Shining just for you.

His jaw tightened. Not that it was his business. Not that it mattered. He had never—never—given his shadows the command to report on Elain’s every move. He was not a monster, nor a jealous fool who needed to know where she was every second of the day. The only order he had ever given was to alert him if she was in danger.

But his shadows were defiant little creatures, and for some reason, they had taken it upon themselves to whisper to him every single time a male so much as looked at her for longer than necessary.

Which, according to them, was often. Way too often.

It didn’t surprise Azriel. Elain was—gods, she was a vision.

No, vision wasn’t strong enough. Stunning wasn’t strong enough. There wasn’t a word in existence that could describe what she was.

All the Archeron sisters were beautiful. He had long suspected their mother must have had some kind of magic in her veins, because there was no other explanation for how they had all been born with such impossible beauty.

But Elain… Elain was otherworldly.

It wasn’t just her soft, heart-shaped face, or those deep brown eyes that could make the stars weep. It wasn’t just her full, pink lips, or the way the golden sunlight always seemed to find her, kissing her skin in a way that made it glow.

It was her light.

The way she moved through the world, gentle yet unshakable. The way she carried herself with grace even when she was uncertain, even when she was lost. The way her smiles—her real ones—were like dawn breaking over the horizon, slow and soft and full of warmth.

Azriel had never known light like that. Never known someone like her. And yet, despite all of that, he knew Elain’s beauty was her greatest insecurity.

She had told him once, early in the morning in the gardens, as they sat on the stone bench beneath the sunrise. Had told him of how her mother had raised her like a prized jewel, something to be displayed rather than something to be cherished. A perfect doll to be married off, to be admired but never understood. Perhaps that was why she never seemed to notice all the gazes she drew, why she never saw the way males practically worshiped the ground she walked on.

It was so different from Mor, who wielded her beauty like a weapon, who used it to get whatever, whoever, she wanted.

Maybe that was why Azriel had never felt anything deeper than longing for Mor.

Maybe that was why, from the moment he met her, it had always been Elain.

And now, here she was, standing in the golden afternoon light, her long curls dancing in the breeze, speaking to Charles Woodson. His jaw tightened further as he caught the way Charles was looking at her. The same way he looked at her. Azriel swallowed hard and started moving. He had no right to interfere. No right to feel the sharp pang of jealousy stabbing through his ribs.

But that had never stopped him before.

He descended to the street, adjusting his pace as he approached. His shadows curled around him in a lazy, satisfied way, as if they were pleased he had come to investigate. He waved them off before they could whisper anything more. He didn’t want to know what Charles had been saying to her.

And like always, the minute the other male saw him, his face went white. His body stiffened.

People did that around him. Even here, in Velaris, where most regarded him with admiration instead of fear, people still flinched when they saw him. Still lowered their voices, shifted away, avoided eye contact. It no longer affected him. He had grown used to it long ago.

But Elain… Elain had never flinched. Never tensed. Never looked at him like he was something to be feared.

No. When she saw him... she beamed. Her whole face lit up as she turned to him, the warmth of her smile unwavering. As if his presence was everything she had wanted to see in that very moment. Azriel's throat tightened as he stopped beside her, far closer than he needed to be.

"Hello, Elain," he murmured, his voice softer than he intended. He did have a reputation to uphold, after all. 

She tilted her head up at him, her cheeks pink from the cold. "Azriel! I didn’t see you this morning. When did you leave?"

"Early," he said simply. "I had errands to run."

Elain huffed a quiet laugh. "Cassian was still snoring quite loud when I left."

Azriel smirked. "He always is."

Elain turned then, gesturing to the male who was still rooted in place, his blue eyes darting between them nervously. "This is Charles. He’s on the garden committee with me." Azriel flicked his hazel gaze to Charles, his expression unreadable.

"Spymaster," Charles said stiffly, nodding once.

Azriel only inclined his head in return, silent. Charles hesitated, then cleared his throat. "I should let you go, Elain…"

Azriel did not say anything. Did not encourage him to stay.

Elain, polite as ever, smiled kindly. "It was lovely seeing you. Please tell your mother I say hello!"

Charles nodded quickly, glancing at Azriel one last time before turning on his heel and disappearing into the shop. Azriel watched as Charles disappeared into the shop, the tension in his shoulders loosening only slightly now that the other male was gone.

Good.

