He’s not really cut out for the lull of the night. Even if the night shift has a reputation for being both the most exciting and stressful shift a doctor can work– full of drunk people and freak accidents– his body is too used to the early mornings and can’t quite make the switch. But Shen had begged him to trade shifts, something about a concert and the girl he was seeing and “please, man, please”, and Frank just wanted to finish his charting in peace so he said “jesus christ, alright”. 

So that’s how he ended up here, yawning as he takes a look at the CT scan results from his motorcycle crash patient. He blinks blearily before threading a needle and stitching up an ugly gash on the back of a truck driver’s hand, and gratefully accepts the energy drink Parker offers him before staring blankly at the patient spread sheet. 

Then it’s a couple of stomach aches, one of which ends up being appendicitis, an overdose that thankfully only needed Narcan and overnight monitoring, and a homeless person who got beat up by some frat boys and was waiting for his x-ray results to see if he had swallowed the two teeth he’s missing.

He’s pushing Mrs. Anderson’s wheelchair through the doors of the ED when he hears the commotion happening in the waiting room. A forty-year-old man is banging his palm on the reception desk, demanding to be seen. 

“Sir, you will be seen as soon as one of our providers is available,” Joanna, the night shift ward clerk, says through the microphone.

“I’ve been waiting for three fucking hours,” the older man snarls. “I could be dying out there for fuck’s sake!”

“Sir, I assure you, if you were dying you would not be waiting out here,” Joanna says in her most comforting tone. Unfortunately, she lacks one.

The irritated man sighs, his jaw clenched tight and his fist curling. Frank turns to approach the situation. Just as the man is about to open his mouth, Dr. Abbot appears behind Joanna with a tablet in hand. “Mr. Cooper, we just got your EKG results back,” he informs, straightening his back with a pointed look. “As soon as a bed frees up, an attending will come find you.”

A beat of silence. Mr. Cooper’s jaw ticks. He sizes Abbot up and down and seems to decide that fighting him about waiting times is not worth it anymore. With a sharp nod of his head, he raises his hands in mock surrender, backing away from the front desk. Slowly, he walks back to where he was sitting, and the waiting room goes back to its usual cacophony of sounds. 

Frank exhales and squeezes the rubber around the handles of Mrs. Anderson’s wheelchair. He’s thankful he didn’t have to intervene this time– his patient satisfaction score was already low, and he couldn’t afford to piss Robby off any more than he already has by being back. 

His eyes scan the waiting room; luckily there aren’t many people tonight as there normally are during the day. There’s a mother with her child slumped against her side, her hand rubbing tender circles on her kid’s small back, and two young men sitting near the vending machines, talking and laughing– clearly friends. There’s also an older woman coughing into the crook of her wrinkled elbow, a young woman resting her head on her boyfriend’s shoulder while he holds her hand, and an elderly man leaning his forehead against his walking stick, eyes closed. And of course, Mr. Cooper, his arms crossed and staring daggers at the ED doors. 

Frank’s about to push Mrs. Anderson forward when he finally notices you, slumped on one of the plastic chairs against the wall, one foot missing a heel. You’re typing quickly on your phone, the charm strap you added to it clinking with every tap on the screen. You giggle at something, head lolling to the side. 

Frank whistles to security and asks him to take Mrs. Anderson outside, where her daughter is waiting in the car. Once the older woman is out of sight, he calls your name, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks at you worriedly. “What are you doing here?”

At the sound of his voice, you perk up immediately. “Frankie!” you squeal, craning your neck up and smiling dopily. “I missed you.”

“Yeah, me too,” he says without even thinking, kneeling down to your height. He’s greeted by a waft of your warm perfume. Something vanilla and a little flowery under the alcohol and smoke that clings to your pores. He reels, finding he’s not really lying about missing you– it’s been almost two months since your last visit to the ER, the longest since he met you. He is glad, of course, that you’ve stopped getting hurt so often, but his days just aren’t the same without having you yap his ear off while he stitches you up or checks you for any illnesses. 

“What happened to you?” he finally asks. 

“I think I hurt my foot,” you slur with a pout, raising the offending foot that’s missing a heel in the air and nearly hitting him the face with it. Frank barely dodges it. He gently grabs it and notices how swollen your ankle is, a small purple bruise starting to show. 

“Yeah, I can see that.” He lowers your foot back onto the floor and picks up your discarded heel, curling his finger around the flimsy strap. Absolutely no ankle support whatsoever– he shouldn’t be surprised. “Come on, I’ll take a look at you.”

He wraps one of your arms around his neck and slips his other arm beneath your armpit to help you get up easily. Once you’re standing, you slump against his side, too drunk to stay upright on your own. Carefully, he helps you walk towards the ED doors, your hurt foot dangling in the air you take short, quick jumps with Frank’s help, giggling to yourself. 

You are near the doors when one of the young men Frank had noticed earlier scoffs to his friend, “Guess you need to know the doctor’s name to get some help around here.”

His friend smirks and does a poor show of pretending to be secretive. “Yeah, that or dress like a hooker.”

You stiffen besides Frank. “I-I can wait a little longer,” you whisper. 

He feels you trying to lower your glittering skirt a little. Frank’s hold on you tightens, his jaw ticking as he turns to look at the two men. “We see patients in order of medical care needed,” he recites, trying to keep it civil. 

“Seems like just a sprained ankle to me,” the man that spoke first shrugs. 

Frank’s eyes narrow. “You a doctor?”

“No, but–”

“She could have broken her ligaments, which requires surgery,” Frank cuts him off. To hell with patient satisfaction scores. “Or she could have a broken bone, which could have punctured an artery and could be bleeding internally. So, I gotta make sure it’s just a sprained ankle so we can free up a bed to take care of you next. Only if that’s okay with you, of course.”

You look at him like he’s grown two heads. The man wriggles in his seat, uncomfortable. “Sure, man, whatever.”

Frank smiles sarcastically. “Thank you so much for letting me do my job.”

He squeezes your side and helps you past the ED doors, ignoring your worried look. He leads you to a free exam room and helps you sit down on the bed. 

“Am I really gonna need surgery? Am I dying?” you panic while he calmly slides on top of a stool and rolls closer to you. 

“You’re not dying. Not yet, at least.” When he realizes you’re still scared, he explains. “I only said it to make that asshole feel bad for saying all that shit about you.”

“Oh,” you exhale, shoulders relaxing. “Phew.”

He grabs your foot once more and places it on his thigh. He licks his lips before asking, “So, how did this happen, exactly?”

“Well, I was with my friends– y’know, girl’s night out. And we went to a bar and we had a lot of drinks… They were so tasty. Did you know that the sweeter the drink the more alcohol it has?” Frank’s not too sure where exactly you got that ‘fact’ from. “Anyway, we were going to the club, but our taxi dropped us a block away and we had to cross the park.”

