 

My arms circled both her and her mother, the female who had once been nothing more than a distant dream I didn't dare name. 

Now she was real, tangible, soft and strong against me, her scent a balm that carried through the skies. 

My wife. My love. My anchor.

Amaya peeked out every so often, her hair brushing my chin, her eyes wide and shining as she gazed at the stars glittering like spilt jewels all around us. 

I would never forget the first time I had taken her flying, how she had gone utterly still in my arms, awe silencing even her ceaseless chatter. 

And then, slowly, how her giggles had bubbled up, bright and infectious, as she pointed out every constellation she thought looked like a bird or a rabbit or my personal favourite a squirrel with a particularly fluffy tail.

Tonight was no different. Every star was magic to her. Every rush of wind a game. 

And every time her little hand clutched tighter at my leathers, I thought my heart might burst with the sheer honour of being the one she trusted to keep her safe.

We landed at the House of Wind, my boots touching stone with practised grace. I lowered them both gently, but Amaya wasted no time clinging to my leg or gazing at the view. 

No she was already tearing toward the great doors, a small hurricane of windswept hair and determination, eager to see the family she adored.

"Slow down," I called after her, though the sternness in my voice was softened by the smile tugging at my mouth. 

Shadows leapt at my command, darting out to hover around her in case she tripped or decided to launch herself at the nearest bannister.

"And she sped up," came the wry voice at my side.

I glanced at her, my wife, my heart and my chest swelled all over again. My wife. The word never lost its power. The day she'd agreed to marry me, to let me place a ring on her finger, to let me claim her in front of everyone we loved, I had thought I might never stop shaking. 

To this day, I still sometimes woke in the middle of the night and reached for her just to confirm she was truly there. 

That she was mine. That I was hers.

I looped an arm around her waist, pulling her close as we strode after our daughter. 

The warmth of her body fit so naturally against mine, as though the Mother had carved her from my own shadows and set her alight just to balance me.

Inside, the noise hit us immediately. Laughter. Clinking glasses. Voices raised in welcome. 

And in the centre of it all, Amaya already halfway up Rhys's torso, climbing him like a tree. She tugged at his once perfectly styled hair as she rattled off an animated story to Mor, who was positively glowing with amusement.

"And then the squirrel followed me from the gardens to the kitchen!" Amaya finished with dramatic flair, her arms flailing in emphasis.

"Spoken like a true princess," Cassian said with a booming laugh, opening his arms just in time for her to fling herself from Rhys to him.

"Oh, and then I wanted to keep the squirrel," she continued, lower lip jutting out in an impressive pout, "but Daddy wouldn't let me."

Her use of the word still made my chest tighten. Every time. Every single time.

"Why is that, Azriel?" Mor asked, eyes glinting, thoroughly entertained by the performance.

I didn't even hesitate. I'd learned long ago to be quick with answers when it came to her whims. 

"Because the squirrel had a family to return to," I said smoothly, crouching just slightly so I was level with my daughter's squirming form in Cassian's arms.

Her sulk didn't last long. It never did. 

"Like you, me, and Mommy?" she asked, bright as sunlight, her small head tilting in curiosity.

"Exactly like us." My voice was rougher than I intended, my grin betraying the emotions I could never seem to mask around her.

A shadow of movement brushed against me, and then a chin hooked over my shoulder. 

Her. My wife. The love of my life. Her warm breath ghosted over my neck as her bright eyes blinked at me with all the mischief and softness I loved.

"Exactly like us," she whispered, her lips pressing a fleeting kiss against my shoulder before she slipped past me to follow Amaya and the others into the dining room.

And for a heartbeat, I just stood there.

Letting myself have this. Letting myself feel it.

Happiness. Love. Family. Things I had once believed were for everyone else. Never for me. Not for the bastard-born, not for the broken boy with blood on his hands.

But here they were. Here she was. Here we were.

And I allowed myself to believe if only for this moment that I deserved it.

A/n - Final part, a little timeskip, so it's more epilogue-style!!

Azriel is, of course, completely besotted with his two girls and they're just as obsessed with him (Amaya made sure everyone knows Daddy is his official title, no negotiations x)

This was really just the peace and happiness they fought for, a moment of laughter warmth, and all the mushy family feels :)

The next series is called "Devil's Angel" and it's a mafia romance—the masterlist is already posted for anyone interested and it's one I wrote a while ago that I finally get to post!!

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you've enjoyed it <33

It started small, little things that shouldn't have meant much.

A scent that reminded me of their house. A song that played on the radio that made me think of that night, the three of us sitting too close on the couch, laughing over spilt wine.

Feyre started texting more often. At first, just every few days. Then almost daily.

Feyre: saw this and thought of you!

A photo of a cat curled up on a windowsill. Then—

Feyre: Rhys is still talking about that dessert you loved :)

Or—

Feyre: You'd make a better old-fashioned than this bartender, I swear.

Little things. Harmless things. But they stuck to me like honey, impossible to wash away.

Sometimes I replied, sometimes I didn't. When I didn't, I'd still check my phone, reread the messages, tell myself I was just being polite, that I didn't owe them anything.

And yet when her name lit up my screen, my pulse jumped. Every single time.

I tried to date other people.

There was the pretty blonde who'd come through town on business, a whirlwind kind of woman, all sharp smiles and champagne. We met for drinks, talked about travel and ambition and music, and she was easy to like.

But when she leaned across the table, when her fingers brushed mine, there was no spark. No pull. No static humming under my skin the way there had been with them.

Then there was the brunette, a regular at the bar. He'd been asking me out for months, always patient, always charming. I said yes one night, just to prove a point to myself.

We had dinner. We laughed. He was kind.

But the entire time, I caught myself comparing, his voice wasn't as smooth as Rhys's, his smile didn't make my stomach flip the way Feyre's did, and when he touched my arm, I didn't feel that dizzy, dangerous electricity.

It wasn't fair to him. It wasn't fair to me, either.

Afterwards, when he kissed me goodnight, all I could think was how wrong it felt. How I wished it were someone else's mouth, someone else's hands.

I went home that night and stared at my ceiling, the glow of my phone lighting the room. No new messages.

And still, I couldn't sleep.

Because the truth was starting to creep in, soft and insistent. 

I didn't want anyone else. I didn't want this to mean something, but it did.

Every time Feyre texted, every time I saw Rhys's name pop up on social media, every time I thought about that laugh that belonged only to the two of them, it all came rushing back, sharp and sweet and impossible to shake.

I told myself I wasn't built for long-term things. That I didn't do permanence.

That this, whatever this was—was supposed to stay easy, light, fleeting.

But late at night, when the world went still, I couldn't ignore the truth pressing in on me like a bruise I kept poking just to feel it again.

It wasn't casual anymore. And maybe it never had been.

Tonight was a quiet night. The kind of stillness that makes the walls hum and the air feel too heavy.

I was curled up on the couch, half-watching some show I wasn't really paying attention to, when my phone buzzed.

Feyre: There's an art show tonight. I have a new exhibit! I'd love it if you'd come <3

For a long moment, I just stared at the screen.

Her name lit up the darkness, and something in my chest twisted.

It had been weeks since I'd seen them. Weeks of pretending I didn't replay their laughter in my head, or the way Rhys's hand had brushed mine when he poured the wine, or the look Feyre had given me that said she was thinking the exact same thing.

Weeks of trying to convince myself I didn't miss them.

But I did.

I missed the ease of their presence. The warmth of their home. The way they made me feel like I'd stumbled into something I didn't fully understand but couldn't walk away from either.

My thumb hovered over the keyboard, uncertain. I typed out several messages.

I'd love to

Then deleted it.

Sorry, I can't tonight.

Deleted that too. Finally, I settled for the simplest, safest word.

Me: Sure

It sent before I could second-guess it, a tiny flicker of commitment that made my pulse quicken. Her reply came almost immediately, fast and bright, like she'd been waiting.

Feyre: Perfect! 7 pm. I'll send the car <3

A time, a location, and that heart, soft, familiar, dangerous.

I set my phone down, exhaling slowly.

She didn't have to send a car, but of course she would. That was Feyre, thoughtful, deliberate, always the one to make things feel effortless.

And I knew, deep down, that I could've said no. That I should have said no.

But the thought of seeing her again, of seeing them again, sent a tremor through me that I couldn't ignore.

I told myself I was just going to support a friend. That it was nothing more.

That it wasn't about how I still dreamt of their laughter, or how every date since had been a pale imitation of theirs.

But as I stood in front of my closet, debating what to wear, my heart already racing, I knew I was lying to myself.

This wasn't about art. This was about them.

The car glided through the city streets like it had a purpose, like it already knew where I was supposed to end up.

Outside, the lights blurred into gold and violet streaks against the glass, and I couldn't shake the nervous flutter in my stomach. 

It wasn't a first date kind of nervous, it was the kind that came when you already knew what could happen, and you weren't sure if you were ready to let it.

The car stopped in front of the gallery, all white stone, glass, and warm light spilling out into the night. People lingered near the entrance in tailored coats and champagne smiles, the hum of conversation floating through the open doors.

I stepped out, tugging my jacket around me, the cool air biting against my skin.

Inside, the world shifted, soft lighting, the faint scent of paint and wine, quiet music threading through the air. It was beautiful, curated, intimate.

And then I saw them.

Feyre was radiant, hair loosely pinned back, a silk dress the colour of dusk hugging her frame. Rhys stood beside her, crisp suit, sleeves rolled up just enough to be indecently casual, as if he'd just come from touching her paintbrushes.

