When the Shadowsinger Stops Running
Collection of moments masterlist
mutual pining / morning after / yearning / pre-relationship
(needs to be read after When the Shadowsinger Looked away first)
The morning after Rita's should be simple: drink water, survive the hangover, and pretend none of the previous night's embarrassing decisions ever happened.
Unfortunately, Azriel is still there when you wake up.
Azriel had not dared move.
When he had first opened his eyes, long before dawn had begun spilling across the horizon, he had found you exactly where sleep had claimed you the night before, curled against his side with one hand still tangled loosely in the fabric of his shirt, as though some stubborn part of you had remained unconvinced he would still be there when morning came.
Hours later, very little had changed. The room remained wrapped in the pale quiet of early morning, the city beyond your windows only beginning to stir beneath the remnants of last nightâs storm, and you were still asleep against him, your breathing slow and even, your face softened by a peace he rarely saw when you were awake.
The sight of it did something dangerous to him.
Perhaps because he knew it was temporary. Perhaps because he had spent so long denying himself the luxury of imagining moments like this that now, faced with the reality of it, he found himself entirely unprepared. The warmth of you against his chest, the faint weight of your hand resting over his heart, the simple trust of knowing you had fallen asleep in his arms without hesitationânone of it should have affected him as much as it did.
Yet he had spent the better part of the last ten minutes brushing his fingers through your hair, carefully tucking loose strands behind your ear whenever they drifted across your face, unable to stop himself despite knowing he should.
His thoughts had been hopeless all morning.
Every attempt to focus on something else inevitably led him back to the previous night.
To your laughter echoing through the House while he chased you from room to room. To the feeling of your arms around his neck as he carried you upstairs. To the way your expression had changed when he called you sweetheart, that fleeting softness crossing your face before either of you had known what to do with it.
And then, inevitably, his mind returned to the memory he could not seem to escape.
Your forehead resting against his. Your breath mingling with his. The impossible inch that had separated your mouth from his.
Even now, hours later, he could remember exactly how it had feltâthe temptation, the effort it had taken to stop you, the even greater effort it had taken not to close that final distance himself. It wasnât regret that lingered. If he were given the choice again, he would stop you every time. You deserved more than a moment clouded by wine and exhaustion. More than a kiss you might wake up questioning. More than uncertainty.
The realization came so naturally now that he barely noticed it anymore.
A small sound escaped you, not quite a groan and not quite a sigh, and Azrielâs gaze immediately dropped. Your brows had drawn together, the peaceful expression fading as wakefulness slowly began pulling you back toward the world. He watched the process happen gradually, your fingers twitching against his shirt, your breathing shifting, your face scrunching with the unmistakable displeasure of someone discovering they had, in fact, consumed far too much wine.
The corner of his mouth lifted before he could stop it.
One eye cracked open, then the other. For a moment, confusion flickered across your face as you stared up at the ceiling. Then your gaze shifted and found him, and memory seemed to hit you all at once.
Your voice emerged as little more than a pained whisper. You immediately pressed a hand against your forehead and squeezed your eyes shut again.
âOh, Cauldron,â you repeated, sounding genuinely offended by your own existence. âWhy does it feel like someone is hammering nails directly into my skull?â
A quiet laugh escaped him, the sound feeling strangely unfamiliar after so many silent hours. âI imagine,â he said, settling more comfortably against the headboard, âthat has absolutely nothing to do with the amount of wine you and Cassian drank last night.â
You opened one eye and glared at him, though the attempt lasted only a second before you immediately regretted the movement and buried your face halfway into the pillow with another groan. âLeave Cassian out of this.â
âHe supplied half the alcohol.â
âHe is a generous friend.â
A muffled sound emerged from the pillow that might have been agreement or a death threat. It was difficult to tell.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The morning light continued creeping across the room, illuminating the tangled blankets and abandoned clothes from the night before, while somewhere beyond the windows the city slowly woke around you. Then your voice emerged again, quieter this time, still muffled against the pillow.
âDid I embarrass myself?â
The question carried enough genuine concern that Azriel had to look away briefly, because the answer depended entirely on which parts of the evening you considered embarrassing. You dancing through the House singing at the top of your lungs? Certainly. You attempting to outrun his shadows? Definitely. You asking him to carry you upstairs? Not even remotely.