With everyone crammed into the Town House for Solstice, his moments alone with Elain had been fleeting at best. The House of Wind offered little reprieve when Rhys insisted he stay closer to the family for the holiday, and the only peace Azriel had managed to find was in his early morning flights before the city stirred.

But this—this—was a moment he wasn’t going to waste. Even if it was just the walk back to the house, even if it would take only 22 minutes. A solid 30, knowing Elain, since she would inevitably stop to admire a wreath or a display in one of the shop windows, or pause to talk to a vendor about the winter berries they were selling.

He could spare 30 minutes.

Elain adjusted the package in her arms, the crisp winter air flushing her cheeks as she turned back to him, a soft smile still on her lips. He reached for the gift she was holding before she could protest.

"Here, let me hold that for you," he said, his fingers grazing the edge of the paper wrapping.

"Oh, I'm fine! I can carry it," she insisted, looking up at him.

Azriel simply raised a brow. Of course she would insist. Stubborn, even in the smallest of things. "I can have my shadows take it back to the house," he offered, already summoning them.

She let out a small sigh, her lips pressing together before she relented. “If you insist.”

With a soft whisper of darkness, the package vanished from her arms. Azriel’s shadows flickered back toward him, murmuring their approval.

His gaze flicked to her hands, bare and delicate against the cold. Where were her gloves?

"Where are your gloves?" he asked, already frowning.

Elain flexed her fingers as if only now realizing the absence. "I swear they were in my pocket, but I must have forgotten them," she said, glancing down.

That wouldn’t do. Before she could say another word, his shadows darted away and returned a heartbeat later, dropping a familiar pair of gloves into his waiting palm. She blinked at them, then at him, her face blooming with color.

"You didn't have to do that..." she murmured, reaching for them.

He handed them to her, their fingers brushing—that same jolt rushing between them, setting something alight in his chest.

"Of course I did," he said, voice quieter now, watching the way she quickly slipped them on. "Your warmth is of the utmost priority for me."

Elain looked up at him then, something unreadable in her expression. The hazel of his eyes reflected in the deep brown of hers, like light against the earth.

"And what about your warmth?" she asked, tilting her head slightly as she motioned to him.

A corner of his mouth lifted. "I'm Illyrian. It's rare for us to get cold." It was one of the few benefits of his Illyrian heritage, along with the wings. The warmth. He rarely felt the bite of winter.

Elain considered that for a moment before, to his absolute surprise, she reached for his hand. Her gloved fingers wrapped around his for the briefest of moments, testing. Then she laughed. Laughed. A quiet, breathy sound, like snow melting beneath the first touch of spring.

"Well, you are quite warm," she said, squeezing his fingers gently before letting go.

Azriel clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to grab her hand again, to pull it back into his, to tuck it against his chest where she could feel how fast his heart was beating. But then she sighed, tucking her hands into the folds of her cloak. "I still have one more place to stop, and I know your must be busy..."

Azriel shook his head, letting his smile grow just a fraction. "It's Solstice, remember? My day is wide open."

Her answering grin was radiant. "It's only a few blocks away. The twins told me about it," she explained. Then, quieter, "I... I wanted to get something for Nesta."

Azriel hesitated, just for a second. Of course Elain would still get Nesta a gift. Even after the things she had said. After the pain, the anger, the rejection. Because Elain was Elain. She gave, even when it hurt. Even when it wasn’t deserved.

And because Azriel knew what it was to love someone who pushed you away, to care so deeply for someone who didn’t—or couldn’t—let you in, he simply said, "Then let’s go." She squeezed his arm, that soft warmth burrowing deep into his bones. And Azriel decided, then and there, that he would make this walk last as long as possible. Azriel barely noticed the cold biting at his face as they walked, Elain’s arm looped through his. The streets of Velaris were still bustling, but his focus, his entire being, was centered on her.

She moved easily beside him, unconcerned by the stares she drew from passersby. As if she was unaware of how they looked at her. How they paused mid-step, mid-sentence, just to catch a glimpse of her. It had always been like this—Elain walking through the world, completely oblivious to the way she captivated it.

But Azriel noticed. He always noticed.