When their eyes found me, it felt like being seen and undressed and welcomed all at once.

"Wow," Rhys said first, voice low and warm. "You look..." He didn't finish. He didn't need to.

Feyre stepped closer, her smile soft but intent. "Beautiful," she finished for him. "You look beautiful."

And gods, the way she said it, like it was a confession instead of a compliment made my breath catch.

I managed a small, nervous laugh. "You both clean up pretty well yourselves."

Rhys's lips quirked. "We try."

Feyre's hand brushed mine, a whisper of contact that sent shivers up my arm. "Come," she said. "Let me show you."

I followed her through the gallery, the crowd thinning as we moved deeper inside. The walls here were quieter, less chatter, more reverence.

And then we stopped. The plaque beside the wall read "A Night of Curiosity."

I stared. There were half a dozen pieces, large canvases, layered in colour and texture, soft light playing across them. They were intimate without being explicit, suggestive in a way that felt private, sacred.

Skin. Hands. Lips. Brushstrokes that captured breath and motion and warmth.

My heart began to pound, slow and deep.

In one piece, a woman's bare back, turned slightly, the faint outline of light across her shoulder blades. My stomach tightened.

I knew that back. The line of the neck, the slight dip at the waist, the barely-there freckles scattered like stars across the skin.

It was my back.

Another piece, eyes half-closed, lashes feathered against flushed skin, mouth parted in something that was almost a sigh. My own face. It hit me like a rush of heat, the realisation heavy and dizzying.

I was the muse.

That night, our night lived here. Immortalized.

My breath stuttered, the air suddenly too thick. It was beautiful. And terrifying. And heartbreakingly intimate.

Feyre was watching me, her expression unreadable, a flicker of nerves beneath the confidence. Rhys stood a few paces back, gaze steady, quiet.

He saw the moment it clicked. The way my fingers trembled slightly, how I looked from the art to them, speechless.

And then, softly, so softly I almost missed it Rhys said, "You left before we could finish writing the story."

The words sank into me, warm and heavy, full of meaning. My throat tightened. "I..."

But there was no air left to speak.

The world around us blurred, the murmurs of the crowd fading into something distant, insignificant. All I could see was them, and the art, and the impossible truth of it all.

Feyre's gaze softened, the edges of her confidence melting into something raw. 

"You inspired me," she whispered. "That night—you, the way you moved, the way you looked at us—it stayed with me. I couldn't not paint it."

I wanted to look away. I couldn't.

Rhys stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of his cologne, amber and smoke and something uniquely him.

"It wasn't supposed to be over," he said.

I swallowed hard, every thought tangled between my ribs. This was too much, too intimate, too real.

And yet part of me, the reckless, curious part that had swiped right on a stranger named Feyre weeks ago wanted this.

The attention. The belonging. The way they looked at me like I was something worth painting, worth remembering.

I exhaled shakily, the sound almost lost in the hum of the room. I didn't say anything else.

My throat had gone dry, every word felt caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. I just stood there, staring at the canvases, my pulse roaring in my ears.

Feyre shifted beside me. I could feel her uncertainty in the small space between us, in the way she twisted the thin silver ring on her finger.

"Is it..." She hesitated, voice softer now, stripped of the easy confidence she wore so well. "Is it too much? Too personal? I can pull them from the exhibit if you want. I didn't think—"

I blinked, finally forcing myself to look at her. Her expression wasn't defensive, it was worried. Almost apologetic.

"No," I said quickly, shaking my head. "No, it's not that. It's just..." I exhaled, searching for the right word. "Unexpected. Seeing it like this—seeing me like this—it's a lot."

Her shoulders relaxed a fraction, though she still looked uncertain.

"It's beautiful," I added, quieter this time. "You made it beautiful."

Something in her gaze softened, like I'd just given her permission to breathe again.

But the air between us remained charged, thick with everything unsaid. I needed to move, to find air that didn't feel like it belonged to them.

"I should go," I said, before I could change my mind.

Feyre opened her mouth to protest, but Rhys was already a step closer, not close enough to trap me, but close enough that I could feel his presence like gravity itself.

His fingers brushed my arm as I turned to leave, barely a touch, a whisper of contact but it was enough to light a spark under my skin.

"Thank you for coming," he murmured, low and steady.

Feyre followed me toward the door, her hand brushing my elbow as people greeted her, congratulated her, the noise of the gallery rising again around us.

At the threshold, she leaned in, her perfume soft and familiar, her lips grazing my cheek.

"Next time," she said, voice barely above a whisper, "don't run."

I froze, heart thudding so loudly it drowned out the hum of the room.

By the time I looked back, she was already walking toward Rhys, the two of them framed by the soft light of the gallery, warm, certain, magnetic.

I stepped out into the cool night air, the sound of the city rushing back all at once.

And for the second time, I told myself I was leaving them behind but the ache in my chest said otherwise.

A/n - We finally get the switch! She's been fighting it, but the reluctant acceptance is here—she cannot stop thinking about them, and honestly, who could blame her? So of course she agrees to see them again!!

And then BAM Feyre's gone and painted her. Intimately. Like, "oh no it's beautiful but also oh no it's ME" levels of chaos. That perfect moment of soft yearning immediately followed by, "wait... this is kinda terrifying actually??" The duality of women, truly :)

Also, I swear Feyre's last words aren't meant to sound like she's about to hunt anyone for sport, she's just being all intense and artistic about it. I promise it's romantic x

Anyway, thank you so much for reading <33

The corner of his mouth twitched, but worry chased away any chance of amusement. "It's happening?"

"Yes." My voice wavered as a bolt of pressure clawed through my abdomen. "Gods, yes."

He didn't hesitate. His arm slipped firmly around my back, steadying me as my knees threatened to buckle, guiding me carefully up the remaining steps. "Alright. Deep breaths. Slow and steady. Madja will be here soon. We've got this."

The calmness in his tone, measured, grounding was in sharp contrast to the firestorm starting inside me.

"Yes—yes, mhm," I gasped, clinging to the cadence of his voice as another contraction rippled, sharper now, building. I swallowed hard, mind racing. "Should... should Garrick be here?"

The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

Azriel glanced at me, careful, controlled, though something flickered in his hazel eyes. "Do you want him to be?"

"I—" My breath hitched as the pain deepened. "Yes. No. I don't know. It's his child too, right?"

The admission felt like sand in my mouth.

Azriel didn't flinch. His grip on me tightened just slightly, enough to remind me he was still there, still steady. "I can get him. You wait here. I'll find him."

I nodded quickly, half in panic, half in gratitude. "Okay. Thank you."

He helped me onto the bed, arranging pillows behind my back with a gentleness that made my throat close. His hands lingered at my shoulders for one heartbeat longer than necessary, and then with a blur of shadows he was gone.

But I wasn't alone for long.

Madja appeared in the doorway as if she'd stepped straight from the ether, brisk and efficient, her presence swallowing the room. 

Her sharp eyes scanned the scene, me, already trembling, the damp fabric of my nightgown clinging to me and she wasted no time.

"Come." Her voice was no-nonsense, but her hands were surprisingly gentle as she guided me, coaxing me to shift, to adjust, to brace myself. "I've done this a thousand times. You are strong. Your body knows what to do."

She had me situated before I could blink, positioned among pillows, legs parted, her hands steadying me as though this were the most ordinary task in the world.

But it wasn't ordinary. Not to me.

My heart hammered so loudly I thought it might burst. My breaths came sharp, uneven, as the next contraction built, consuming me whole. My fingers twisted into the sheets, into anything I could hold, and still it wasn't enough.

Azriel's absence was a cavern beside me, though I knew—knew, he'd come back.

He always came back.

And as more waves of pain struck, I whispered his name, not sure if I meant it as a prayer, a plea, or both.

The next contraction ripped through me like fire, pulling a cry from my throat before I could swallow it down. 

Madja's voice was steady, guiding, instructing me to breathe, to loosen my jaw, to let my body do what it needed to.

But my mind was elsewhere. Azriel. Where was he? Where was Garrick?

Another wave came, and I nearly clawed at the sheets. Gods, it was unbearable. The air was hot, damp with my sweat, my hair clinging to my temples. 

I could barely think past the pain when the door opened again.

Azriel slipped inside, shadows clinging to him like restless birds. His eyes swept the room immediately, locking on me, trembling, braced against Madja's hands. 

He crossed the distance in seconds, dropping to his knees beside the bed as though he could anchor me by sheer will alone.

I could barely speak, but I rasped, "Where—where is he?"

The question hung heavy in the air.

Azriel's jaw tightened. For a heartbeat, silence pressed in around us, thick and suffocating. Then, softly, almost like it pained him to say the words, he admitted, "I couldn't find him. I'm sorry."

It was the gentlest apology I had ever heard. And yet, it split me open.

Something in me shattered, a cruel reminder of just how foolish I had been to hope. To think Garrick would be here, now, when I needed him most, when I was breaking apart to bring his child into the world.

Tears burned hot down my cheeks. I turned my head, ashamed, pressing them into the pillow as if I could hide my weakness. 

But my voice cracked anyway, barely audible over the sound of my own ragged breaths. "Of course. Of course he isn't here."

Azriel's shadows recoiled as though my pain was their own. His hand twitched where it rested against the covers, like he wanted to touch me but didn't know if he was allowed.

Madja murmured something, practical, grounding but the sound blurred around me. 

My chest heaved as I scrubbed at my tears with shaking fingers, trying to pull myself together, trying not to break entirely in front of him.