His gaze returned to you. âNo.â
Suspicion immediately appeared on your face. âThat answer came too fast.â
âIt was an easy question.â
The certainty in your voice almost made him laugh again. Almost. You stared at each other for a moment before your expression softened slightly, the teasing fading into something more fragile as your fingers curled against the blanket.
Something in his chest tightened unexpectedly. The words had been spoken lightly, but he knew you well enough to hear what lingered beneath them. Without thinking, he reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair away from your eyes, the movement so natural, so instinctive, that he only realized what he had done after his fingers touched your skin.
Not dramatically. Not enough that someone else might have noticed. But he felt it immediatelyâthe stillness, the awareness, the memory of everything neither of you had spoken about yet suddenly settling between you. For one suspended heartbeat, neither of you moved. Your eyes remained fixed on his. His hand lingered beside your face. The room seemed strangely quiet.
Then Azriel withdrew first, reaching toward the nightstand before the moment could become something neither of you were ready to name.
âThere,â he said, picking up the glass waiting beside your bed. âDrink this.â
The spell broke instantly.
You accepted the water with visible gratitude and sat up more carefully this time, wincing as the movement reminded your head that actions apparently had consequences. Azriel watched you drain nearly half the glass in one go. The House, it seemed, had anticipated exactly how miserable you would be this morning.
âYou were so loud last night,â he said, leaning back slightly. âIâm fairly certain even the House took pity on you.â
You lowered the glass slowly, the look you gave him immediately suspicious. âDefine loud.â
Your eyes widened. âOh no.â
His shoulders shook once. Just once. And the sight of it made your stomach drop in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with the hangover, because it wasnât often that Azriel looked happy. And somehow, this morning, sitting in your bed with rain still clinging to the windows and yesterday lingering unspoken between you, he looked closer to it than you had ever seen.
The water helped more than you expected.
Not nearly enough to erase the pounding behind your eyes, but enough that the haze clouding your thoughts slowly began to lift.
Unfortunately, the moment your mind became capable of functioning properly again, it immediately turned against you. The previous night returned not perfectly, not in every detail, but clearly enough that heat began rushing into your face before you had even finished lowering the glass.
Enough of Ritaâs. Enough of the dancing. Enough of the House. Enough of the way you had spent the entire evening gravitating toward Azriel as though some invisible thread had been pulling you closer every time he stepped away.
You remembered insisting he carry you upstairs, remembered climbing into his lap, remembered the way you had looked at him, and worst of all, remembered that the mortification currently threatening to consume you had very little to do with wine and everything to do with the fact that wanting him had felt far too natural.
A soft groan escaped you. âOh, gods.â
Across from you, Azrielâs attention shifted from the rain-speckled window to your face, one dark brow lifting slightly. âWhat?â
The question should have been harmless. Instead, it made the embarrassment crash over you with renewed force, because there were no gaps in your memory to hide behind, no missing pieces you could conveniently blame on too much wine. The blanket pooled around your legs suddenly became fascinating, if only because looking at him while remembering your forehead pressed against his, your hands tangled in his shirt, your entire body leaning toward him while every sensible thought abandoned you, felt impossible.
For a moment, Azriel said nothing. His gaze remained fixed on you, thoughtful rather than amused, as though he was carefully considering what answer would do the least damage. The silence stretched just long enough to make you regret asking.
âWhat do you remember?â he asked at last.
You immediately looked away, tracing the rim of the glass with your thumb because it gave you something to do with your hands. How were you supposed to answer that? How were you supposed to admit that you remembered the almost-kiss with horrifying clarity, and worse, that the memory wasnât nearly as embarrassing as it should have been?
âI donât know,â you muttered. âMost of it, I think.â
It was a terrible lie, the kind that convinced absolutely no one, and judging by the way his gaze lingered on you, Azriel knew it too.
Still, he didnât challenge it. The room settled into a quiet silence, softened by the distant sounds of Velaris waking beyond the windows. Somewhere below, carts were beginning to roll through the streets and shopkeepers were opening their doors, but here everything felt strangely suspended, as though morning itself had slowed around the two of you.
The word came quietly. When you finally glanced back at him, he had leaned slightly closer. The movement was small enough that it should have meant nothing, yet your pulse immediately stumbled when his hand came to rest against the side of your neck. His thumb brushed lightly beneath your ear, the touch warm and steady, grounding in a way that felt unfair when your thoughts were spiraling in every direction at once.