And he noticed, too, how she barely spared them a glance. How her focus remained on him, her brown eyes tilted up, her soft pink lips curving with quiet amusement. It was rare to walk this freely through the city, rare to move unnoticed. Not that he was unnoticed—he never was. People still shifted out of his way, still cast wary glances in his direction. But Elain…

Elain was light, warmth, the delicate golden balance to the sharp edges of his shadows.

And for the briefest of moments, Azriel allowed himself to imagine.

To pretend. That this was his life.

That Elain was his.

That after this perfect afternoon, they would return to their home, to their shared life. That she would hum softly as she baked in their kitchen, her hands dusted with flour, her curls slipping loose from their braid, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon wrapping around her like a second skin.

That he would press himself against her back, slide his arms around her waist, and bury his face in the curve of her neck, breathing her in. That she would laugh—laugh—tilting her head back to look up at him with those luminous brown eyes, soft with affection.

That he would steal kisses whenever he pleased. As many as he pleased. He exhaled slowly, pushing the fantasy away before it could sink its claws too deeply into his heart. A dream. That was all it was. Nothing he could ever truly have.

Read The Rest on AO3

He lay in bed long after the city had gone quiet, one arm draped over his eyes, willing the thoughts to stop, to fade, but her voice kept coming back. Soft and bright and real. Her laugh echoed between the lines of his memory like sunlight catching on glass, and the way she’d looked at him—open, curious, so heartbreakingly kind—it sank into his chest and refused to leave.

He kept thinking about what she said. About her past. About not being the right fit for forever.

How the fuck could anyone leave her?

When the first light of morning broke across the apartment walls, pale and cool, Azriel sat up and ran a hand through his hair. That question hadn’t left his mind since the moment she’d told him. Since she’d smiled through it, soft and sweet, like it hadn’t gutted her. Like she hadn’t been abandoned.

And gods, maybe that was the worst part— Not the breakup. Not the man who had left. But the way she’d carried the weight of it like she deserved it. Like it made sense to her. Like it was logical that he would do that.

Azriel couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop turning it over in his mind like a knife he was trying not to grip too tightly.

Because the truth was, Elain didn’t just shine, she bloomed. Every part of her seemed to unfold gently, quietly, without apology. She didn’t demand attention. She just drew it. The way flowers bend toward the sun without even trying.

And from the moment he saw her—flushed with color, half-laughing, eyes like golden light breaking through cloud—he hadn’t been able to stop watching. Not in the possessive, prowling way people assumed about him. No, this was different. Deeper. A kind of awe. A kind of ache.

He was drawn to her because she wasn’t trying to be anything. Not seductive. Not mysterious. She just was. And maybe that was what wrecked him most.

Because Azriel had spent his whole life building walls. Holding everything back. Making sure he didn’t need, didn’t hope, didn’t want. And then Elain looked at him like she saw right through the armor and didn’t flinch.

She was softness, and everything in him had been taught to treat softness as weakness. But with her, it didn’t feel weak. It felt sacred. Elain Archeron made him want things he hadn’t dared name in years. Companionship. Stillness. The kind of quiet that didn't feel like isolation, but peace.

He couldn’t stop picturing the curve of her smile or the way she’d tucked her hair behind her ear when she laughed. And gods, he hadn’t even asked for her number. He’d walked her home, watched her disappear behind her door, and never once thought to ask. 

What a fucking idiot.

But she’d said she was working today.

And before he could overthink it, before he could talk himself out of it, he was up and out the door, boots hitting the sidewalk, the morning air still crisp with summer air.

He walked to her shop, the sun still low in the sky, casting long golden streaks across the cobbled pavement. The storefronts were quiet, their windows catching the early light, glowing like honey. And then he saw hers.

The shutters of Elain’s flower shop were partially drawn, but the door was unlocked, a hand-painted “come in” sign swinging lazily in the breeze. Through the glass, the world was already awake—her world. Warm soil and clipped stems perfumed the air, jasmine blooming sweet and heady in the corners of the windows. The light inside pooled across the floor in soft angles, spilling over buckets of roses and eucalyptus, over scattered ribbons and bits of petal and green.

And there she was. Spinning gently from one arrangement to the next, barefoot and focused, her long cardigan drifting behind her like it had a rhythm of its own. Her hair was half-pinned, curls slipping loose around her face, and she was humming under her breath—just loud enough that he could hear the echo of it, faint and fragile, even through glass. So he quietly knocked, hoping he wasn't making a huge mistake.