While you ramble, Frank presses along your talus bone and ankle. Your face scrunches up in pain when he presses a little too hard on the outside of your foot. “So, we were walking, and Jennie said something funny– I can’t remember what it was but it was really funny. And we were laughing and it was so dark that I didn’t realize there was a hole and I fell– Ouch!” you cry when Frank moves your ankle to the right.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. He rests your foot back on his thigh and keeps his hand there, holding it gently and feeling the soft, almost buttery skin. Definitely moisturised. Slightly shimmery under the fluorescent lights. He swallows. “So, you fell. D’you come here after that?”

“No,” you giggle like he asked the stupidest question. He scowls. “It didn’t hurt at first!”

“Because you’re drunk,” he says flatly.

You shrug, like that detail isn’t particularly important, flicking your hand in the air dismissively. “We were inside and we were dancing and it was so much fun! But then it started to really hurt and I couldn’t even stand anymore but there were no seats inside,” you pout, sad that you were forced to end your night out early. “So I had to leave the girls and get an Uber to get here. I was waiting for a super long time and then you showed up and now we’re here!” You finish your tale with a happy smile.

“Right,” the corners of Frank’s mouth tilt upwards the tiniest bit. “And how much did you have to drink?”

“Um…” The fact that you have to use your fingers to keep track of all the drinks you had makes him raise an eyebrow. That can’t be good. “First I had a margarita, then a sex on the beach, then a cosmopolitan– no wait, Emma wanted shots, so we did a couple of those, and then the cosmopolitan–”

“Jesus,” Frank sighs. No wonder you didn’t come immediately after falling, your pain sensors were completely obliterated. 

“Then two vodka cranberries.” You look at your fingers. “Seven drinks!”

Frank blinks. Good thing he asked. “Well, uh, the good news is it does look like it’s just a sprain.”

“And the bad news?”

“I’m still gonna order an x-ray to see how bad it is.”

Your shoulders sag again. “Do I have to go out there again?” you pout, playing with your fingers. The light catches on your lips and makes your lipgloss pop. It’s a deep brown shade, like dark chocolate.

Does it taste like it too? The intrusive thought pops into Frank’s head. He shakes it away. “Uh, no, you’re staying right here. I’m gonna give you some fluids.”

He drops your foot carefully and stands, hands going to the ends of his stethoscope as he moves across the room to the small cabinet that stores the needles, angiocaths, IV tubes and the rubber bands they use as tourniquets. 

“What? Why?” you ask, confused. 

“You’re gonna have a hell of a hangover otherwise.” He walks back to you, items in hand. “Can you lay down or d’you need help?” He wonders while slipping on a pair of blue gloves.

“I can do it,” you say, scooching closer to the head of the bed, using your hands as leverage to lift yourself up in short movements. 

Your skirt rises up even more. Frank pretends not to notice.

Once you’re laying comfortably, Frank sits back on the stool and grabs your arm, twisting the rubber band a little over your elbow. “Shouldn’t a nurse do this?” you wonder.

His index finger pokes you as he searches for a vein. “What, you don’t trust me?” Once  he finds it, he wipes some alcohol over the area, mumbling, “Just a little pinch.”

“I trust you,” you say sincerely. He feels your eyes on his face as he punctures the skin and vein, tries his hardest not to let his gaze stray away from your arm. Once a drop of blood flashes back in the angiocath, he pushes the catheter forward and pulls the tourniquet off, connecting the IV tube to the end of the catheter. 

“Alright?” he asks, securing the IV with some tape. His eyes meet yours.

“Alright,” you whisper, smiling slightly against the pillow. You blink slowly, sleep starting to take over your muscles.

Frank stares at you for a long minute, taking in the faint freckles beneath the blush on your cheeks, the tiny scar above the arch of your eyebrow, the blue shimmer in your eyelids and the highlight on the tip of your nose. 

He’s quiet when he asks, “You have someone to take you home later?”

You shake your head. “My parents live in another state and my friends, well… I don’t think they’re gonna be picking up my calls for a while.” You chuckle, but it’s devoid of any real amusement. You shrug one naked shoulder, your skin scratching against the pristine white bedsheet. “S’fine, I’ll just Uber again.”

Something too much like worry twists in Frank’s stomach. He doesn’t like the idea of you going home alone, in a stranger’s car. Already hurt, no less. That’s a disadvantage if something were to happen.

He tells himself it’s concern for his patient’s safety. He tells himself he would do the same for any other patient. It’s not personal. 

It’s not.

Before he can think twice about it, he blurts, “I can drive you.”

–

He really shouldn’t be doing this, Frank thinks as he drives.

There are rules– hospital rules, HR rules. Both explicit and implicit. Rules that frown upon any sort of unprofessionalism with a patient. Inside or outside the hospital.

He knows this. 

And yet you sit in the passenger seat next to him, bopping your head and muttering along to whatever song you had chosen to play– something too sugary and too pop for his Spotify age of 75 but that makes total sense for you. He lets you control the music, connecting your phone to his car bluetooth, your name in a tiny font glaring teasingly at him every time he looks at the display.

Your hurt leg is stretched out in front of you. He had been right, it was only a sprain, but you still needed to wear an orthopedic boot to keep your ankle as stable as possible so it could heal right. 

“You’re kidding me,” you had said when he broke the news, completely aghast.

Frank’s pretty sure he hadn’t joked once while giving you your diagnosis. “Uh, no. You’re gonna have to wear it for a month–”

“A month?!” you had screeched.

He had ignored your outburst completely, used to your dramatics after almost a year of treating you on and off. “And you’ll need a couple of physical therapy sessions after you take it off.”

You couldn’t let go of the orthopedic boot thing. “It’s gonna ruin all my outfits!” you had cried, kicking your good foot in the air uselessly.

Frank had only sighed, eyes rolling in their sockets, and knelt in front of you to help you put the boot on.

Your other leg, the good one, is tucked beneath you. In this position, your skirt rides up somehow even higher that it probably should, leaving almost your entire thigh exposed to his gaze. He tries his hardest to pretend you’re not there, because he wanted to see if you were okay while passing a speed bump and instead had been gifted with the sight of your chest jiggling behind the very sheer and tight piece of clothing you called a top.

He hadn’t looked at you once since that incident, choosing to focus on the road ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel with so much force that his knuckles turned white.

He’s thankful when he finally reaches your house. Frank parks and points a finger at you. “Don’t move.”

He feels your eyes on him as he gets out of the car. The fresh air helps him relax ever so slightly, cracking his neck as he goes around the front of the car and opens the door for you. 

You make him so tense sometimes. 

“Careful,” he stresses, watching you get out of the car like a deer learning to walk for the first time. You make sure your good foot is firmly on the ground before you place the hurt one too. With cautious movements, he helps you up the steps to your apartment building.

You fish for the keys in your small purse, never once letting go of Frank’s arm. You nudge him inside the lobby so he can help you up to your apartment, the elevator ride quiet with Frank’s mind going a million miles per hour.

“Well, this is me,” you say softly when you reach your apartment door. You let go of his arm. “Thank you, Frank. For the drive and… well, everything really.”