Azriel cleared his throat, low and rough. His eyes, hazel, wide and uncertain lifted to mine.

"Do you..." His voice faltered, a rare crack in his otherwise unshakable calm. He glanced toward the door, then back to me. "Do you want me to wait outside?"

The question startled me. Not because of what he asked, but how he asked it. As though the idea of leaving me tore at him, yet he would do it if I told him to.

I stammered, fumbling, my throat too thick with grief and pain. "Oh. Oh, um—okay. If you—if you want to."

The words tasted wrong, empty. They weren't what I wanted to say. But it was all I could manage.

And the distance in his expression as he slowly began to rise made my heart ache all over again.

Azriel's POV - 

I was reeling. Utterly reeling. I had lied to her, a necessary lie, but a lie all the same.

Because I had found Garrick. Of course I had. It hadn't even taken me long. My shadows knew his scent, his patterns, the places he frequented like the back of my scarred hands.

But I hadn't expected to find him like that.

Drunk off his mind in some dingy bar, stumbling over himself with a half-dressed female draped across his lap. His mouth was on her neck, hands pawing greedily at her body as she giggled, swatting at him with mock coyness. 

The reek of spilt ale clung to him, sour and heavy, drowning out even his own scent.

When I told him she was in labour, that she was fighting through pain so brutal it shook the walls, he didn't even look at me. Just waved me off with a slurred curse, incoherent words tumbling from lips too drunk to form sense. His eyes glazed, unfocused, utterly disinterested.

I wanted to kill him. I wanted to drive my blade straight through his chest for daring to treat her like this, for leaving her alone in her most vulnerable moment.

But I couldn't. Not when she needed me more than I needed vengeance.

So I left him there in the filth he'd chosen, and returned. 

And when I saw her, when I saw her curled and trembling, tears streaking down her face as Madja coaxed her through the waves of pain—I lied.

I told her I couldn't find him. Because the truth... the truth would break her.

Now I paced outside her room, each of her cries slicing me open from the inside out. Shadows hissed around me, restless, agitated, mirroring the storm inside my chest.

Cassian appeared not long after, silent for once, his face pale as if he could feel my turmoil. He leaned against the wall beside me, arms crossed, but even that easy pose didn't hide the tension bleeding off him.

"She's—she's hurting," I stammered, words jagged and foreign on my tongue. I didn't stammer. Not ever.

"I know," Cassian said softly, laying a heavy hand on my shoulder.

"And—and she's all alone," I went on, the words unravelling. "Because that stupid, inconsiderate bastard who got her pregnant is too busy drowning himself in ale and debauchery."

Cassian exhaled sharply, jaw tightening, but said nothing.

"She's alone..." I repeated, my voice breaking off as another agonised cry rang through the door. It made my chest seize, made my fists clench. "I should—I should be in there."

Cassian gave me a long, steady look. "I can't tell you what to do, brother. Only you know what you can live with."

But I didn't need him to tell me. I already knew.

I pushed past him, shadows curling tight around me as I shoved open the door.

She looked up immediately. Even through the haze of pain, her eyes found mine, wide and desperate. And gods, the sight of her, sweat-slicked, trembling, yet still so heartbreakingly strong nearly brought me to my knees.

"Az... Azriel?" Her voice cracked, strained and broken. "You came back?"

"If you want me to leave, I will," I told her, throat raw, every word weighted with truth. "But I don't want to."

Something flickered in her expression, fragile and fleeting, but real. She gave me the barest watery smile, more of a grimace, really and shook her head.

"Please," she whispered, tears spilling. "Please stay."

I didn't hesitate.

In a breath, I was at her side, lowering myself onto the bed. 

My hand reached for her hair, brushing damp strands back from her face, and her hands, shaking, clinging, caught the other. She gripped me so tightly I swore she might break the bones in my hand, but I welcomed it, anchored myself to her as surely as she anchored herself to me.

And in that moment, with her eyes squeezed shut and her breath hitching through another contraction, I knew.

There was nowhere else I would ever be.

The hours bled together into a blur of pain and sweat and shuddering breaths. 

I had faced battlefields, clawed my way through war and death and carnage, but none of it, none of it compared to this.

Her hand crushed mine with every contraction, her cries splintering something deep inside my chest. I could only murmur soft encouragements, brush damp hair from her face, steady her when her strength faltered.

 Shadows writhed around us both, not with fear, but with a desperate need to shield, to help, to take the agony from her if only they could.

Madja's voice was calm, a lifeline in the storm. "Almost there. Just one more push."

She bore down with a guttural sound that tore through me, her whole body trembling and then... a sharp, high-pitched cry split the air.

A baby's cry.

My breath stopped.

Madja lifted the small, wriggling bundle into view, and for a heartbeat, time itself seemed to freeze. Bloodied and slick, but alive, screaming with furious strength.

"It's a girl," Madja announced.

A girl.

She slumped back against the pillows, exhausted beyond words, tears streaking down her face. But her eyes, gods, her eyes were shining as Madja placed the tiny child in her arms.

I had thought her beautiful before, thought her radiant even in pain. 

But the sight of her now, cradling that fragile new life to her chest, whispering soft words I couldn't hear over the baby's cries, it undid me completely.

The babe looked just like her. The same nose, the same delicate mouth, even the same stubborn little furrow in her brow when she wailed.

I didn't realise I was crying until my vision blurred.

I had no right to this moment. No right to feel this way. But when she looked at me, really looked, tears on her cheeks, exhaustion and joy mingling in her gaze, I knew she was giving me something I'd never expected. Trust.

After a while, when the child's cries had softened into little hiccuping whimpers, she looked at me again, shifting slightly in the bed.

"Do you... want to hold her?" she whispered. Her voice was so quiet I almost thought I'd imagined it.

My chest seized. "I—" My throat worked. "Are you sure?"

Her lips curved in the faintest, exhausted smile. "Azriel, she's half-asleep in my arms and you look like you're about to break in half just staring. Yes, I'm sure."

Carefully, so carefully, she extended the small bundle toward me. My hands, scarred and calloused, shook as I reached out. Shadows curled nervously around my wrists as if to steady me, to make sure I didn't falter.

She weighed almost nothing, yet everything in me trembled as I tucked her against my chest.

The baby shifted, wriggling just once before settling. Her tiny fingers flexed, curling instinctively around the leather of my sleeve. 

Bright eyes, gods, she had her mother's eyes blinked up at me, still heavy with newborn haze.

And I shattered. Something inside me I hadn't known was there cracked wide open.

I had thought I was committed before. Thought I had made my choice when I'd walked back into that room. 

But holding her now, feeling her fragile warmth pressed against me, I realised it was so much deeper than that.

This wasn't Garrick's child to me. This was hers. And because she was hers, she was mine too.

"She's..." My voice broke. I swallowed hard, brushing one tentative thumb along the soft curve of the baby's cheek. "She's perfect."

She smiled through her tears, watching me as if she'd never seen me before.

For once, I didn't care what anyone thought. Didn't care that my shadows betrayed the truth of my heart, curling protectively around both mother and child.

Because in that moment, with a sleeping baby in my arms and the female I cared for more than life itself watching me with quiet wonder, I knew there was no turning back.

I was theirs. Forever.

A/n - Actual labour this time :o

She thinks Garrick should probably be there (you know... since it's technically his baby), but the one she truly wants by her side is Azriel. And of course, he does not disappoint. He's calm, protective, and completely undone the moment that tiny baby girl arrives!!

Azriel really said, "fine, I'll do it myself" and became the dad who stepped up x

Also yes, I fully took this chance to make him a girl dad because the world deserves to see that soft, heart-melting version of him. We love to see it!!

Thank you for reading—dww an epilogue awaits <33

The car they'd sent had been sleek and silent, the kind that made my stomach twist with nerves the whole ride. I'd spent the drive trying not to overthink, fidgeting with the hem of my dress, reminding myself I could leave any time I wanted.

I had barely lifted my hand to knock when the door swung open.

"Hi," Feyre said, beaming.

She looked radiant, hair loose around her shoulders, a soft white jumper that made her look even more striking. Her smile was disarming, bright enough to thaw some of the nerves coiled tight in my chest.

And then Rhysand appeared behind her.

He leaned casually in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, a kitchen towel slung over one shoulder, smelling faintly of spice and something smoky. His hair was a little mussed, like he'd run a hand through it one too many times, and there was a smudge of flour near his wrist.

There was warmth to it, the scene, the two of them. They were clearly in their element together. 

Feyre with her easy laughter, Rhys with that calm, unshakable confidence. 

The air between them hummed with a familiarity that was hard to define, something that felt deep and steady and unspoken.

And I... I felt like an intruder.

For a second, standing there on their doorstep, I wondered what on earth I was doing. I didn't belong in this picture-perfect domesticity, the artist and the businessman, the golden light and the smell of dinner cooking. 

I was just someone who'd stumbled into their orbit by accident.

"Come in," Feyre said, reaching for my hand without hesitation, her touch light but grounding. "We were just finishing up dinner. Rhys insists he's a better cook than I am, so I'm letting him prove it."

Rhysand's mouth curved into a grin. "I am the better cook," he said mildly, stepping aside so I could pass. "But she's the better liar, so we balance out."

They laughed together, the sound easy and familiar, like this was routine for them, like they'd been doing this for centuries.

I stepped over the threshold, and the warmth of the house wrapped around me instantly. 

Soft light glowed from candles on the mantle, paintings and sketches lined the walls in gentle frames, and somewhere deeper in the house, faint music played, a mellow tune that seemed to slow the heartbeat of the world.