“Azriel. What—how—hi!” Her voice stumbled, caught somewhere between surprise and shyness, and when she opened the door, the scent of warm petals and freshly cut stems wrapped around him like sunlight. He stepped inside before she could second-guess it, into a world made of softness and green things and the faint undercurrent of jasmine in bloom.

"I was just walking by getting coffee and saw your lights were on." It was a lie. A small one. Okay, a big one. One she probably saw right through. His voice came out lower than he meant, already affected by the scent of her shop, the quiet intimacy of watching her tuck a loose curl back with the inside of her wrist. Something so small it shouldn’t have hit him like it did.

She laughed softly, brushing her palms on her apron, cheeks already flushed. "Oh! Well, sorry I'm so flustered. Nuala called out sick, and her sister, Cerridwen won’t be in for another few hours... and of course I a behind on a few last minute orders for today." Her eyes widened, gesturing vaguely to the chaos around her - loose stems in buckets, ribbon spools unspooled like wild vines, a partially finished bouquet wilting gently in the corner.

“Can I help?” he asked, already reaching for an empty bucket before she could protest. “I mean... I don’t know anything about flowers, but I can follow directions. And I’m great with scissors.”

Gods, he wanted her to say yes. He’d take orders. He’d scrub the floor. He just wanted to stay in this space that smelled like her.

She hesitated, biting her lip. “I really don’t want to take up your whole morning. It’s Sunday—your day off.”

“I’ve got nothing to do today,” he said, voice steady, unwavering. “I’m all yours.”

The words were out before he could pull them back. She blinked. Her blush deepened. And then, she winked. “Well… technically, you do owe me a bouquet.” A sparkle lit her eyes, “Bet’s a bet.”

Azriel’s heart did something inconvenient and reckless. “Right,” he murmured. “Okay, so floristry boot camp. I’m ready.”

She laughed—bright and warm, the sound ringing against glass and water and light. She handed him an apron, their fingers brushing as she passed it over. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said, backing toward the workbench. “Floristry’s no joke.”

Azriel looked down at the pink apron, a sharp contrast to his all black attire and boots. Then up at her. “Neither am I.”

🌸🎀💕🌷

Elain did not wake up this morning thinking Azriel would be in her shop. In a pink apron. Helping her with flowers.

No, instead she had tossed and turned beneath her cotton sheets, watching the shadows crawl across her bedroom walls as the night slowly unraveled into morning. Her body was still, but her mind—her heart—was anything but. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him again. Azriel. The name echoed in her chest like the fading note of a song. His voice, his smile, the way he had looked at her like she was something worth paying attention to....she kept replaying it, again and again, until the memory blurred and shimmered like a dream.

She still couldn’t believe it had been him—the handsome stranger she’d been quietly watching, the one who passed her shop like a shadow in motion, golden skin inked with stories she didn’t know, sunglasses hiding eyes that had still somehow managed to pin her in place. She’d made up little narratives in her head about him. Who he might be, what he might do. Never once had she imagined that they would end up sitting together in the corner of a rooftop bar, talking like they’d known each other in another life.

And gods, she’d stayed out late. With him. Elain Archeron, the girl who liked to be in bed by nine with a book and a cup of tea, had sat in the glow of starlight and string lights with Azriel until after midnight. She hadn’t even noticed the time. All she’d noticed was the way his eyes softened when she spoke, the way his voice dipped when he asked questions about her life, as if the answers mattered. As if she mattered.

She couldn’t remember the last time her heart had fluttered like that. Couldn’t remember the last time her hands had trembled just slightly with nerves, or the way her laugh had felt like something bubbling up from her chest that she didn’t have to suppress. Not even with Graysen. Their relationship had been quiet, composed, built in pieces over time like a puzzle slowly coming together, but never once had it lit her up from the inside. Never once had it felt like this.

This thing with Azriel—whatever it was, whatever it could be—it wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t careful. It burned. Softly, but undeniably. A flicker of flame in her ribcage. And gods help her, she couldn’t stop wondering if he felt it too.

She buried her face in her pillow, groaning softly. Don’t be ridiculous, Elain.

Azriel was handsome. Devastatingly handsome. The kind of man who looked like he belonged in dark corners of art galleries or in black and white photographs taken on rainy days. He was quiet, but there was a gravity to him, a weight she couldn’t quite name. He probably dated women who were all angles and ink and certainty. Women who wore leather jackets and red lipstick and didn’t blush when someone looked at them too long.