Frank shoves his hands into his pockets, fists curling. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he tries to sound casual, body swaying a little. “Your place’s just on my way home, so…”

Lie.

“Still,” you shrug. “Thank you.”

There’s a moment of silence where you stare at each other. Frank stands there, uselessly. He has no idea what to say, what to do. Should he hug you goodbye or just bolt?

“You sure–”

“D’you wanna come inside?” you say at the same time.

You laugh together, Frank’s low chuckle reverberating in your ears and stirring something in your stomach. “Do you wanna come inside?” you repeat. “For a coffee, I mean. As a thanks.”

He shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t. Somehow, the command doesn’t reach his brain because he says, “Yeah, okay.”

The smile you give him is so bright it could blind him. Something stirs in his chest, warm and cozy and nearly desperate. He swallows harshly.

“Welcome to my humble abode, Dr. Langdon,” you playfully say as you open the door. You quickly kick away what looks very similar to a lacy blue bra. Frank pretends he didn’t notice. “Sorry for the mess,” you smile awkwardly.

He doesn’t know about humble (he’d argue his new apartment is much worse than yours), but messy sounds about right. You clearly weren’t expecting any visitors– there’s clothes thrown all over the place, a pile of shoes near the door, bottles of wine and takeout boxes strewn around your coffee table, a couple of dirty plates stuck on top of each other in the sink and even some stray cups littered all around your living room.

But, beneath the mess, he can see how much thought and care went into making the small apartment feel like a home. The pink couch matches the pink and brown persian rug in front of it, the wooden floor is intact with no sign of a stain on them. The tall windows are framed with multiple layers of cotton gauze and green lace as curtains, and there’s piles of books and CDs next to the TV rack. 

A big canvas with a swan painted on top of a dark background hangs on the wall behind the couch. Did you paint it? Frank’s filled with an inexplicable urge to discover more about you, to know every single detail he missed learning while he was in rehab.

“S’really nice. Did you paint that?” he dares to ask, thumb pointing to the wall.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, a couple of months ago. I hit my thumb like 5 times trying to hang it up,” you laugh. Frank smiles. He can believe that. “Uh, you mind taking your shoes off?” you ask him, struggling to get the thin strap of your shoe down the curve of your heel. “I just- I have a thing about outside germs, but if you don’t want to, it’s fine. No biggie,” you explain nervously.

Frank kicks his sneakers off quickly. “I don’t mind.”

You exhale, thankful, and quickly perk up again. “Right, so, coffee,” you waddle to the kitchen area, Frank right behind you with his hands ready to catch you if you need it. You open a cabinet and grab a bag of ground coffee from the first shelf. You struggle to twist open the moka pot. “How d’you like it?” you gasp as the pot untwists.

“Just black,” Frank says, resting his shoulder against the column between the kitchen and the living room.

You pour some tap water into the valve and fill up the funnel with the ground coffee. Once the moka pot is ready, you turn the stove top on and leave the pot on the smallest burner. 

You lean against the counter. “What, no milk?” Frank shakes his head. “Not even a little bit of sugar? You ask, skeptical. He shakes his head again. “Wow, you’re a psychopath.”

Frank huffs out a quiet laugh.

The air fills up with the smell of freshly brewed coffee. You turn to the same cabinet to grab the last cup there, the rest of the cups you normally use littered around the living room and your nightstand. You try to reach for another cup in the cabinet above, but it’s too high for you, and you can’t exactly climb onto the counter like you’ve done multiple times in your current condition.

Before you can say anything, you feel Frank behind you, his chest hitting your shoulders. “I got it,” he mumbles, placing the handmade ceramic cup softly against the grainy counter.

His hand brushes your arm as he steps back. Your skin tingles.

You swallow. “Thanks,” it comes out as a soft breath. You fill both cups with the steaming coffee and add three teaspoons of sugar to your cup. You offer Frank one, “Here.”

He takes it, his fingers curling around the ceramic, nearly dwarfing it completely. He follows you to the couch, where he offers you his arm once more so you can sit down comfortably. 

He sits down on the brown velvet winged chair in front of you and takes a quick sip of his coffee, nearly burning his tongue. You point to the boot that goes up to your knee. “Can I take this thing off?”

Frank debates it in his mind, settling for, “Yeah, but you should put some ice on it. It’ll help bring the swelling down.”

You whine in complaint, throwing your head back on the couch. “Ugh, but I don’t wanna get up again.”

“I’ll get it,” Frank offers, leaving his cup on the coffee table between a bottle of white wine and a box of chinese takeout. He rummages through your freezer, searching for an icepack but there’s only tubs of ice cream and bags of frozen food. “Uh, y’want the bag of nuggets or the raspberry sorbet ice cream?”

“Bag of nuggets, please!”

Frank comes back with the bag in hand, the tips of his mouth tilting in amusement at the absurdity of the situation. He sits down beside you, much closer than he probably should, his knee hitting yours as he settles comfortably against the fluffy throw pillows. Your knee burns at the contact.

“C’mere,” he pats his thigh.

You turn gingerly, throwing both legs across his lap. “Gah, it’s cold!” you exclaim when Frank presses the bag against your swollen ankle.

“Yeah, it’s supposed to be,” he chuckles, holding your leg in place so you don’t kick the bag away.

“I thought healer hands were supposed to be soft or something like that.”

“That’s only for well behaved patients.”

“And I’m not well behaved?” Frank raises an eyebrow, looking down to your still wriggling leg. “Rude!” You laugh, slapping his arm as you giggle. Frank’s pupils glint at the sound, feeling on cloud nine. Your eyes flick up to his, then move down to the easy smile on his lips.

He watches you for a long second, the flicker of something in his face that you can’t quite decipher before he’s pressing his lips against yours. Your eyes widen in surprise, a muffled “hmph!” falling from your lips before they slowly flutter shut, hands going to his shoulders and squeezing tightly, your entire body relaxing against the armrest.

The bag of nuggets drops to the floor. Like he’s been burned by your touch, Frank pulls away quickly. “Shit,” he mutters. He mumbles a series of apologies desperately. “I shouldn’t have– You’re my patient–”

With a gentle hand on his cheek, you turn him back to you, leaning your face closer and closer until your nose grazes his. Frank stays still, entranced, afraid that if he moves the spell will break and he’s going to have HR, Al-Hashimi and Robby on his ass.

When you finally kiss him again, he groans into your mouth, his hand going to the back of your neck and pulling you closer to him until you have no choice but to climb onto his lap, mouths moving in desperation. His tongue teases your lips, begging you to let him in, some of your chocolate lipgloss sticking to his tastebuds.

You pull away for some fresh air. Frank attaches his mouth to your jaw, his lips sucking and biting down the slope of your neck, leaving a trail of spit in its wake. You wriggle on his lap. “Fuck, baby,” he groans into your skin, hips bucking up to meet yours, fingers grazing any sliver of skin he can reach– your arms, your waist, your ass under your skirt. You shiver above him. 