âNothing bad happened,â he said softly. âYou donât need to worry.â
The reassurance should have eased the knot tightening in your chest, and for a moment, it almost did.
Then the memories returned with renewed clarity, not the embarrassing ones that had been haunting you since waking up, but the far more dangerous ones: the feeling of his arms around your waist, the warmth of his chest beneath your cheek as he carried you upstairs, the way his voice had lowered when he told you to be a good girl and listen to him.
And then, inevitably, the memory that had haunted every quiet moment since youâd opened your eyes: your forehead resting against his, your breath mingling with his, the impossible inch that had separated your mouth from his.
Your stomach tightened, because now, in the clear light of morning, you understood something you hadnât been able to untangle the night before. The wine hadnât created those feelings. It had simply stripped away every defense you usually hid behind.
Azrielâs hand disappeared from your neck before either of you could linger too long on the moment. He rose from the bed with the easy grace that seemed woven into everything he did, crossing the room while you remained frozen beneath the blankets, trying very hard not to think about how close heâd been only seconds earlier.
âYou should get ready.â
The abrupt shift in conversation startled you enough that you frowned. âWhy?â
For a moment, he simply looked at you, his shadows drifting lazily around his shoulders as though they too were reluctant to disturb the quiet hanging between you. There was something thoughtful in his expression, something measured, and it occurred to you that he had probably spent the better part of the morning thinking just as much as you had.
Then, with a simplicity that felt entirely unfair considering the effect it had on you, he said, âCome have lunch with me.â
Your heart stopped. Not literally, though it certainly felt close.
The invitation itself had been simple. Casual, almost. Yet something about it felt impossibly significant, perhaps because Azriel never asked for things he could simply do. He could have appeared beside you at noon and expected you to follow. He could have found you somewhere in the House. He could have avoided the conversation entirely. Instead, standing in your bedroom with the morning light catching on the edges of his wings, he was giving you a choice.
The word itself was harmless. Ordinary. Yet somehow it landed harder than anything else he had said that morning, because Azriel never did things like this. He didnât make plans. He didnât invite. He simply appeared whenever he wished to see someone, usually emerging from the shadows with enough silence to take years off a personâs life. Yet here he was, standing in your bedroom asking you to have lunch with him.
You stared at him, brilliantly, intelligently, like someone whose brain had entirely ceased functioning.
It was the only word you managed.
Something shifted in his expression then. Not quite a smile, not quite relief, but something that softened the sharp edges of him all the same. His gaze lingered on your face for another moment before he gave a small nod and turned toward the door.
When it finally closed behind him, the silence lasted all of three seconds.
Then you fell backward onto the mattress with a groan.
The panic arrived immediately, filling every space Azriel had left behind.
You pressed both hands over your face as the words circled your thoughts mercilessly.
What was that supposed to mean? Why lunch? Why not talk now? Why leave you alone with several uninterrupted hours to think about it unless it wasnât a conversation at all? Unlessâ
The thought made your stomach perform an alarming somersault. Perhaps it wasnât. Perhaps Azriel simply wanted to talk. Perhaps he wanted to clear the air, or explain, or tell you gently that whatever had almost happened last night couldnât happen again. The possibility should have reassured you. It should have brought some measure of relief, because rejection, at least, would be clean. Simple. Painful, certainly, but understandable.
Instead, the thought left an unpleasant ache beneath your ribs.
Then another memory surfaced, one youâd somehow forgotten in your panic.
The question echoed through your mind with startling clarity, followed immediately by his answer.
Slowly, your hands slipped from your face.
Because that was the thing, wasnât it?
You had been pacing your room for nearly two hours.
At some point, getting ready had stopped being about lunch and had become a full-blown crisis.
The evidence of it was currently scattered across every available surface. Dresses lay abandoned on your bed, shirts hung from the back of chairs, and somewhere beneath the growing pile of rejected outfits was probably the floor.
You had showered, brushed your hair, brushed your teeth, changed three times, then four, then lost count entirely. Nothing seemed right anymore. Everything felt either too formal, too casual, too obvious, or somehow all three at once.
The worst part was knowing exactly why.