Not soft florists who wore pastel cardigans and cried at animal rescue ads. But still, here she was, standing in her shop, with him so close she could smell his night chilled cedar cologne. Or maybe he just smelled like that normally. Gods, of course he would just smell that good all the time.

They’d fallen into such an easy rhythm that Elain almost forgot they hadn’t done this before.

Azriel was better at arranging flowers than he had any right to be. He trimmed stems with careful hands, read her cues without needing words, and—somehow—made the mess of ribbons and leaves feel like a shared secret instead of a chore. They moved around each other with unspoken grace, close enough that the backs of their hands brushed every so often, each time sending a warm little shiver up her arm.

He was funny, in a dry, unexpected way—quiet jokes tucked into the spaces between conversation. And he was watching her. She could feel it. The way his eyes lingered when she smiled. The way he leaned in, just slightly, when she spoke about flowers and their meanings, like he was memorizing the words, not just hearing them.

“You know,” she said, nudging his elbow gently with hers as she arranged a row of white ranunculus, “I didn’t expect you to be good at this.”

His head tilted slightly. “Should I be offended?”

“Not at all. I just assumed you’d be more ‘dark alley, dagger behind the back’ than ‘floral wire and ribbon curls.’”

Azriel looked at her then, that slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You think I carry daggers?”

Elain gave him a slow once-over, lips curling. “I think you’re the kind of man who has at least three hidden weapons at all times. Probably names them. Probably sleeps with one under your pillow.”

He laughed under his breath, low and quiet, and it did things to her. “Only two weapons under the pillow,” he murmured. “I’m not unreasonable.”

She arched a brow, pleased. “So you do name them?”

“You’ll have to earn that secret,” he said, handing her another stem. Their fingers brushed. Elain tried not to blush and absolutely failed.

“I’ll have to earn it?” she echoed, glancing up at him beneath her lashes. “Is that how this works now?”

He met her gaze, steady and unreadable, and something flickered behind his eyes. Not amusement. Not just. Something quieter. Like he didn’t know how to stop looking at her.

“Maybe,” he said. “But you’re doing well so far.”

“So,” he said, placing a pale pink lisianthus into the bouquet she was finishing, “is it frowned upon to ask your florist out for coffee while she’s training you in bouquet combat?”

Her breath caught. She looked up at him and his expression was soft. Hesitant, but open. Like he wasn’t just flirting now. Like he was asking.

“Only if the florist says no,” she said, her voice lighter than she felt.

And gods, his smile. It was small, almost shy, and it wrecked her completely.

He shifted a little closer, just enough that their shoulders nearly touched. “Then I think I’d better take my chances.”

She could barely think around the way her heart stuttered. He was about to say something else—she could feel it, poised on the edge of the moment like a breath before a kiss—

“Well, well, this is cozy.”

Elain jumped slightly, the sound of the doorbell and her employee’s voice snapping the spell. Cerridwen stood just inside the entrance, one brow arched, dark curls pinned up and eyes full of mischief. Azriel stepped back half a pace, his expression carefully smoothing, though Elain could still see the hint of pink in his cheeks.

“Oh—Cerri! Hi! You’re early,” Elain said, too quickly, brushing her hands down the front of her apron.

“Mmm,” Cerridwen said, her gaze flicking between them as she shed her coat. “Didn’t realize today’s arrangement came with brooding six-foot-four company.”

Elain went hot all over, and Azriel—bless him—just chuckled softly under his breath. “I was… helping,” he said, though his eyes were still on Elain.

Helping. Gods, was that what this was? She didn’t look away. Didn’t move. Because now that she knew he’d been about to ask.... she wanted to say yes. Even if the moment had passed.

They were almost done. The last bouquet was nestled into its vase, the ribbons tied, and the mess of stems and clippings swept neatly into a bin. The shop still smelled of roses and jasmine and the hint of gardenia clinging to Azriel’s sleeves. Elain pulled off her gloves and stepped back, brushing her hair behind her ears.

“Well,” she said, trying not to sound reluctant, “we’ve just about caught up. Cerridwen can help with the rest.”

“Then let me grab coffee,” Azriel said eyes still fixed softly on hers. “You’ve earned it.”