“Frankie, please, I want–” you mewl, arching into him and feeling him harden right beneath your pulsing cunt. His hands grip your hips so tightly the sequins of your skirt dig into his palms. 

He swirls his tongue around your. “Where’s your room?” he asks into the kiss. You point to the ajar door behind you. “Fuck, come on,” he urges you upwards with a pat on your ass.

It’s a clumsy thing, the way you walk together. You stumble onto each other, lips never departing for too long except to remove your clothes. He nearly trips over a stray ballet flat, and you hiss into his mouth when you rest too much weight on your bad foot.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Frank mumbles, getting rid of your lacy white top and throwing it over his shoulder. You scrape your nails down his naked chest, red streaks appearing on his skin. “I got you,” he says, making you sit on the bed and pushing you back until you’re laying on the mattress.

He takes a second to look down at you, splayed on top of your ruffled duvet cover with your lips swollen from his kisses, your hair a mess from his hands and multiple reddish bruises blooming above your collarbones. His cock twitches. “You’re so beautiful,” Frank pants, taking his jeans off.

You use your arms to hold yourself up, chest heaving, looking at him through half-lidded eyes as he settles himself above you. He kisses your cheek, then your lips again, littering kisses down your chest and stomach until he reaches the waistband of your skirt. He doesn’t bother taking it off, just bunches it around your lower stomach, eyes zeroing on your clothed pussy.

He pushes the baby blue cotton to the side and traces one teasing finger up your slit, feeling the wetness gathering there. “God, you’re so wet already,” his voice strangled, breathless, as he spreads your folds apart to take in every inch of you.

“For you,” you whimper when he licks a broad stripe up your cunt. “Just for you, Frankie.”

He groans into your pussy, eyes rolling to the back of his head and his hips rutting into the mattress in search of the tiniest bit of relief. He hooks your legs over his shoulders and suckles on your clit, his tongue moving in tight little circles. You moan desperately, hands reaching for his hair and pulling, pushing his face so close to your cunt that he can barely breathe. 

You keen when his tongue pushes into your hole, your clit catching on the tip of his nose. “Gonna– So close, Frankie.” Your hips grind against his face. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop,” you beg tearfully.

He doubles his efforts, refusing to stop for even a second until your legs shake as the coil inside you breaks, a choked gasp spilling from your parted lips, your taste coating his tongue. Only when you try to pull away from him does Frank relent, kissing your clit sweetly.

His chin glistens with your release as he comes up from between your thighs. Your legs part so he can settle comfortably on top of you, hands dragging him down for a kiss that has you tasting yourself in his mouth. “See how good you taste, baby?” Frank mutters against your lips. “Got the sweetest little pussy. Just for me, right?” You whine, shy, and try to hide your face in the sheets. He squeezes your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. “Say it again, honey.”

“Just for you,” you whisper through pouty lips. Frank pulls you in for a wet kiss, pushing his boxers down quickly. 

Tongues still swirling around each other, Frank takes a hold of himself and spreads your sticky folds apart with his leaking tip, reveling in the little sounds of pleasure you make. He looks down at where your bodies meet, stares in fascination at how your little hole flutters desperately around nothing, waiting for him to fill you up. 

“Look how needy she is, fuck,” he says, awed. He lets a thin thread of his own spit dribble onto his cock, his hand spreading it around his length. “You ready, sweetheart?”

You nod shakily, hiking your hips up. Slowly, he pushes inside, sinking into your warmth with a shuddering breath that makes his whole body tingle. The stretch of him has you moaning blissfully, nails digging into his forearms. 

Frank stays still for a second, breathing deeply through the squeezing of your cunt. It’s been way. It’s been too long since the last time he’s had sex, way too long, and the last thing he wants to do is ruin this– you, with the adoration and trust in your teary eyes and the way you cling to him so needily, by cumming in less than 30 seconds like a teenager. 

Once his pulse settles, he rolls his hips slowly, deeply, his cock dragging in and out at a leisurely pace as he searches for the spot that will have you screaming his name. When you mewl, a soft and high pitched sound that has his cock twitching inside you, he picks up the pace. 

“W-wait, my foot,” you whimper. “Hurts.”

“Sorry,” Frank whispers, sincerely apologetic. He takes a hold of your leg and places it on his shoulder, kissing your ankle. “I’m sorry, baby. That better?” he asks, leaning over you, pressing your thigh against your chest.

The new angle makes him reach even deeper. Your eyes go blank. “Frankie,” you gasp.

A tingle goes up his spine at how wrecked you sound. He falls on top of you, forearms bracketing your head. “Baby,” he nudges your face with his nose, mouthing at your neck. “God, y’feel so good, honey. Such a tight little cunt.”

One of his hands goes down to where you’re joined, his thumb swirling the mess of your sticky fluids and his spit over the puffy pearl. His mouth hovers above yours, lips brushing as he asks in a quiet tone that has you squeezing around him, “That feel good, sweetheart?”

You gasp. “S-so good, Frankie. You’re making me feel so good.”

Frank grunts. Strands of hair fall over his forehead as he crashes his hips into yours, hitting your spongy spot over and over again. The air buzzes with something electric, something like desire and something too close to devotion.

“Oh my god,” you sob, nails scraping down his back. He groans at the sting. “Gonna–”

“Cum for me, baby,” Frank pants, hot breath hitting your face. “Lemme feel that pretty little pussy make a mess on my cock.” 

Your stomach flips at his words, thighs quivering and chest heaving with broken mewls as you pulse around him. “That’s my girl,” he kisses your temple. You keep fluttering around him, walls twitching with every push and pull of his hips. “So pretty when you cum, honey.”

He thrusts again and again, his body tensing with the inevitable surge of his own pleasure. He groans your name, hiding his face in your neck. “M’gonna cum,” he warns, breathless. “Where d’you want it, hm?”

You’re lax beneath him. You pull him away from your neck by the hair, Frank whimpering pathetically. You cup his cheek, kissing him. It’s messy and wet and hungry, teeth clashing as you whisper into his mouth, “Inside. Wanna feel you.”

Frank curses loudly. His thrusts turn sloppy as he spills into you, hips stuttering and his cock burrowing itself so deeply inside you you can practically feel him in your throat.

He flops down on top of you with a sated sigh, his weight an unexpected but welcoming pressure. Everything feels hazy in the morning light that pours in from your bedroom window. Frank kisses your neck lazily, your nails tracing shapes on his back, his skin littering with goosebumps.

Once you’ve regained your breaths, Frank comes up from where he was hiding, brushing the sweaty strands of hair away with one hand, the other petting your head gently. His blue eyes stare at you intently, as if committing you to memory. “I should go,” he whispers, his fingers tracing over your eyebrow and cheekbone.

He wants to stay like this forever: bodies sweaty and tangled together in the soft light, your hands on his back, his eyes on you, the fuzzy feeling in his heart. Is this what every morning could look like from now on? He doesn’t dare to dream too much– you are, or were, his patient. He’s already broken enough HR rules for it to become a problem if someone finds out. If Robby finds out.