"Wow," I murmured before I could stop myself. "This place is... incredible."

Feyre squeezed my hand gently before letting go. "Thank you. It's still a work in progress. I keep repainting the same room every few months."

"She can't help herself," Rhysand said from the kitchen, rolling his sleeves up a little higher as he stirred something on the stove. "Every time I think I know what colour the walls are, she changes her mind."

Feyre shot him a look that made him laugh quietly.

Rhysand's laughter melted into the sound of something sizzling in the pan, garlic, butter, and herbs hitting heat. The scent filled the kitchen, rich and intoxicating. 

Feyre moved around him effortlessly, reaching past to grab plates, opening drawers without looking.

I hovered near the kitchen island, suddenly unsure where to put my hands.

"Can I help?" I asked, more to fill the silence than anything.

Rhys glanced over his shoulder. "You can sit and look pretty," he said with a smirk.

Feyre swatted him with the kitchen towel. "Ignore him. He likes to think he's charming."

"I am charming," he said mildly, tasting something from the pan and humming in approval.

I rolled my eyes but couldn't help smiling.

The domesticity of it was disarming, their laughter, their rhythm, their shared warmth. And me, standing there in the middle of it, like a guest star in someone else's life. I wasn't used to this kind of ease, this effortless intimacy that filled every corner of their home.

I needed something to do with my hands. Something familiar.

"Alright," I said, stepping around the island and opening a cabinet before either of them could stop me. "If you're cooking, I'm making drinks. Seems only fair."

Feyre raised a brow, intrigued. "Oh?"

"Bartender, remember?" I shot her a grin. "It's muscle memory at this point."

Rhys leaned back against the counter, arms folded, watching me with amused curiosity. "Surprise us then."

So I did.

I found their liquor, they had a fully stocked bar cart, because of course they did and started working on instinct. The familiar rhythm of pouring, shaking, tasting settled my nerves. 

Feyre's laughter mingled with the clink of ice, Rhys's low hum as he turned down the stove.

When I slid two glasses across the counter, the pale amber liquid catching the light, Rhys raised his in a small toast.

"To unexpected company," he said.

I clinked mine against his. "To good food," I offered.

"And better drinks," Feyre added, tasting hers with a soft hum of approval.

The warmth that had started in my chest spread a little further, loosening the edges of my nerves. 

For a while, conversation flowed easily, music and travel and bad bar stories. 

Feyre asked questions with that curious, painter's gaze, and Rhys listened the way people rarely did, like every word might mean something more.

At some point, I asked, "So... how did you two meet?"

Feyre glanced at Rhys, and that shared look between them was answer enough before either even spoke. Something passed in that silence, something comfortable and whole.

She smiled first. "Art gallery," she said. "He pretended to know what he was talking about."

"I did know," Rhys protested, voice rich with laughter. "I was just... distracted."

Feyre's smile softened, eyes flicking to him. "You were terrible. You called a sculpture a painting."

"And yet, you still gave me your number."

"I felt sorry for you."

They laughed together, the kind of laughter that came from years of private jokes and soft mornings. The kind that built its own gravity.

I laughed too, but it felt quieter somehow. Like I was intruding on something sacred. Watching them was like standing at the edge of a window and catching a glimpse of a life that was already full. 

A life that didn't need me in it.

They were so in love, that much was undeniable. It was in every glance, every unfinished sentence the other seemed to understand. 

It wasn't performative. It was organic, easy, like they'd been built from the same kind of light.

And me? I was suddenly, painfully aware of how temporary I was. I smiled again, masking the ache behind it, and lifted my glass to my lips.

Feyre turned her attention back to me, eyes bright. "What about you? Any great love stories?"

I huffed a small laugh. "Mostly cautionary tales."

That made her laugh, soft and real and the air between us lightened again, just enough to breathe.

Beneath it all, the air buzzed faintly.

The way Feyre's hand brushed mine when she reached for her drink. The way Rhys's eyes lingered a little too long when he laughed.

It wasn't overt. Just... charged. Like static waiting for the right touch to spark.

Dinner was simple but perfect, pasta in a rich, buttery sauce with roasted tomatoes and herbs. Feyre set the table with plates and linen napkins, and somehow, it all felt deliberate. Intimate.

At one point, Rhys refilled my glass, his fingers brushing mine, and my breath caught before I could stop it. Feyre noticed, of course she did and smiled faintly, like she knew exactly what was running through my head.

"So," she said lightly, twirling her fork. "Still thinking of this as a one-time thing?"

The question hit harder than it should have.

I laughed softly, staring into my wine. "I don't know what I'm thinking. But I'm not... I'm not looking for anything serious."

Rhys's gaze softened, but he didn't look away. "Neither are we," he said smoothly, voice low enough that it felt private, meant only for me.

Feyre nodded in agreement. "No expectations," she said, her tone easy, her smile gentle. "We just wanted to see you again. That's all."

It should have reassured me. It didn't.

Something in the way she said it, too soft, too careful felt like a half-truth. Like she wanted to make it sound simple when it wasn't. 

And Rhys, for all his easy charm, didn't quite hide the flicker of something else behind his eyes. Desire, yes, but something deeper too. Something that made my pulse quicken for reasons I couldn't name.

I took another sip of my drink to mask the silence that followed, pretending I didn't feel the way their gazes lingered.

Feyre smiled then, as if deciding to break the spell. "Well," she said lightly, "at least promise you'll stay for dessert."

I smiled back, even as my heart beat a little too fast. "Dessert sounds nice," I said.

And it did. Maybe a little too nice.

Rhysand's POV - 

Dinner had gone better than I could've imagined.

She was relaxed now, looser around the edges, her laughter spilling freely between sips of wine. It was an easy sound, unguarded, the kind that filled the space between words and made everything else fade to background noise.

Feyre sat across from her, chin propped on her hand, watching her with that soft, painter's gaze she used when she found something—someone worth studying. 

Every small motion of her face, every flicker of emotion that crossed her eyes, Feyre drank it in like colour and light.

The room was warm. Candlelight reflected off the glasses, catching in Feyre's hair, glinting against the delicate chain at her throat. 

The scent of sugar and spice hung in the air, the last of dinner replaced by dessert, something chocolate, rich and glossy, that Feyre had insisted on plating herself.

I watched as she dipped her spoon into the dish and turned it toward her. "Try it," Feyre murmured, her voice a low coax, soft but full of command.

She laughed, half shy, half teasing and leaned forward. Feyre fed her the bite with deliberate slowness, eyes never leaving hers. The spoon lingered a heartbeat too long at her lips.

The sound that left her, a quiet hum of approval wasn't meant to be indecent. But it still curled heat low in my stomach.

Feyre's smile deepened. "Good?"

She nodded, eyes bright, and I could've sworn the air shifted, thicker somehow, charged. 

I reached for my wine, more to steady myself than anything, watching them through the rim of my glass.

This, this was what perfection looked like. The kind that made your chest ache, not because it was flawless, but because it felt real. Tangible. 

The three of us framed by candlelight and laughter, a night suspended in amber.

For a moment, I didn't think about rules or intentions or the fragile balance we were all pretending to keep. I just thought about how right it felt.

I wanted them both in my life. In whatever form they'd allow. And I'd make it happen, no matter how long it took.

Eventually, we drifted from the table to the couch, wine glasses in hand, the remains of dessert abandoned. The music played softly from the next room, a steady rhythm beneath our conversation. 

Feyre curled up barefoot beside me, legs tucked under her, and she sat close enough that her knee brushed mine when she laughed.

I'd undone a few buttons on my shirt without realising it, the heat from the kitchen, the wine, and the company made everything feel hazy and slow. 

Feyre was half-tipsy, cheeks flushed, eyes sharp as ever.

Our guest, she was beautiful like this. Loose hair, soft smile, eyes glimmering with equal parts curiosity and restraint.

The conversation wandered from travel, to art, to things that didn't matter but somehow felt important because of who was saying them. 

The more she talked, the more the tension shifted, no longer uncertain but inevitable.

There was a lull then. Feyre leaned her head against the back of the couch, tracing idle patterns on her glass. I studied the woman across from me, the flicker in her gaze, the way her mouth curved even when she was trying to be serious.

"You really don't want anything serious?" I asked quietly.

Her eyes flicked to me, amused but cautious. "Serious gets messy."

Before I could respond, Feyre stirred beside me. "Messy can be beautiful," she said softly, her voice honeyed, almost dreamlike.

For a heartbeat, everything stilled.

The words hung there, heavy with meaning neither of them dared unpack. I saw the faint tremor of uncertainty in her like she'd felt something she didn't want to acknowledge.

So she did what people do when things cut too close. She changed the subject.

"So," she said lightly, turning her attention to Feyre, "how long have you been painting?"

And just like that, the spell eased but didn't break.

Feyre smiled, launching into a story about paint-stained floors and ruined clothes. I listened, but my attention lingered on the way her laughter faltered every now and then, the way her fingers traced the rim of her glass instead of drinking.

She thought she was keeping her distance. She didn't realise how close she already was.

And I—I had no intention of letting her slip away again.

The evening wound down slowly, like the world itself was reluctant to end it. 

I could see it, the shift. The moment the comfort turned into something else. The kind of stillness that comes before goodbye.

She looked at the clock, then at her phone, and sighed. "I should probably go," she murmured, voice low enough that it barely rose above the music.

Feyre sat up, blinking herself out of a daze. "Already?"

"Yeah." A small smile. "It's late."