She opened her mouth to argue, to tell him he didn’t have to, but he was already moving, pausing only to flash her the smallest, most devastating half-smile. And when he reached for the door—

He was still wearing the pink apron.

Elain’s face flamed. Bright, helpless heat rushed to her cheeks, because of course he made a pastel apron look like part of some grungy, underground fashion shoot. Gods, the man had the audacity to walk out of her flower shop in a faded pink apron over a fitted black t-shirt, black jeans, combat boots, sunglasses, and windswept hair, like some absurd daydream of opposites attracting. The bell jingled softly behind him. And she was frozen.

“Don’t tell me that is the handsome stranger you’ve been eyeing for weeks,” Cerridwen said dryly, already halfway through tying her apron. Her voice held a note of scandalized delight.

Elain groaned and pressed a hand to her burning face. “I haven’t been.... okay, maybe I have been. A little.”

Cerridwen snorted. “A little? Elain, you literally paused in the middle of a sentence the first time he walked by. And I have never seen you blush so hard in your life.”

Elain sighed, half-laughing. “Okay, fine. That’s him. But we weren’t just, like, flirting. We met last night." Cerridwen’s eyes went wide. "At Feyre’s party. Turns out he is the brother of her new boyfriend. And yes, the brother is equally handsome. As is the third brother... who I think is into Nesta... but she also almost killed him... But Azriel...we ended up talking. For hours. On the rooftop. Until 1 AM. And he walked me home.”

“You talked? You stayed out past midnight? Elain, I thought you were going to say you shared a drink or danced once, not spent the night under moonlight talking with him. He’s gorgeous. And also, how does he look like a bodyguard and a sculpture at the same time?” Elain groaned again, louder this time, and leaned against the worktable.

“He’s not interested,” she muttered. “He’s just being nice.”

“Oh my gods, are you serious? Elain. Have you seen the way he looks at you? Like you hung the damn moon.” Cerridwen stepped closer, lowering her voice. “He looks like he wants to memorize the sound of your laugh. And you’re standing here acting like he showed up because he’s bored?”

Elain opened her mouth, but the bell jingled again. And that was it. Because there he was. Stepping back inside like something out of a dream she hadn’t let herself have. Sunglasses perched on his nose. That ridiculous pink apron still tied around his waist like it belonged there. One hand held a tray of three steaming coffee cups, the other—gods—held a white bakery box.

“Wasn’t sure what you liked,” he said simply, setting the box down on the counter. “So I got... a variety.”

He opened it. A dozen pastries. Croissants, fruit danishes, cinnamon swirls, lemon tarts, a chocolate brioche. Every color and shape, carefully packed in paper and string.

“Didn’t want to assume,” he added, that quiet edge of shyness in his voice. “Figured it was better to overdo it.”

Elain stared. Actually stared. Because what the hell was happening. He looked like sin and kindness wrapped together, and he had brought her pastries like he had known her her whole life. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest, traitorous and full of hope.

Cerridwen, behind her, whispered loudly: “I told you.”

They settled into the small café table near the front window, the soft morning light spilling across the petals scattered on the floor, catching in Azriel’s hair and making him look almost ethereal in a way that felt unfair. Elain curled her fingers around the warm paper cup, grateful for something to ground her.

Cerridwen raised a brow as she grabbed her own drink and selected a danish from the box.

“Well, I have invoices to check in the back before we open in 10,” she said, with a tone that could only be described as barely concealed glee. Her eyes cut pointedly toward Elain before she disappeared through the curtain, the subtle hum of music in the back room starting up a beat later.

Elain took a small sip of coffee, then glanced at the box of pastries. “You really brought a dozen.”

Azriel shrugged one shoulder, sipping from his own cup. “Didn’t want to assume. I figured… better to be over-prepared than risk disappointing you.”

Her heart flipped. Stupid, fluttery thing. She reached for a croissant, breaking it gently in half to busy her hands. “You have a habit of showing up when I least expect it,” she said, trying for lightness, but her voice came out a little softer than she intended.

“Would you prefer I didn’t?”

Elain blinked. The smile slipped off her face for just a heartbeat. “No,” she said, more breath than word. “No, I— I like it.”

She wanted to say something more. About last night. About now. About the fact that her heart was fluttering in her chest like it had just woken up after sleeping too long.