He’s still on thin ice.

“Not yet,” you mumble drowsily, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him out of the labyrinth that his mind was becoming. “You still gotta put some ice on my ankle, Dr. Langdon.”

Frank laughs, thinking of the bag of nuggets left on the rug. He kisses your forehead.

He checked the time. You had been asleep for hours. He felt that familiar tug of protective instinct, hoping to see the line level off later. But fifteen minutes later, it buzzed again.

[LOW: 52 mg/dL]

His heart did a stutter-step. He quickly texted you: “Hey, baby, seeing some low numbers. Drink some juice and update me?”

Twenty minutes passed.

No reply.

[LOW: 39 mg/dL]

His blood ran cold. He didn’t think—he moved. His hand snatched up the phone, dialing your number while he was already halfway to the locker room, his eyes scanning for the keys of your shared apartment.

The phone rang three times before you picked up.

"Sweetheart," he said, his voice tight, trying to keep the terror out of it so he wouldn’t panic you. "I need you to wake up. Get up and get some sugar in you. Right now."

There was a rustle of blankets, like the sound of someone deeply sedated.

"Mhm..." you hummed, the sound dragging and soft, devoid of any real consciousness.

"Love, listen to my voice," he urged, his voice cracking slightly as he signaled for a charge nurse. "Try to say my name."

"Mhm... ye-n..." you slurred, your voice bubbling and incoherent. It was the sound of a brain starved of fuel and it made Frank’s stomach churn.

"You have to force yourself to sit up. Do you hear me? Where is the juice? Are you still in bed?" He didn't wait for permission or protocol; he was already moving.

The lack of coherent words was the final sign. He didn't wait for a third "mhm." He knew that sound—it was the precursor to a total shutdown. "This is Dr. Langdon," he barked into his radio, already shucking his white coat as he sprinted toward the ER bay. "I have a high-priority diabetic emergency. Unresponsive female, neuro-symptom, unresponsive to verbal commands. Send an ambulance to my address now. I’m going in with them."

The air suddenly felt thin. He called your name—once, twice and the only answer he got was your low breathing. Panic began to radiate through his chest He knew that you were slipping into a neuroglycopenic crisis.

The ride in the back of the ambulance was the longest ten minutes of his life. He sat on the bench, jaw clenched. Frank didn't remember the traffic lights; he only remembered the terrifying sound of your low breaths over the still-open phone line.

When they burst through your bedroom door, the sight nearly leveled him. You were tangled in the sheets and sweaty, your body beginning to jerk in rhythmic spasm of a seizure.

"I've got you, we're here," Frank gasped, dropping to the mattress. He moved with practiced, frantic efficiency, protecting your head as the paramedics moved in with the glucagon and IV starts.

His hands were trembling as he protected you from falling or hurting yorself. He knew the protocol, he knew the science side but the sight of you so vulnerable, made his world tilt.

"Stay with me," he pleaded, his thumb brushing your forehead as the paramedics surged through the door behind him. "Come on, baby."

-

The ER was a blur of activity—voices shouting, monitors beeping in harmony, the cold bite of an IV needle. Frank remained in the corner of the trauma bay, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his eyes never leaving your unconscious face.

Robby looked over at him.

"She’s responding to the D50, Frank. She’s stabilizing. We are going to run a MRI just in case."

Frank sat on the edge of your bed, the adrenaline finally fading and leaving him feeling hollowed out. He was still wearing his scrubs, his hair a mess from where he’d been running his hands through it.

When your eyes finally flickered open, heavy and unfocused, he let out a shaky breath. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours, his voice a broken whisper.

"Welcome back," he whispered, his thumb trembling as he brushed it against the back of your hand. He looked exhausted, the skin beneath his eyes dark and strained.. "You scared me to death, sweetheart."

"Hi..." You whispered with a raspy voice. Trying to figured out why were you on a trauma bay. He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "My head hurts."

"It's normal, you're okay now," he whispered, his voice thick with relief. "They had you on D50 for a while, your monitor marked a dangerous 25." You frowned and let out a shaky breath.

"We are waiting for a MRI so we can control there's no brain damage, you were seizuring when we arrived." You looked at him and his eyes were glassy and tired but filled with that same protective warmth that had made you trust him in the first place.

"I-I’m sorry." you whispered as the memories of the fog and the flashing lights began to piece together, tears pricked your eyes. You hated feeling a burden and the thought of him having to take care of you in a situation like this, somehow frustrated you.

"Don't you ever apologize for this, baby. I've got you. Always."

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.

This day wasn't out of the ordinary for you.

Jack had been called into the hospital, so you decided to run some errands instead. Just another walk through the city, another stretch of pavement leading you towards your favourite café. The street was bustling with lunchtime rush, people brushing past without even looking up, all of it so normal you stopped noticing anything outside your immediate line of sight.

You don’t see the window workers until it’s already too late.

There’s a shout, somewhere overhead, sharp, distant, dismissed instantly by your brain as background chaos.

Then something shifts overhead.

A shadow.

A sudden loss of control.

Like something heavy slipping when it shouldn’t.

You look up.

The bucket tips over the edge, half full, unbalanced, too far gone to recover.

You have no time to react.

It drops straight down.

The impact is immediate and brutal, striking the top of your head with enough force to erase thoughts.

Air leaves you all once.

Your body goes back with force, the concrete of the sidewalks rushing up before you can even register that you’re falling. 

You don’t feel the landing.

You’re already gone before your body makes contact.

The ambulance door swings open hard.

Two paramedics rush in with a stretcher.

“Female, roughly mid-thirties–struck by falling debris,” one of the paramedics calls.

Whitaker is already moving.

“Trauma Two is open,” someone shouts from the nurses’ station.

The stretcher rolls in fast.

“Unconscious on scene,” the paramedic continues. “Hasn’t come around yet. GSC eight.”

Monitors are attached within seconds.  An IV is started. Hands move quickly, practiced, efficient.

Whitaker is at the bedside now, eyes already scanning your injuries.

“Witness said that the window cleaner’s bucket fell from a height,” A paramedic informs. “She went down immediately.”

“ID?” Whitaker asks without looking up.

“None,” the paramedic says, already reaching into his pocket. “But we found this on her.”

He places a chain into Whitaker’s hand.

Dog tags.

Whitaker’s focus sharpens instantly.

That changes everything.

He takes them without hesitation, already thinking they’ve just been handed the easiest part of the case. A name means history, allergies, blood type, everything they need.

“Good,” he says under his breath, almost relieved. “We got lucky.”

He flips the broken tags over.

And stops.

Abbot. Jack.

O Negative.

Fuck.

For a second, the noise of the room is completely drowned out, as if it had been pulled underwater.

 He reads it again, more slowly this time, in case the name changes.

It doesn’t.

“...Jesus,” He mutters, barely audible.

A nurse glances over. “You know her?”