Feyre's disappointment was subtle, a flicker across her face, gone as quickly as it came. "You sure you don't want to stay for one more drink?"

Her hesitation was telling. A heartbeat too long before she said, "Better not."

I didn't press. Neither did Feyre.

Instead, I rose, collecting my own glass and setting it on the counter before offering a hand. "I'll walk you out."

She hesitated again, as though debating whether to refuse, then placed her hand in mine. Her palm was warm, her grip tentative.

The walk to the door was quiet. The only sounds were the faint music and the whisper of our footsteps against the hardwood floors. From the kitchen, I could hear Feyre humming softly, something tuneless, content.

When we reached the doorway, she turned to face me.

"Thank you," she said. Her voice was soft, but there was something unsteady beneath it. "For dinner. For... all of it."

"You don't need to thank me," I said. "We're the ones who should be thanking you for coming."

Her smile was small, real. "Still. It was... nice."

The word nice felt like an injustice. Nothing about tonight had been merely nice. But I didn't say that.

I opened the door for her, the cool night air spilling into the warmth of the house. She stepped through, turning to glance back once. The porch light caught in her hair, gilding it in gold.

I could've said something then. Anything. But instead, I just nodded, polite and still.

"Goodnight," I said.

Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, steady, unreadable and then she smiled. "Goodnight, Rhys."

Her name lingered in my head even after she stepped off the porch.

From the kitchen, Feyre called out, voice lilting with casual affection, "Text us when you're home?"

"Yeah," she said over her shoulder, her tone soft, a little rushed. "I will."

She didn't look back again.

I stood there a moment longer, watching her disappear down the path toward the waiting car. The night air was sharp, the moon hanging pale above the trees.

When the taillights finally vanished, I closed the door quietly and leaned against it, the echo of her laughter still faint in the walls.

Feyre appeared a moment later, barefoot, holding her half-finished glass of wine. She tilted her head, studying me. "She won't text."

I exhaled through a quiet laugh. "No. She won't."

Feyre's lips curved, knowing. "Then I guess we'll have to find her first."

Her tone was light, but the spark in her eyes wasn't. And I knew she was right.

Because for all her running, all her careful distance, that woman had already carved her way into the quiet spaces between us.

And neither of us had any intention of letting her stay gone for long.

A/n - Second date she is feeling a little off (valid) Feyre and Rhys are already in their cozy little rhythm, and she's just out here like, "So I'll just stand awkwardly by the charcuterie board then?"

In Rhysand's POV, he's basically like, "This is it. Don't mess it up." and then immediately proceeds to spook her with the "one-time thing?" question because, of course he does x

Everyone's a little bit in denial and pretending they're fine which means things are definitely not fine (but in the best, most deliciously tense way!!)

Thank you for reading <33 

Contents -

୭ One

୭ Two

୭ Three

୭ Four

୭ Five

୭ Six

୭ Seven

୭ Eight

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!! This one was subtly inspired by a message by @galacticoceans and an ask! I'm not 100% sure about the posting order yet, but this is actually my second time writing a female as one of the love interests x

I think I did better on this one (fingers crossed), but either way, please be gentle, it was such a blast to write, and I had so much fun bringing these chaotic, flirty CEOs and their ditzy assistant to life :)

"It's my newest fixation," I told him, catching the look. My voice was light, casual, but I wanted to keep him from asking if this one was safe.

"Good to know," he said with a quiet laugh, lifting his wine. His shadows curled lazily at his shoulders, dark against the warm glow of the room.

I was mid-bite on a carrot when it hit. Sharp. Sudden. A tearing pain that stole the air from my lungs. 

My fork clattered against the plate as my body went rigid, my hand snapping to my stomach as if I could hold the ache at bay.

Not a kick. Not the slow, rolling pressure I'd grown used to. No, this burrowed deep, heavy and unrelenting, a wave that made my breath catch and splinter in my throat.

I tried, gods, I tried to remember Madja's instructions. Deep inhale, slow exhale. Calm. Breathe through it.

But my breaths came uneven, shallow. My lip trembled as I bit down hard, trying to stifle the cry bubbling up inside me.

"Everything alright?"

Azriel's voice cut across the table, rougher than usual, taut with immediate concern.

"Yeah—yeah, just hurts a little," I lied, or tried to. My voice cracked, thin as paper.

Then another spasm hit, sharper than the last. My body curled inward. My hand shook against the swell of my belly, the other clawing for purchase on the table edge until my knuckles blanched white.

"Hey!"

The scrape of his chair against the floor. In an instant he was at my side, his shadows flaring restlessly, agitated, responding to the sharp spike of my panic. 

His presence loomed, steady and grounding, but his movements were careful, restrained, as though I might break beneath his touch.

"Tell me what's happening," he urged, crouching low beside me, his voice gentler than the storm in his eyes.

"It's—" I gasped, the word caught in my throat, my chest heaving. "It's like... contractions."

For a heartbeat, that legendary mask of calm slipped. Shock flickered across his face, an expression so rare it nearly terrified me more than the pain.

But then his hand was hovering, waiting for permission. And when I didn't flinch, his palm closed firmly around mine. Warm. Grounding. Solid.

"Breathe with me," he murmured, steadying his tone for my sake. His thumb brushed slow, careful circles across my skin. "In. Out. That's it. Don't fight it—you're not alone."

The words nearly undid me.

"It's too early," I whispered, breath shuddering, tears burning behind my eyes. "It's Azriel—it's too soon."

"I know," he said, low and sure, though I caught the thin edge of fear beneath his calm. His hand didn't waver. "But you're not facing this by yourself. I've got you."

The ache pulsed one last time before ebbing, sudden as it had come, leaving me trembling and hollow in its wake. 

My body sagged, breath coming ragged, shame prickling as hot tears finally broke free.

Azriel didn't let go. He was already rising, already drawing me with him, his arm wrapping firmly around my back, the other steadying me as if he were holding together something fragile, precious.

"We're getting Madja," he said, voice quiet but absolute, brooking no argument. The kind of command even generals obeyed.

The world blurred. My legs moved only because he guided them, his body warm against mine, his chest the only anchor I had. I dimly registered the shift in the air, the whisper of his shadows calling, sharp and swift before we reached the sitting room.

Madja was already there, her keen gaze narrowing the second it landed on me.

Azriel didn't leave my side, not for a moment. Not even when Madja urged him back. He sat beside me, hand still locked around mine, shadows curling protectively over both of us like a shield.

"She's in false labour," Madja pronounced after her careful, clinical assessment. "The baby's fine. This is common at this stage—the body preparing itself. Painful, frightening, yes, but not dangerous. Not yet."

Relief hit me so hard I nearly sobbed. False. Just false. The baby was fine.

Azriel exhaled a breath I hadn't realised he'd been holding, his shoulders sagging. His hand tightened on mine briefly, like he didn't trust himself to let go.

"You'll need more rest," Madja said firmly, giving me one last look over before gathering her things. "Hydration. Calm. No more running around the city for sweets at midnight." 

Her eyes flicked, just once, toward Azriel before she swept out.

Silence lingered after her departure. Silence, except for the wild beat of my heart and the soft, steady stroke of Azriel's thumb against my skin.

"I thought—" My voice cracked. I shook my head. "I thought I was losing the baby."

He turned to me then, hazel eyes brighter than I'd ever seen them, raw with something unspoken. "I wouldn't have let that happen."

My throat closed, tears spilling at last. 

And he just held my hand tighter, anchoring me through the storm.

The townhouse felt quieter after Madja left, but the silence didn't soothe me. 

Every sound, the drip of water, the whistle of wind against the windows felt magnified, pressing into the space where my panic still lingered.

Azriel hadn't let go of me, not once. Not when he guided me carefully up the stairs, not when he insisted I change into something loose and comfortable while he waited outside the door, not even when I tried to tell him I was fine. 

He didn't believe me. Of course he didn't.

Minutes later, he returned with a tray balanced in one hand. Steam curled from a bowl of broth, bread warm enough to make my stomach grumble, and a small cup of chilled juice. He placed it all neatly on my bedside table before helping me into bed, his touch steady, reverent.

"Easy," he murmured, slipping an arm beneath my shoulders as I sank against the pillows. "Don't fight me."

"I'm not," I whispered, though part of me hated how weak I sounded.

He only gave me that faint, infuriatingly gentle smile and tugged the blankets higher over my lap, tucking them in around me as if I were something precious. Something fragile. 

His shadows shifted with the same protectiveness, brushing over me like unseen hands smoothing away wrinkles, straightening corners.

"You're fussing," I muttered.

"I am," he agreed without hesitation. His hazel eyes caught the moonlight as he looked down at me. "And I'll keep fussing until I know you're truly alright."

My chest tightened, not from pain this time, but from something else, something warmer, sharper.

I reached for the bowl, but my hands trembled enough that he noticed. 

Without a word, he took it, spooning broth and holding it out as though it was the most natural thing in the world to feed me himself. I wanted to protest, to tell him I wasn't helpless. 

But the look in his eyes, patient, unyielding, tender, stilled the words on my tongue.

So I let him. Bite after bite, sip after sip, until I couldn't eat anymore. He set the bowl aside, brushing his fingers once, lightly, against my cheek as if to check for fever.

"You're warm," he murmured.

"I'm pregnant," I shot back, rolling my eyes but it came out too soft, too breathless.

He huffed a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Fair."

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was heavy, charged, humming with something that had been building between us for weeks.

He was so close. 

Close enough that I could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows against his cheekbones. Close enough that his warmth seeped through the blanket, through my skin, into the very centre of me.