But he beat her to it — or nearly did. He shifted in his chair, fingers trailing the seam of his coffee cup, eyes briefly on the box of pastries as though composing his thoughts with sugar. Then he looked at her.

“Can I…” he began, voice low, a little rough at the edges. “Would it be okay if I had your number?”

Not can I take you out. Her breath caught, and she blinked, partly from surprise, partly because gods, the softness in his voice undid her. Like he wasn’t used to asking. Like it took something from him to even say it. Like it mattered more than he wanted her to know.

And yet. And yet—something sharp and small bloomed behind her ribs. Not pain exactly. Just the echo of almost. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. Maybe nothing, maybe everything. But after the way he looked at her earlier, after the way his voice dipped, after the near-confession before Cerridwen walked in…

She thought he’d ask. Thought he wanted to. And maybe he did. Maybe he almost did. But he hadn’t. So of course she smiled. Of course she took his phone, fingers steady even as her heart curled a little inward.

Because it was just flirting. That’s all it was. A game. He didn’t mean it. Not really. She was a florist. Soft and quiet and easily overlooked. He was just being kind. Friendly. He probably smiled like that at everyone. Probably brought pastries to every woman who let him crash her morning routine in a pink apron. It didn’t mean anything.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. That was all. That was all. But his eyes lingered, warm and unreadable, like he wanted to say something else and didn’t quite know how. Or maybe he did know, and just didn’t let himself.

The front door chimed softly, the first customer of the day stepping in, the jingle like a bell waking her from something fragile and half-dreamed. Cerridwen emerged from the back room in a practiced glide, her smile already turning professional as she went to greet them.

"I should... I should go. Let you get back to work. Thank you for the bootcamp. You’ll hear from me.”He reached behind his back, fingers tugging at the knot of the pink apron, and when he slipped it off and handed it to her, something small and inexplicable cracked inside her. The moment—the magic of it—felt like it folded up with that apron. Like this tiny, perfect world they'd built between the stems and petals had vanished as suddenly as it appeared.

She took it from him, brushing the fabric between her fingers, and told herself not to look too wistful. Not to ache over something that wasn’t hers to begin with.

“Thank you,” she said softly, for everything she couldn’t say out loud.

He offered a soft smile, and then he was gone. The door closed behind him with a soft click, and Elain stood there, apron in hand, her chest tight and full all at once. Like she had been holding her breath for an hour and now didn’t know how to exhale.

It’s fine, she told herself. It was a moment. A sweet, unexpected moment.

But even as she thought it, her heart wouldn’t slow. Wouldn’t stop hoping. Because the truth shimmered in the quiet as she looked back toward the door he’d just walked through:

She didn’t know what this was, or what it might become. But whatever it was, it meant something.

And Elain, still trying to slow her racing heart, smiled into her coffee cup and quietly, irrevocably, let herself hope.

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Elain whipped her head up, glaring now. "It’s just a story."

"Of course." He let his smirk grow. "A story about a brooding duke who follows a woman across the country because he’s so obsessed with her he can’t sleep at night?"

Elain made another strangled noise. "You are insufferable."

"Or a masked stranger who is fated to love the heroine after just one dance?"

Elain looked one breath away from throwing the book at him. Azriel chuckled, eyes gleaming. He was enjoying this far too much.

She straightened, regaining some of her composure. "What’s wrong with them?"

Azriel lifted a brow. "Nothing at all. I’m just learning new things about you."

She huffed, crossing her arms. "And what exactly have you learned?"

He let the silence stretch between them before saying, "That you enjoy a bit of obsession in your romances."

Her lips parted slightly, her blush creeping down her neck. Azriel waited. Then, in a quiet, challenging voice, she said, "Would you prefer I read about spies instead?"

Azriel blinked. Elain tilted her head, eyes gleaming with something sharp, knowing. "Perhaps something about a mysterious, brooding male who lurks in the shadows, always watching, never letting himself be seen?"

Azriel’s smirk faltered. Elain smiled sweetly. "You wouldn’t happen to have any recommendations, would you?"

Azriel just stared at her, his usual smooth confidence suddenly abandoning him entirely. Elain laughed softly, flipping open her book again. "That’s what I thought."

And Mother above, Azriel knew he had just lost this battle.

--------------

The next time he found her reading, he did not tease. Not outright. But as he sat in the armchair across from her, pretending to read his own book, he couldn’t help but watch her. The way her eyes darted over the page, the way her lips parted slightly, the way her cheeks turned pink every now and then. He was dying to know.