Whitaker doesn't answer right away. His grip tightens slightly on the chain, metal pressing into his palm like letting go of it would make this situation even worse.

Because this wasn’t luck.

This was a problem.

A large one.

But more importantly, a very specific one 

“Page, Dr. Robby,” he says, voice sharper now. “And Dr. Abbot. Now.”

The nurse moves immediately at the order.

Whitaker set the tags down carefully on the tray beside you, as if they were the most important thing in this room.

Robby arrives first.

He doesn't rush in. He lets his residents lead, but the moment he steps into Trauam Two, the atmosphere shifts anyway.

“What’ve we got?” he asks, pulling on a pair of gloves.

Whitaker doesn't answer right away. 

Not because he doesn't know what's going on, but because he can’t quite find the words that fit.

Instead, he shifts slightly so Robby can see you.

Not the monitors. Not the chart.

You.

​​Robby’s expression changes instantly. Subtle, but complete. The kind of shift that happens when a doctor stops seeing a case and starts seeing a person.

He steps closer without even thinking.

His hand finds your wrist automatically, checking your pulse. His other hand moves to your eyes, checking pupils, clinical instinct kicking in.

“Found down,” a nurse says quickly. “Struck by falling debris—window cleaner’s bucket. Unconscious on scene, brief loss of consciousness, GCS eight.”

Robby nods, but there’s a little delay in it, like the information is landing half a beat too slow.

His hand stays on your wrist a fraction longer than necessary.

“I paged Abbot.”

“How—” he starts, confused, the word barely out.

He doesn’t finish.

Because Whitaker lifts his hand, the broken chain rests between his fingers. 

Just enough for Robby to see it clearly.

Dog tags.

Everything in Robby’s expression shifts. Not shock. Recognition. Then something worse. Like the entire situation snaps into place all at once.

“...Oh no,” he says quietly.

His eyes flick back to you immediately.

Because this isn’t just some random patient.

This is Jack’s wife.

Robby straightened slightly, like his body was trying to catch up with what his brain already knew.

“No,” he says under his breath, already shaking his head once. “No-no, no…”

Whitaker starts to say something. “Robby—”

But Robby isn’t listening anymore.

His attention shifts toward the door like he can feel it before it happens.

“He’s coming,” Robby says, more to himself than anyone else.

A pause.

“Fuck.” Robby exhales through his nose, one hand dragging over his face as he looks back at you again.

You’re still unconscious. Still pale. Still completely unaware of who's about to walk in.

Whitaker tries again. “Robby—”

And that's when it finally clicks in his head.

“He can’t see her like this,” Robby says, firmer now, like he’s locking onto the only thing that matters.

Not like this.

And he’s already halfway to the door, trying to get there before Jack does.

Robby barely makes it halfway across the room before the door pushes open again.

Jack.

He’s already moving fast, eyes ready to assess the situation before anyone even speaks.

“What do we have?” he asks, breath just slightly off from the rush. “You paged me.”

Robby steps in front of him, blocking the doorway without hesitation.

“Hey”

Jack frowns, thrown off more by that than anything else. “What are you doing?”

“Jack-”

“Move,” Jack says, sharper now, trying to step around him to assist the patient.

Robby doesn’t. “You can’t go in there.”

That stops him.

“What?” Jack let out a short, disbelieving breath. “Robby, what are you talking about?”

Behind him, the room keeps moving. Voices, monitors, motion, but Jack can’t see any of it past the barrier in front of him.

“Just—wait,” Robby says, quieter now.

“No,” Jack shakes his head, already trying to step around him. “No, don’t page me and then tell me to wait. Move.”

Robby shifts just an inch, and for a split second, it is enough.

An angle opens up.

Just enough for Jack to see.

There are doctors and nurses,

The bed.

You.

Unconscious. 

Blood matted into your hair, dark against your skin. Clothes still damp, clinging in the wrong places. 

Everything in him stops.

The sound of the room drops out completely.

“…No,” he breathes.

Robby moves immediately to block his view again.

“Jack,” he says firmly. “You can’t—”

“That’s my wife,” Jack cuts in, voice breaking under it despite his effort to hold it together. “What happened?”

He tries to move forward again. His brain tries to process what he is seeing. His weight shifts subconsciously to his real leg to ground him. But it all hits at once, too fast, too much.

“…No,” he breathes, barely there.

“Jack,” he says, low and steady. “You can’t—”

Robby stops him, hands on his chest this time.

“You cannot go in there,” Robby says, stronger now. “You know that.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know,” Robby answers. “But you will if you make a mistake.”

That lands.

Not because it calms Jack’s nerves, but because it forces clarity through the panic.

If he treats you like this… he could make it worse.

Jack’s breathing is uneven. His eyes keep trying to find you past Robby’s shoulder.

But he can’t.

“Let us do our job,” Robby says, quieter now. “We’ve got her.”

Jack doesn’t move.

Doesn’t agree but doesn't try to push past him again either.

A long, stretched-out second passes.

Then Jack steps back.

Just one step.

Like it costs him more than anything else today.

Robby watches him carefully, like he expects him to surge back towards him.

But Jack just… goes still.

The fight drains out of him all at once, as something snapped.

He turns away without another word.

The roof is silent when Robby and Whitaker find him.

Jack is at the edge, hands gripping the metal railing, shoulder tight. Not leaning over, just holding on. Like it’s the only thing keeping him in place.

The city stretches out in front og him.

He doesn’t turn.

They both know he heard them.

Robby glances once at Whitaker, then back to Jack.

“She’s stable,” he says.

No response.

Whitaker steps a little closer. “Vitals are holding. We’re sending her for CT—possible concussion, maybe a small bleed, but nothing immediately life-threatening.”

Still nothing.

Robby moves a little closer, not too fast.

“She’s going to be okay,”

That gets a reaction.

Barely.

Jack exhales slowly, the sound rough, like he’s been holding it in too long.

He doesn’t turn around.

“…Did she wake up?” he asks.

“No,” Whitaker answers. “Not yet.”

Jack nods once.

Silence returns, wind cutting across the roof.

Whitaker hesitates for a second, then—

“She had your tags on.”

That lands differently.

Something in Jack breaks, just a little.

A quiet, breathless laugh slips out of him, completely out of place against everything else.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough.

He shakes his head once, like he can’t believe it even now. “She hates rings.”

A tear slips down before he can stop it.

He doesn’t wipe it away.

He just stands there, staring out at the city, holding onto the railing like it’s the only solid thing left.

Back in your room, everything is calmer now.

Monitors still beep steadily, machines still running, but the urgency is gone, replaced with something calmer. Controlled

Jack hesitates in the doorway before stepping in.

He takes you in slowly this time, like he’s afraid moving too fast will break the moment.

A sudden movement pulls his focus.

“Hey,” he says softly. “I’m here.”

Your brows pull together slightly, a small reaction to the sounds of his voice.

Then your eyes flutter.

They open slowly.

Heavy.

Disoriented.

A small sound escapes you when the lights make contact with your eyes.