And before I could stop myself, before fear or doubt could choke me back into silence, I leaned up.

My lips brushed his first. Tentative. Soft. Desperate.

He went perfectly still, as though I'd set him alight. For a heartbeat, I thought he might pull away. That he might remind me of all the reasons this was wrong, all the reasons I should have kept myself guarded.

But then his hand cupped my jaw, tender but sure, and he kissed me back.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't frantic. It was slow and careful, as if he'd been waiting for this moment and didn't dare risk breaking it. 

But beneath the gentleness was heat, a restrained hunger that sent my heart stumbling in my chest.

I didn't care that I was pregnant. I didn't care about Garrick, or the whispers of what others might think. 

In that moment, there was only Azriel. His mouth on mine, steadying me, undoing me, making me feel wanted in a way I hadn't realised I'd been starving for.

When we finally pulled apart, breath mingling, I saw it in his eyes. The truth I'd been afraid to name, mirrored back at me with devastating clarity.

He cared. Gods, he cared.

And I wasn't sure if I was terrified, or if I'd never felt so safe in my life.

Azriel's POV - 

I'd told myself, countless times, that I wouldn't cross that line again. That she needed safety, not complication. That my role was protector, not... this.

But the second her lips touched mine, all those vows crumbled.

She was soft, trembling against me, and yet it was me who unravelled. That one kiss had undone years of iron restraint, burned through every wall I'd built. 

And when she pulled back, her wide eyes searching mine, I knew there was no walking away anymore.

Not from her. Not from the child she carried. Not from the future that, gods help me, I suddenly wanted more than my next breath.

I drew in a shaky inhale, my hand still cradling her jaw. "You shouldn't kiss me if you don't want me to stay," I said quietly, voice lower than I intended.

Her lips parted, a protest forming. I cut it off gently, not harsh. "Because I will stay. With you. With your child. It doesn't matter whose blood runs in their veins—I don't care. Do you understand me?"

Her throat worked as she swallowed, eyes glossing with fresh tears. "Az—"

I shifted closer, resting my forehead against hers. "I mean it. I'm not leaving, not when you've already given me..." My voice cracked, rare and unbidden, and I let out a broken breath. "You've already given me more than I thought I could ever have."

Silence, thick but not suffocating. Just the steady rhythm of her breathing, the faint flutter of her heartbeat echoing through me like it was my own.

"Why?" she whispered. "Why would you want this... when you could have anyone else?"

I almost laughed at that. A sharp, disbelieving sound that tangled with the ache in my chest. "Because I don't want anyone else. Haven't, for a long time now. And if I have to spend the rest of my life proving that to you, I will."

Her tears slipped free then, sliding over her cheeks. I caught one with my thumb before it could fall to her chin. She leaned into the touch, fragile and strong all at once.

"Azriel," she breathed, my name breaking on her lips.

I kissed her again, slower this time. Not desperate, but certain. The kind of kiss that carried promises without words, that told her she could collapse into me, and I would never let her fall.

Later, when she grew tired, I stayed. 

I didn't move when she shifted closer, her head on my shoulder, her breath warming the hollow of my throat. My wings curved around the bed instinctively, a shield of shadow and sinew.

For the first time in decades, I let myself believe.

I brushed a hand over her belly, featherlight, careful not to disturb her. I whispered into the quiet, "you don't know it yet, but you're already loved. More than you'll ever be able to imagine."

Her fingers twitched in sleep, curling faintly into my shirt. And my heart, so guarded, so locked away for so long surrendered completely.

There was no going back. Not now. Not ever.

A/n - False labour scare that turns into a very soft, very needed kiss :)

Azriel really said "emotional damage? not on my watch" in this and went straight for the heart. He is officially all in, no take-backs x

He's feeding her soup, tucking her in, promising forever AND whispering to the baby—he's not the father, but he is the father who stepped up!!

Thank you for reading <33

Contents -

𓆩⬭𓆪 One

𓆩⬭𓆪 Two

𓆩⬭𓆪 Three

𓆩⬭𓆪 Four

𓆩⬭𓆪 Five

𓆩⬭𓆪 Six

𓆩⬭𓆪 Seven

𓆩⬭𓆪 Eight

𓆩⬭𓆪 Nine

𓆩⬭𓆪 Ten

𓆩⬭𓆪 Eleven

𓆩⬭𓆪 Twelve

𓆩⬭𓆪 Thirteen

𓆩⬭𓆪 Fourteen

𓆩⬭𓆪 Fifteen

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.

I originally wrote this back in May 2025, and since then I’ve posted over 28 stories and written around 43 total. This one is one of the OGs that I never got the chance to post… but finally, the time has come. No more delaying :)

It’s also one of the only other stories I’ve written with 15 parts, just like my very first ACOTAR story, which makes this one feel extra special to me x

I scanned the room. My bra was slung over a lampshade, a casualty of the night. My matching underwear was somewhere under the bed, an archaeologist's hunt I did not have time for. 

My dress, thankfully was scattered nearby, easy enough to assemble.

I moved quickly, silently, dressing as best I could without drawing attention. Each movement was precise, careful. Heart racing, stomach fluttering, fingers trembling just a little as I zipped up and tugged my jacket into place.

I was gone before they even stirred fully, slipping out the door, the faintest crunch of my heels on the tile echoing louder than I'd hoped.

It had been a one-time thing. That's all it was.

No strings. No awkward morning-after conversations. No "so what now?" or lingering questions. Just a careless night, and that was enough.

I stepped into the sunlight outside, breathing in deep, letting the morning chase away the remnants of last night's haze. My pulse was still racing, the memory of their warmth and their hands and, oh, gods, their lips lingering like a secret I wasn't supposed to have.

But I had made my choice. I wouldn't look back. 

Because this? This was over.

Apparently, the universe had other plans.

The first encounter was at the grocery store. I was mid-aisle, carefully inspecting the ripest avocados, when I caught a flash of hair, golden brown, catching the fluorescent lights and my stomach did an immediate backflip.

No. No. No. I froze. 

And then I saw him. Rhysand. Dark hair, violet eyes glinting as he reached for a jar of olives. And Feyre, that infuriating, magnetic Feyre, smiling at him like she'd just thought of the perfect joke. 

My heart thumped, and in a panic, I did what any rational adult would do, I ducked behind the frozen pizzas.

I hoped they didn't see me. I hoped I could vanish into thin air.

When I peeked out, they were gone, leaving the aisle perfectly ordinary and mundane. I let out a shaky breath and grabbed the nearest basket, muttering to myself under my breath. 

Why is this happening? Why everywhere?

But the universe wasn't finished.

A week later, I went to the museum with my friend Gwyn. Nothing fancy, just a lazy Sunday, wandering through exhibits and pretending we knew anything about modern art. 

I was halfway through a particularly abstract sculpture when I felt it again, that pull, that unmistakable sense of presence.

And there they were.

Feyre, tilting her head as she examined a painting, and Rhysand, hands tucked casually into his pockets, eyes scanning the room in that infuriatingly confident way.

I froze. My pulse hammered against my ribs, loud enough that I could almost hear it over the soft museum chatter.

Gwyn leaned over, whispering conspiratorially. "What's wrong? You look like you saw a ghost."

"Ghost," I muttered, though my eyes stayed glued to them. Feyre's gaze was gentle as she smiled at some stranger across the gallery, but even from a distance, it felt like it was meant for me.

I swallowed, heart pounding, and did what I did best under pressure. I fled.

"Where are you going?" Gwyn asked, laughing, clearly thinking I was joking.

"Uh—restroom," I mumbled, practically bolting for the exit. My shoes clicked against the marble floor like a warning, my breaths short and fast.

By the time I emerged into the sunlight outside, I leaned against the wall, shaky and frustrated. How is this happening? I thought, brushing hair out of my face. 

It was just a one-time thing. It should have stayed a one-time thing.

But somehow, fate, or whatever twisted sense of humour the universe was using kept putting them in my path. 

Everywhere I went, Feyre and Rhysand were there, calm, composed, utterly untouchable. And every time, my resolve wavered a little more.

I couldn't explain it. And honestly? I wasn't sure I wanted to. No matter how much I tried to run, the pull between us wasn't done.

A couple days later, I was at work.

The bar was alive with chatter and clinking glasses, the low hum of music vibrating through the floorboards. It had been a hectic night, full of tipsy patrons and orders flying faster than I could count, and I hadn't had a single moment to pause.

I was halfway through my margarita of the night when a smooth, unmistakable voice cut through the chaos.

"Two dirty martinis... and a moment of the beautiful bartender's time."

I froze mid-shake, eyes widening as I slowly lowered the shaker, heart threatening to leap out of my chest.

Violet eyes. Sharp, knowing, impossibly captivating. And next to him, Feyre, hair perfectly tousled, smile that made the world tilt on its axis.

My stomach lurched. My brain screamed not again, but my legs moved on autopilot, guiding me to the bar like a moth to flame.

"Uh... hi," I said, voice a little higher than usual, trying to sound smooth while internally panicking. "Martinis... coming right up."

Rhysand's lips curved into that infuriating smirk, the one that made me want to both groan and melt at the same time. 

"You run away a lot?" he asked casually, leaning slightly over the bar. 

There was humour in his tone, but it carried that same electric edge that had me internally combusting.

I froze. Blinked. Fumbled. "I—uh... I didn't mean to! That morning..." My words stumbled over each other like toddlers learning to run. "It's not... I didn't mean to avoid you, it's just—"

Feyre reached out, her hand brushing lightly against mine over the counter, steadying me in a way that made my pulse spike. 