One dress looked too elegant, as though you were trying too hard. Another looked too simple, as though you were pretending you hadnât spent the entire morning thinking about him. One looked suspiciously like something a female might wear if she desperately wanted a certain Shadowsinger to look at her and forget how to breathe. That one had been discarded immediately, though you had found yourself glancing back at it more than once, which only made you hate yourself a little more.
Because that was the truth buried beneath all the panic, wasnât it?
You did not simply want to survive lunch.
You wanted him to look at you.
The realization was so horrifying that you immediately turned away from the mirror.
If Azriel had simply stayed and forced the conversation neither of you seemed willing to have, perhaps you could have survived the morning with a shred of dignity intact. Instead, he had left you alone with one sentence and several uninterrupted hours to think about it.
The words had followed you relentlessly ever since.
You were currently staring at your reflection with the growing suspicion that you might actually be losing your mind when your bedroom door flew open.
âHello sunshine, just checking onââ
The silence stretched long enough that you didnât need to turn around to know what he was seeing.
The room looked ridiculous. You looked ridiculous.
Somewhere in the last hour, your mounting anxiety had transformed your bedroom into the aftermath of a natural disaster. When you finally glanced over your shoulder, Cassian was slowly taking in the scene before him, his gaze drifting over the dresses covering your bed, the clothes abandoned across the floor, the open wardrobe, and finally landing on you standing in the middle of it all looking one inconvenience away from a nervous breakdown.
A grin immediately began spreading across his face.
âAlright,â he said. âWhat are we panicking for again?â
You groaned. âNot now, Cass. Get out.â
The pillow hit him squarely in the chest. Unfortunately, years of training had made him impossible to injure with household objects. He caught it effortlessly and tossed it back onto your bed.
âHey, hey.â He raised both hands in surrender. âDonât shoot the messenger. I was just checking to make sure your hangover hadnât finally killed you.â
The reminder alone was enough to make your stomach twist, because of course he would bring up last night.
The memories had already spent the morning tormenting you. Every time you thought youâd managed to move on, another one surfacedâyour laughter echoing through the House, clinging to Azriel while he carried you upstairs, climbing directly into his lap as though that were a perfectly reasonable thing to do.
Mortification settled back into your chest.
You turned toward Cassian, and apparently your expression said more than you intended because the amusement on his face shifted almost immediately.
âWhat?â he asked, stepping farther into the room. âDid you actually confess your love to Az while being drunk?â
He was laughing when he said it. Actually laughing. The sound died the second he saw your face.
For a moment, genuine horror crossed his features.
His hands landed on your shoulders. âOh shit.â
âCass,â you breathed, feeling the humiliation threaten to consume you all over again. âI climbed on his lap.â
For perhaps the first time since youâd met him, Cassian looked genuinely speechless.
The silence that followed should have been satisfying. Instead, it was somehow worse than the teasing.
You stood there clutching a dress against your chest while he simply stared at you, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and admiration, as though he couldnât quite decide whether to congratulate you or stage an intervention.
Then he dragged a hand slowly down his face.
âYou climbed onto the Shadowsinger.â
âStop saying it like that.â
âIâm trying very hard not to picture it.â
The second pillow actually hit him. Unfortunately, that only made him laugh harder. The bastard doubled over, clutching his stomach while you contemplated every possible way to murder an Illyrian.
The grin still hadn't left his face when he finally straightened, though some of the amusement softened around the edges.
âCome on,â he said. âIt's not that bad.â
âIt is absolutely that bad.â
âIt really isnât.â He waved a hand dismissively. âImagine if youâd tried to fuck him. That wouldâve been worse.â
The room fell silent as Cassian's words settled between you. You found yourself staring very intently at your feet, suddenly unable to meet his gaze, and when the quiet stretched longer than it should have, you knew exactly what was happening before you even looked up. Realization was spreading across his face with horrifying clarity, amusement giving way to understanding as the pieces slowly clicked into place.
You wanted the mountain to collapse on top of you.
âStop with the oh, Cass!â
That finally seemed to bring him back to reality, though only barely. His grin remained firmly in place, but something else had appeared beneath it now. Curiosity. Interest. The expression of a male beginning to suspect there was far more to this story than he had originally thought.