“Easy, babe,” he murmurs. “Don’t try to move too fast.”

You blink a few times, trying to focus.

Everything hurts. It’s too bright, too loud. Your head is throbbing.

“...Jack?” Your voice is rough, barely there.

“Yeah,” Jack says quietly, catching it. “Head’s gonna hurt. You took a bucket to the head.”

Your eyes finally land on him, and you just stare as if your brain is trying to catch up.

“I’m here,” he says again.

Relief flashes across your face. Small. Real. Your shoulder loosens, and seeing him suddenly makes everything feel less chaotic.

“You look mad,” you murmur weakly. That gets a faint breath out of him, almost a laugh.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I was.”

His hand finds yours carefully, grounding you.

“But you’re okay,” he adds. “That’s what matters.”

Your eyes drift shut for half a moment, exhaustion pulling at you.

“Mm,” you hum faintly. “Feels like I lost a battle.”

Jack huffs under his breath. “You did,” he says. “Badly.”

A faint smile tugs at your mouth, even through the ache.

“Rude,” you whisper.

Then your fingers shift against the sheet.

“Hey,” you say softly.

“Yeah?”

Your eyes flick to his chest.

“…Not on me,” you murmur.

Jack looks down at you. “What?”

“The tags,” you say, voice still rough but more alert now. “They’re not on my neck,”

You expect them to be there; they have been for years.

Jack exhales through his nose,  almost amused.

He reaches into his pocket.

Carefully, he pulls out the chain.

His dog tags.

Worn. Familiar. Still his.

He places them gently into your hand.

“That’s how they identified you, Mrs. Abbot,” he says quietly.

That makes your expression shift, softening, something warm and tried underneath it.

Then your eyes drop the break.

The link halfway down snapped from the impact.

“Oh,” you murmur. “It’s broken,” 

 “Yeah,” he answers. “We’ll fix it.”

You study him for a second, still holding onto the chain lightly as if it grounds you.

“Thankfully,” you murmur, “the government likes labelling their property.”

That gets a quiet breath out of him.

“Yeah?” he asks.

You nod faintly.

“Very official,” you add. “Important documentation.”

Jack shakes his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

“And what,” he says, voice lower now, teasing, “are you properly of?”

You don’t even hesitate.

“You.”

The teasing fades out of his expression for a second, something quieter replacing it.

“…Yeah?” he asks softly.

Your grip on the tags tightens just slightly.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Been that way for a while.”

He holds your hand a little tighter.

“Good,” he says quietly.

Then, softer:

“Keep it that way.”

Your eyes start to drift again, exhaustion pulling at you.

“Wasn’t planning on changing it,” you whisper.

Jack’s thumb moves once over your knuckles.

And this time, neither of you says anything else.

“We have an early-thirties female who slipped on ice while leaving work—possible concussion and complaints in the left wrist,” the paramedic said as they wheeled the stretcher around the corner. “The patient is currently alert and seems to be getting aggravated.”

“With myself, not you,” you huffed, holding your wrist in your good hand. Of course, this would happen as you were leaving for the day. It wasn’t your fault that the black ice on the sidewalk had been invisible. All you wanted was to go home, and now you’d ended up in the emergency room.

Robby. Thank God.

Of course it’s him. It’s day shift. At least it’s a familiar face. Relief flickers through you for the first time since the fall. And shit. That means he’s going to find out before you even get the chance to make it home.

“I got this.”

Robby takes over without waiting for a response, hands firm on the gurney as he rolls you away from the paramedics and into the nearest treatment room.

“On the count of three,” Robby says to the group now gathering inside the room. “One, two, three.”

You feel the jolt as they guide you onto the bed, landing flat on your back. You wince when your wrist brushes against the metal rail.

“Is this really necessary?” you ask as the team begins hooking you up to machines, their voices overlapping in rapid medical jargon. The adrenaline drains from your veins, and the pain in your wrist comes rushing in, followed by the dull ache blooming behind your eyes.

“Are you having any nausea? Did you lose consciousness at any point?” Robby asks, shining a light into your eyes.

“I’m fine,” you say as you push the light out of your face.

“Then open your eyes.”

“It hurts.” You sink back into the bed as the pain pulses through you. All you want is to be curled up at home on the couch, far from this bed, the bright lights, and the constant noise.

“Does this hurt?”

Pressure is applied to your wrist, sharp enough to steal your breath. You flinch, your eyes snapping open at the touch. Santos, you think, reading the name on the badge.

Robby slips a blood pressure cuff onto your other arm, and that’s when you break.

“Robby,” you whisper as tears burn behind your eyes. Suddenly, everything is too much. The monitor beeping, the overlapping conversations, the small room closing in around you.

He doesn’t touch you. He just nods, professional and calm, like he understands exactly what you need, then takes a step back from the bed.

“Alright,” he says. “I can handle it from here. Put in orders for a CT. Get an X-ray for a possible wrist fracture. And can someone please get Dana?”

The lights were dulled, and all that could be heard was the steady beeping of the heart monitor. Your eyes felt heavy now that you were back in the room. The door opened, but you didn’t look up. You would recognize him anywhere by the familiar, uneven rhythm of his steps.

When your eyes finally opened, he was standing just inside the room, scrubs on as if he’d been waiting for you to come home. His gaze moved over you carefully, cataloging every detail, lingering on the fully wrapped wrist now propped on a pillow.

You open your mouth, but no words come out.

He doesn’t speak either. Instead, he moves to the end of the bed, grabbing the tablet on instinct. The room stays quiet while he reads, only the soft hum of the monitor and the steady rise and fall of your chest.

His face remains unreadable as his eyes scan the page. Vitals. Notes. Orders. CT completed. Mild concussion. X-ray. Smith’s fracture.

When he finally looks up, his eyes soften.

The pain in your wrist lingers, but something in your chest eases when your eyes meet his.

He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he got the phone call that you were injured.

“You’re okay,” he says quietly as he reaches for your hand.

You swallow, your throat tight.

“I just wanted to go home,” you whisper as your grip tightens and tears spill over.

“I know,” he says softly. “We will, when you’re cleared.”

He takes your good hand, gentle and unhurried, and when his thumb brushes over your knuckles, the last of the tightness in your chest finally lets go. Jack is here. You’re safe.

“What about your shift?”

“Robby told me he felt like working a double tonight.”

You let out a small laugh, then wince as the movement sends a dull ache through your head.

“Hey,” Jack says as he scans your face, the pain and exhaustion finally settling in. “You’re safe. No ice to be found on the hospital floors.”

That earns a weak huff from you.

“It wasn’t there,” you mumble. “I swear.”

Jack nods, as if this is serious medical testimony. “Of course it wasn’t. That’s how it gets you.”

He shifts closer, lowering his voice. “I’m adding it to your chart. Cause of injury: enemy disguised as a sidewalk.”

Your fingers curl tighter around his. The ache in your wrist is still sharp, your head still heavy, but somehow it all feels lighter than before.