"It's fine," she said softly, her voice melodic, teasing, like she already knew my shame and found it... charming.

Rhysand raised an eyebrow, still smirking, but there was no judgment in his gaze. Just that impossible confidence that made me feel like I was simultaneously under a microscope and the centre of the universe.

I took a shaky breath, trying to regain composure. Every movement felt slow, deliberate, as if I were suspended in this moment that had somehow caught me off guard again.

"You really didn't think we'd let it end like that, did you?" Feyre asked, voice low, teasing, but warm.

I blinked, flustered. "I... I thought—I thought it was... a one-time thing. I didn't... I wasn't trying to be rude."

Rhysand leaned back, that smirk never leaving, violet eyes sharp and mischievous. 

"Well, clearly you're not very good at running away," he said, and the corner of his mouth lifted in amusement.

My cheeks flamed. I felt trapped, caught between wanting to flee again and the magnetic pull that made it impossible to turn away.

Feyre laughed lightly, a sound that made my chest tighten. 

"We were thinking... maybe we could make it up to you," she said, glancing at him with that sly, conspiratorial look. "Cook for you. A proper second date. No escaping this time."

I blinked, caught off guard by the invitation and the way she phrased it like it was inevitable. 

My fingers fumbled with the martini shaker, nearly dropping it, and I laughed nervously, the sound spilling out like a little surrender.

"Uh I guess... yeah," I managed, words slow, hesitant, betraying my curiosity and the fluttering chaos of my thoughts. "Sure... okay."

Rhysand's smirk deepened, and Feyre's smile was pure, teasing triumph.

"Good," Rhysand said smoothly. "We'll pick a night. Don't worry—we'll make it worth your while."

And just like that, the universe or Feyre and Rhysand themselves had me caught again.

I poured their drinks, trying to act like I wasn't completely undone, heart hammering, palms sweating, brain screaming this is insane, while a small, stubborn part of me couldn't wait for whatever came next.

Feyre's POV - 

The bar smelled faintly of citrus and sugar and spilt rum, the kind of scent that clung to skin and fabric long after you left. The music pulsed low through the speakers, a steady heartbeat that matched the hum beneath my skin.

I watched her pour our drinks. 

The little tremor in her hands when she realised who we were hadn't gone unnoticed. She hid it well—almost. 

I admired how quickly she tried to recover, how she lifted her chin, painted on that practised bartender smile. It made something inside me twist, equal parts fondness and amusement.

She was trying so hard to pretend she was unaffected.

Rhys caught my eye, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "You're enjoying this," he murmured when she turned to grab the olives.

"Maybe a little," I admitted. "She's... fascinating."

When she slid the martinis toward us, avoiding our eyes just a fraction too long, I almost reached for her hand again. 

Instead, I smiled, soft, genuine, the kind of smile that made people breathe easier. 

But she didn't linger. The moment we were served, she moved down the bar, pretending to be consumed by other customers.

Rhys chuckled under his breath. "Running again."

I shot him a look. "Let her breathe."

"She's been breathing just fine—she's been running since dawn that morning." His tone was light, but I could see the thoughtfulness in his gaze. 

He leaned back, studying her as she worked, moving between bottles with practised ease. "She's fun," he said finally. "Sharp. Clever. And she doesn't fawn."

I smiled into my drink. "A breath of fresh air."

We took our drinks and found a booth tucked into the corner, a little shadowed, but angled so we could still see her behind the bar. I settled into the seat beside Rhys, the leather cool against my legs, and swirled the olive in my glass.

Rhys tilted his head, violet eyes catching the light. "She keeps running away from us."

"She doesn't know what to make of us yet," I said quietly. "Can you blame her?"

He shrugged. "No. But I'd rather she didn't vanish every time she sees us. I like her energy. I'd like to see what she's like when she isn't panicking."

I followed his gaze. She was laughing with another customer now, head tilted back slightly, light catching the curve of her smile. 

The sound of her laugh cut through the music, bright and unguarded, the kind of sound that made people turn their heads. 

She wasn't even trying, but everyone around her seemed to orbit closer, drawn in by that easy charm.

I watched her gesture animatedly to a group at the counter, the sparkle in her eyes, the way her hands moved when she spoke. People leaned in toward her instinctively, caught in the current of her attention.

Something in me prickled, something sharp and unexpected. Jealousy, perhaps. Or something that felt dangerously close.

"She makes it look so easy," I murmured. "Like everyone belongs to her for a moment, and they don't even realise it."

Rhysand's lips quirked. "Natural charisma. You can't fake that."

I took a sip of my martini, gaze never leaving her. "Still," I said, voice soft but edged, "I don't like seeing her charm everyone else like that."

Rhys glanced sideways at me, amusement flickering across his face. "Jealous, Feyre?"

"Maybe," I said simply. I didn't bother to deny it. My eyes followed her as she brushed her hair behind her ear, her laughter echoing again. "I don't share well."

Rhysand's grin widened, the glint in his eyes equal parts playful and knowing. He lifted his glass in a silent toast, the olive clinking gently against the rim.

"Noted," he said, and took a slow sip.

I leaned back against the booth, crossing my legs, trying to look composed when every nerve in me was thrumming.

"She thinks that night was a one-time thing," I murmured.

"Does she?" Rhysand arched a brow.

"She told us so—by vanishing before sunrise."

He smiled slightly, swirling his martini. "Maybe she just needs convincing."

I nudged him with my shoulder. "Don't start."

He only laughed quietly, gaze returning to her. "She doesn't realise it yet," he said, voice soft, almost to himself, "but she's already tangled up in this."

I didn't respond, not aloud. But I couldn't shake the feeling that he was right.

A/n - She did the walk of shame real fast because it was only supposed to be a one-time thing... but the universe clearly had other plans, because she keeps bumping into them everywhere :o

Of course, Feyre and Rhys aren't the type to sit back and wait so they take matters into their own hands, showing up at her work and charming their way into a second date and... it totally works!

Feyre's POV is what she and Rhys really think about our poor, flustered reader, and how our power couple might be just a little (okay, a lot) obsessed x

Thank you so much for reading <33

The tether it gave Garrick, the shadow of him that seemed to follow me everywhere.

Azriel deserved more than that. More than me, fractured, exhausted, swollen with another male's child and all the chaos that came with it.

He deserved someone... whole. Someone uncomplicated. Someone who wouldn't flinch away from his touch at the very moment she wanted to sink into it.

It left me restless. Raw. Wanting him but pulling back at the same time. A cruel limbo I couldn't seem to crawl out of.

And to top it all off, Garrick had slipped back into his "I refuse to not be a part of this" phase.

The first few times he appeared again, he wore the same mask he always had, contrite, devoted, feigning concern. His words spun webs, trying to tangle me up in guilt.

"I should be here," he'd insist. "It's my child too."

Or worse "You don't want them to grow up without a father, do you?"

Always the same cutting, insidious logic. Manipulation wrapped in a tone so soft it made me question myself.

And it was wrecking me. Slowly, steadily, piece by piece.

Because every time he spoke, I was dragged back into old patterns, into remembering the way he'd left me, the way he'd made me feel like I wasn't enough. 

And yet he always managed to lace his words with just enough doubt that I caught myself wondering if maybe I was being too harsh, too closed off.

It was insanity. I knew it was.

Azriel's presence was the only thing that kept me from unravelling entirely. 

The steady calm of his voice, the way he seemed to know when to step closer and when to give me space. The way he shielded me from Garrick's sharper words with nothing more than a glance, shadows flickering like a warning.

And yet... that almost-kiss haunted me more than Garrick's persistence ever could.

Because when Azriel had held me, even just to ease my aching back, for one suspended heartbeat, I had wanted it.

Him. I had wanted to turn my face up to his, to feel his mouth on mine, to let myself fall into the warmth and safety he offered so effortlessly.

And the fact that I'd wanted it, wanted him while carrying another's child made me feel both alive and sick all at once.

Frustration simmered hot beneath my skin. 

At Garrick. At myself. At this impossible situation that felt like quicksand, pulling me under no matter which way I turned.

That same frustration morphed into something sharper, uglier.

I stood in my room now, silent tears streaking down my face as I yanked at the dress that refused to slip over my stomach. The fabric bunched uselessly, too tight, mocking me with every tug.

With a frustrated growl, I ripped it off and threw it across the room. The sound was pitifully small compared to the storm inside me. 

I pressed both hands to my face, dragging my fingers down until my skin burned, standing in nothing but my underwear, raw and exposed.

A knock at my door broke the silence. Gentle. A rhythm I knew as well as my own breath.

"What?" My voice cracked.

"What's wrong?" Azriel's voice was quiet, even, though I could hear the concern threading through it.

"Nothing," I lied, too fast, too brittle.

He didn't buy it. He never did. "Can I come in?"

I hesitated, shame curling in my chest. "Fine," I mumbled, tugging on a robe that barely tied around me. It felt like another betrayal, another thing that didn't fit anymore.

The door creaked open. He stepped in, shadows curling around his shoulders as though they too sensed the fragility of the moment. His gaze flicked to my face, then away, his restraint so instinctive it made my throat tighten. 

Of course he'd be respectful. Of course he'd look at me like I was more than the disaster I felt.

"Why are you crying?" he asked softly, his voice like a balm and a knife all at once.

"My clothes don't fit anymore," I mumbled, clutching the edges of my robe.

His brows furrowed, his lips parting as if this was the simplest thing in the world. "Then we'll buy more."