âIs that why Az has been awfully silent this morning?â
You immediately snatched a dress out of his hands before he could start inspecting it. âItâs Az. Heâs always painfully silent.â
For the first time since entering your room, Cassian sounded entirely serious. The amusement softened slightly as he leaned back against your vanity, crossing his arms over his chest.
âHeâs usually silent. This morning heâs...â His brows furrowed, genuinely searching for the words. âSilent silent.â
Your stomach tightened despite yourself.
The image of Azriel from earlier immediately resurfacedâthe warmth of his hand against your neck, the look in his eyes when youâd opened yours, the way heâd stood in the doorway afterward, sunlight spilling across the room while his shadows drifted lazily around his shoulders.
Heat rushed into your face so quickly it almost hurt.
The male straightened so abruptly that you actually took a step back. His eyes widened as realization crashed into him with all the subtlety of a battering ram.
âMother above.â The grin that spread across his face was downright feral. âDid you just get yourself a date with the Shadowsinger?â
Cassianâs expression suggested he had just been handed the greatest gift the Mother had ever bestowed upon him. The male looked around your room once more, taking in the dresses abandoned across your bed, the discarded outfits covering half the floor and the evidence of nearly two hours spent spiraling into complete madness, before slowly turning his attention back to you.
You immediately hated that tone. âWhat?â
âIt is absolutely a date.â
The pillow hit him squarely in the face.
Unfortunately, it accomplished absolutely nothing. If anything, it only made him more unbearable. His laughter followed him all the way to the door, loud and unapologetic, carrying the smug confidence of a male who believed himself entirely correct. Even when he reached the hallway, he still looked delighted.
The door closed before he could answer.
You could still hear it fading through the corridor long after he disappeared, the sound echoing faintly through the House while you stood motionless in the middle of your room, surrounded by dresses, discarded shoes, and the wreckage of what had once been your dignity.
Eventually, the silence returned.
The room felt strangely different without Cassian in it. Larger somehow. Quieter. The brief distraction he had provided disappeared with him, leaving you alone once more with the thoughts you had spent the entire morning trying desperately to outrun.
Slowly, your gaze drifted toward the mirror. Toward the dress draped over the edge of your bed. Toward the collection of rejected outfits littering every available surface. The evidence was difficult to ignore.
Because perhaps Cassian was wrong.
Perhaps it wasnât a date.
Perhaps Azriel simply wanted to talk.
Perhaps lunch would end with an awkward conversation and a polite explanation about why whatever had happened between you last night couldnât happen again.
The thought should have brought relief.
Instead, something uncomfortable tightened beneath your ribs.
Your eyes slipped shut, because that was the part you had been avoiding all morning. Not the embarrassment. Not the memory of climbing into his lap. Not even the memory of nearly kissing him.
The thing that truly terrified you was hope.
Hope that when Azriel had stayed beside you all night, it had meant something. Hope that when youâd opened your eyes that morning and found him still there, quietly watching the city wake beyond your window, he hadnât been counting the minutes until he could leave. Hope that when heâd looked at you from the doorway and asked you to have lunch with him, there had been something more beneath the words.
If Azriel wanted to reject you, surely he would have done it already.
The thought arrived quietly, uninvited, and you immediately wished it hadnât because it made far too much sense. He had every opportunity that morning. Every opportunity the night before. Every opportunity during the countless moments when the two of you had been alone. Yet he hadnât walked away. He hadnât withdrawn. He hadnât looked at you with regret.
If anything, the opposite seemed true.
And that possibility frightened you far more than rejection ever could.
Your heart squeezed painfully as the memory returned with startling clarity.
You could still hear your own voice asking the question, still remember the way he had looked at you, still remember the certainty in his answer.
A slow breath escaped you as the memory settled once more beneath your ribs. Tomorrow had arrived. The promise he'd made the night before was no longer something waiting in the distance, no longer a possibility you could push aside and examine later. It was here.
And for the first time since you'd met him, Azriel wasn't stepping away. He wasn't retreating into silence or shadows or giving you another reason to doubt what existed between you.
He was asking you to come closer.
TAGLIST : @sjejejjej @theyouthfullmoon @maplesdapperthoughts @jaziona92 @lilah-asteria @chillinini @itsraininghyunebuckets @xlosttdreamss @nyxmoretti @sunmoonsweets @spookypersondinosaur @breathingstarlight @angel-graces-world-of-chaos