So, after a long silence, he asked, "Why do you like them?"

Elain looked up, startled. "What?"

"The books." He gestured toward her latest romance. "What do you like about them?"

Elain hesitated. For a moment, he thought she might refuse to answer. But then, she surprised him. She set the book down on her lap, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "They always end happily. No matter what happens," she continued softly, "no matter the obstacles, the longing, the heartbreak… the characters always find each other in the end."

Azriel didn’t move. Because of course. Of course Elain Archeron, who had lived a life filled with uncertainty and heartbreak and loss, would crave stories where love always won.

She smiled, almost shyly. "I like knowing that, in the end, they’ll choose each other."

Something tightened in Azriel’s chest. Because wasn’t that what he had spent his whole life convincing himself he couldn’t have? A love that would choose him back. He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t know how to. So he just watched her, watched the way the firelight danced across her face, the way she waited for his response as if his opinion actually mattered. And then, before he could stop himself, before he could think better of it—

"Tell me your favorite part."

Elain blinked. "What?"

Azriel gestured to the book in her hands. "Read me your favorite part."

Elain stared at him. Then, slowly—so slowly—she flipped through the pages. Evangeline had spent years perfecting the art of ignoring Dorian Blackwell. It was easy, at first. Ignoring his dark, unreadable eyes whenever they found hers across ballrooms. Ignoring the way his presence always seemed to press against her skin, even from across a room.

Ignoring the fact that, no matter how far she ran, no matter how many times she insisted she did not want him— He never let her go.

And now, here he was. Again. A storm standing in the doorway of her cottage, his broad frame drenched from the rain, his cravat undone, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Evangeline." His voice was low, hoarse. She did not move from where she stood by the fire. Did not let herself tremble.

"You should not be here," she said quietly. "You should be in London, playing the part of the cold, untouchable Duke."

His lips curled slightly, but there was no humor in it. "You have always misunderstood me, Evangeline."

"Have I?" she challenged. He took a step closer. Then another. Evangeline’s pulse hammered.

"You think I follow you because I enjoy the chase?" Dorian’s voice was softer now, but there was something dangerous beneath it—something frayed, something breaking. "Because it is sport?"

Her throat worked. "What else could it be?"

He let out a low, rough breath. Then—he was there. Close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his eyes, could see the way his jaw clenched, as if restraining something too big, too consuming.

And then—softly, like a confession, like something that cost him everything— "I have been in love with you since the moment you first defied me."

Evangeline stilled.

Dorian’s hands flexed at his sides, as if he ached to touch her. "Since the moment you looked me in the eye and told me I was not the man for you."

Her breath came too fast, too sharp.

"You are cruel," she whispered.

A muscle in his jaw jumped. "Perhaps. But not with this. Never with this."

She shook her head. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. "You are obsessed with winning. You cannot love me."

Dorian exhaled sharply, then—before she could move, before she could breathe—

He dropped to his knees. Evangeline gasped.

Because Dorian Blackwell, the untouchable, unreadable Duke of Thornhaven, the man whose name made others tremble, was kneeling before her. His head bowed. His hands fisted against his thighs.

"Say the word," he murmured. "Tell me to leave, and I will. Tell me you do not feel this, and I will never come back."

Evangeline’s chest heaved. But Dorian lifted his gaze then, and the words tangled in her throat.

Because his eyes—gods, his eyes. They were not cold. Not calculating. Not the eyes of a man playing a game. They were raw. Unraveled.

Wrecked.

And Evangeline knew.

Knew that this was not about winning. Knew that this was not obsession, not pursuit. Knew, with terrifying, unshakable certainty, that this man loved her.

Had loved her for longer than she could fathom.

And she—she did not know how to stop herself from loving him back.

Azriel sat back, listening. And he wasn’t sure when he started watching her lips instead of the words. Wasn’t sure when the teasing had stopped and something heavier had settled between them. But when she finally lifted her gaze, her breath catching slightly at whatever she saw in his expression— Azriel, Spymaster of the Night Court, a male who had spent centuries unearthing the darkest secrets in Prythian, was currently trying to process the fact that he had just heard a scene where a brooding, untouchable Duke got on his knees for the woman he loved.

He knew. He was in more trouble than he had ever realized.

@elriel-month

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