The ease in his tone made something inside me snap.

"No," I shot back too quickly, too harshly. "I don't have any money, and don't even think about offering because I can't take any more handouts."

"It's not a—"

But he didn't get to finish. The dam broke.

A sob ripped out of me so violently I stumbled back, collapsing to the floor. Ugly, shaking sobs wracked through me as I pressed my palms to the floor. 

"I—I can't do this," I hiccuped, my chest heaving.

He was there in an instant. Silent, sure. Kneeling beside me. 

He didn't smother me with questions or platitudes, just gently wrapped his arms around me. Hesitant for a heartbeat, then firmer when I didn't push him away. His warmth pressed into me, shadows curling close as if to shield me from myself.

"It's okay," he murmured, voice low and steady, like he could anchor me with sound alone.

"It's not!" I cried, words tumbling out broken, sharp. 

I lifted my face, tears burning down my cheeks, and met his gaze, those hazel eyes, softened in a way that made me unravel all over again.

"I've been abandoned by the male who impregnated me." 

My voice cracked on the words, the truth splintering through the room.

He didn't flinch. He didn't correct me. He just listened.

"You know when he first found out—" I drew a shaky breath, fingers curling into his sleeve "—he was mad. So, so mad. Because it's hard to get pregnant, we didn't think it would even happen. He didn't want it. He didn't want me like that." My voice splintered. 

Azriel's arm tightened around me, steadying me, his silence coaxing me to keep going.

"And then, gods, he accepted it—but begrudgingly, like it was this burden he had to carry. And do you know what he did? He wouldn't let me eat." 

My laugh came out jagged, half a sob. 

"He was afraid I'd get fat. Said I should control myself, that if I wasn't careful I'd ruin my body, ruin myself. As if the baby wasn't already reshaping me every single day."

The words spilt faster, uncontrollable now. 

"And then everything just spiralled. He was cruel in these small, quiet ways that made me question if I was overreacting. He didn't care—not about me, not about this baby. Just about how it looked, how I looked. And when it got too real—he quit."

My body shook with the force of it, the confession I'd buried for so long clawing its way free.

Azriel didn't speak right away. He didn't try to fix it. He simply held me through it, letting me shake, letting me cry until my throat was raw and my face was damp against his shirt. 

His hand found the back of my head, fingers threading gently through my hair, grounding me with every slow, careful pass.

When his voice finally came, it was low, steady, certain. "You didn't deserve that. Any of it."

I whimpered, eyes squeezing shut. "What if I can't do this? What if I'm not enough?"

His shadows brushed over me like a whisper. His hand stilled in my hair, warm against my skull. "You are more than enough," he said, firm, unwavering. "You always were."

Something inside me cracked again, not with pain this time, but with the terrifying, fragile possibility of belief.

Azriel's POV - 

I hadn't stopped thinking about that moment in the library. 

The way she'd swayed into me, the almost-kiss that had nearly undone me, and then her pulling back like she'd touched fire.

I told myself to be grateful. To respect her boundaries, to stay detached. I told myself it was for her sake, not mine.

But I couldn't lie to myself anymore.

Whatever this was, whatever I felt for her was no longer something I could ignore.

And I realised, as we walked side by side down the bustling streets of Velaris, that I didn't want to ignore it.

Shadows curled lazily at my heels, brushing against her as if they too couldn't keep their distance. She didn't notice, distracted by the row of shopfronts, eyes bright with something almost childlike despite the heaviness she carried.

"You didn't have to come," she said, though her voice was softer than the protest she meant it to be.

"I didn't trust you not to overexert yourself," I replied flatly, though the truth ran deeper than that. I simply wanted to be here. To see her smile over something as simple as a ribbon or a pair of shoes. To watch her breathe in the life of the city without worry for once.

She huffed. "I'm pregnant, Azriel. Not sick."

"Seven months pregnant," I corrected, fighting the smirk threatening my lips. "Which means your definition of 'not overexerting' and mine are vastly different."

She muttered something under her breath about overbearing Shadowsingers, but the way her lips curved upward undid me.

We stopped before a shop window filled with swaths of fabric and dresses, mannequins draped in colours as bright as summer skies. Her hand pressed unconsciously to her belly as she gazed at them. Longing flickered across her face before she schooled it away.

"Go inside," I said.

Her head snapped toward me. "No."

"Yes," I countered.

"I told you, I can't keep accepting—"

I cut her off, stepping closer so my voice was just for her. "Rhys has more money than he'll ever spend. Do you think he cares about a few dresses? Do you think I do?"

She blinked up at me, lips parting, and gods help me, I wanted to kiss her... or try again.

Her throat bobbed. "It's not about the money. It's about pride."

"You've carried yourself with nothing but pride," I said softly, surprising even myself. "Let me carry a piece of this for you."

Her eyes shimmered, and I almost reached out, almost brushed my fingers over her cheek. Instead, I held her gaze until she huffed and muttered, "Fine. But only because these clothes are one sneeze away from splitting at the seams."

I allowed the corner of my mouth to lift. Victory.

Inside, she wandered between racks of flowing gowns and simple dresses, fingertips trailing the fabric with a reverence that made my chest ache. 

I leaned against the wall, watching her. Just watching.

And I admitted it then, silently, as she held a pale blue dress against her frame and laughed at how it barely covered her belly. I loved her. Not the idea of her, not some passing fondness—her. 

The strength and the cracks. The stubbornness and the gentleness. The way she carried both the weight of her child and the weight of her own fears with a courage she didn't even realise she had.

"You're staring," she teased suddenly, glancing over her shoulder at me.

I didn't deny it. "You look good in blue."

Her lips curved, but she rolled her eyes. "You say that about every colour."

"That's because you look good in every colour," I said simply.

The words slipped out before I could stop them. No hesitation. No shadows to swallow them back.

Her cheeks flushed, her gaze darting to the floor. She shook her head, but she was smiling, and it made my heart feel like it was splitting open in my chest.

When she finally settled on a few dresses, simple, comfortable, nothing ostentatious I carried the bags without complaint. She tried to argue, of course, but I silenced her with one raised brow.

The walk back from the shops was slow, the kind of pace I didn't mind one bit. She had one hand absentmindedly resting against her belly. 

Our purchases had transformed into other little things I'd insisted on, a scarf because the chill was creeping in, two books I'd caught her staring at too long to ignore, and much to her half-hearted grumbling a variety of snacks from the stalls we'd passed.

"Azriel," she sighed as I pressed a paper bag into her hands, "I can't eat all of this."

"You don't have to eat it all now," I said, hiding the smile tugging at my lips. "But you'll want it later."

She peeked inside the bag, eyes widening. "Dried peaches. Sweet buns. You even bought those sugared almonds—"

"You frowned when you walked past them," I interrupted. "That was enough."

She shot me a look, one part exasperation and one part something softer, something that made my chest ache. "You're ridiculous."

"Probably," I admitted. But I didn't regret a single coin I'd spent.

We walked on, the Sidra glimmering faintly under the fading light. She nibbled on one of the sweet buns, humming softly as though savouring every bite. 

Gods, she had no idea how easily she undid me, how her smallest sounds and smiles made me feel like I'd spent centuries waiting just for this quiet walk beside her.

After a long stretch of silence, she said, almost shyly, "Do you think it'll be a girl or a boy?"

Her voice was tentative, almost like she wasn't sure if she should let herself dream aloud.

I slowed my pace, watching her out of the corner of my eye. "I hope it's a girl."

She glanced up at me, startled. "Why?"

"Because," I said, my voice lower now, careful, "if she looks anything like her mother, she'll be the most beautiful thing in the world."

Her steps faltered. Just for a moment. Then she laughed, soft and almost embarrassed, her free hand smoothing down her hair as if she didn't know what else to do. 

But she smiled, really smiled and I memorised it. Burned it into my bones.

And then, just as quickly, her laughter faded. Her eyes dropped to the cobblestones. That smile, the one that had lit up her whole face dimmed like a candle caught in the wind.

I knew what she was thinking. I always knew, now.

Before she could voice it or worse, retreat into that silence that cut me more than any blade I spoke.

"It doesn't matter," I said gently.

Her brow furrowed. "What doesn't?"

"What happens with Garrick," I answered, my tone firmer this time. "None of that will matter to this child. Because they'll never lack love. Not with you. And not with the people already waiting for them."

She blinked at me, startled.

"Rhys, Cassian, Mor, Amren," I listed slowly, each name a truth. "Every one of them will fight for this baby as fiercely as if it were their own. And me." My throat tightened, but I forced the words out. "Especially me."

Her steps slowed until we were nearly standing still. Her eyes glistened in the fading light, her lips parted like she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

Instead, she only nodded, turning back to the river, clutching the little paper bag of snacks closer to her chest as if it were some fragile treasure.

And though she stayed quiet, I let the silence stretch, let it wrap around us. I realised something with a clarity that was both terrifying and freeing.

It didn't matter that she'd pulled away before. It didn't matter that she carried another male's child. 

My heart had already chosen her, whether I wanted it to or not.

And for the first time in centuries, I wasn't afraid of the weight of that choice.

A/n - Very valid crash-out from reader here and of course, sweet little Azriel is right there, the perfect shadowsinger, calmly reassuring her and offering solutions!!

In this part we get the full picture with her ex basically, the full scope of his awfulness :(

The ending is so cute, heart-melting, and full of hope. Azriel makes sure she knows that no matter what, she's not alone—she's got a whole village ready to back her up, love her, and protect both her and her little one x

Thank you for reading <33