“Next time,” he adds softly, brushing his thumb over your knuckles, “we assume that the winter weather is out to get you.”

You smile, barely able to keep your eyes open. Jack softly smooths through your hair.

“Go to sleep now, darling.”

He’s your mate, yet Cassian is the first one to shake himself out of his shock at finding a nearly frozen fae in the Illyrian wilderness. The Illyrian General moves towards your unconscious frame.

“Don’t touch her,” Azriel growls, his mouth moving faster than his brain for once in his life. 

Cassian gives his brother a bewildered look. 

Thankfully, it spurs the shadowsinger into action. 

He’s on his knees beside you in a heartbeat. In a heartbeat of his own, at least; your pulse is dangerously—lethally—slow and weak. 

“Azriel?” Cassian cautions, taking a few tentative steps towards the heap that makes up your lifeless body and Azriel’s hands hovering over it. 

Azriel tries to respond, but the breath that leaves him is nearly sob-like. “M- mate.”

“Azriel.”

“She’s my- she’s my mate, she’s my mate. My mate.” 

Cassian curses under his breath and rips off his top layer of Illyrian leathers, the one he wears for chilly flights in the high altitudes. 

Azriel doesn’t have time to fuss about you being bundled up in another male’s clothing, nor that you’re going to reek of his brother now, and the thought of Cassian flying home without any protection from the north-chilled wind doesn’t even cross his mind as he quickly wraps you in the fabric, not even bothering with arms holes and the like. 

“Go,” Cassian commands, bending to pick up your jacket—that you seem to have peeled off your frame in your hypothermic state—and giving it a sniff, trying to figure out how you got here and who did this to you. 

“But-”

“I’ll be fine, Rhys is coming to get me and Feyre’s collecting Madja. Go.” 

Azriel tucks you tightly into his chest and dissolves into his shadows. 

Rhysand seems to have spurred the House into action at Cassian’s silent call. Azriel can hear the bathtub in his bedroom running and smells a pot of lavender tea coming to a boil in the kitchen. 

He nearly flattens Morrigan as he barrels into his bathroom—her and Nesta having quickly arranged a pile of towels a mile high and placed some clothes that look like they more-or-less will fit you once you’ve warmed up—and barely manages to kick his boots off before he’s lowering the both of you into the room-temperature water.

Azriel curses, the water feeling bitterly cold as he sinks into it fully clothed with you in his arms, but you gasp as the water saturates your clothing, face screwing up in pain. 

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, you’re okay. You’re going to be okay,” he murmurs into your temple, slowly unravelling you from Cassian’s jacket to help submerge you further into the tub. You let out a choked sob. 

“Out,” Madja orders the two females, Morrigan immediately complying and Nesta shooting you a concerned glance and Azriel a warning one before quickly following. The ancient healer lowers herself to her knees beside the tub and feels for your pulse before moving her fingers to your pointed ears. 

“How long has she been in the tub?”

“Maybe a minute,” Azriel replies. 

“You need to submerge her more. Lay her back so that her head is floating.” 

The order is blunt and Azriel doesn’t think he’s ever heard a thing so cruel, but he’s just found you and he’ll be damned if he loses you to the cold.

“Shadowsinger-” Madja warns at his hesitation, but Azriel does as told.

Your entire body tenses, arms immediately reaching out and fisting the material of Azriel’s leathers. He leans forward, hovering over you and holding you close to his chest while still keeping your ears beneath the surface. 

He focuses on consoling you, holding your shaking frame tightly to his chest as Madja drains some of the tub and adds warmer water. 

“Burns,” you whisper, teeth chattering and giving away how cold you still are. 

Azriel focuses on not snapping at the healer as her hand shoves between the two of you and she feels for your pulse again. 

“Please.”

Azriel considers pulling you out of the water now that you seem lucid enough to beg him for reprieve, but Madja grabs Azriel’s shoulder and pushes him back towards the water when he tries to sit up. 

“She’s experiencing vasomotor failure, Shadowsinger. She’ll have no recollection of this conversation.” The healer turns the tap to add more hot water as she chastises him. “Rhysand told me you found her without her jacket. That is called paradoxical undressing which is a result of muscles that had once been constricting blood vessels becoming exhausted and failing, releasing blood back to the extremities and causing the victim to feel hot. It is the final stage of hypothermia; take her out of this water and her chances of survival plummet.” 

All that leaves Azriel’s lips is a desperate, devastated please. He doesn’t know who he’s begging; Madja to save you, you to stay with him, or the Mother not to take you from him. 

Madja’s hand leaves your frame and pats Azriel’s shoulders. “She’s shivering again, Shadowsinger; that’s a good sign.”

The treatment continues and Azriel remains silent; it’s easier to do now that you’re no longer begging him, but he’s wildly uncomfortable that you’re unconscious. The only consolation is that Madja is still here, still working, which means she’s got faith in you and your growingly steady pulse. 

Eventually, Madja deems you warm enough and drains the tub, forcing Azriel to look at the ceiling as he helps her rid you of your soaked clothing and dress you in the warm layers Nesta and Morrigan provided for you earlier. 

Azriel’s carrying you into his bedroom where he finds Feyre and Rhysand speaking in hushed tones behind the sofa that they’ve pulled towards the lit fireplace, pillows and blankets warmed by the fire piled up and waiting for you to be bundled into. 

“Azriel,” Feyre gasps, watching the spymaster as Rhysand pulls back the bedding for him to tuck you in. 

Like in the forest, Azriel finds himself on his knees before you, ensuring you’re adequately tucked into the heavy quilts yet still within the flames’ radius of heat. His hand shakes as he moves to brush some damp hair from your temple. 

Feyre dries the strands easily with a wave of her hand. 

“What do you need?” she asks, and Azriel’s face crumbles as he lowers his head to the edge of the couch cushion, his hand remaining on your blanket clad shoulder. 

Rhysand’s warm hand lands on Azriel’s own shoulder. “You need to eat, brother.” 

“I can’t leave her,” he responds instantly, never raising his head.

“I’d never ask you to.” Rhysand’s hand tightens. “Get changed, Az. Get into something dry, I’ll get you something to eat.”

“Can-”

“And I’ll make sure there’s something here for her when she wakes,” Rhysand agrees, knowing exactly where his brother’s mind went. “Get changed.” 

Azriel spares one more look at your sleeping face—your cheeks and lips having far more colour in them now than when he found you—before standing and doing as told. He keeps his attention on you, his ears locked in on the even tempo of your heart, the long, deep pulls of air you inhale, and the rise and fall of your chest against the fabric you’re surrounded by. 

Azriel doesn’t bother with the chair beside your couch, instead lowering himself to the floor and resting his back against the arm of the sofa, wings shifting awkwardly as he makes sure not to disturb you. 

Two bowls of stew appear on the low table before him a few moments later, and Azriel makes himself comfortable as he eats his serving and waits for you to come to.

“No, of course you’re not, gorgeous,” Cassian backtracks immediately, though the exhaustion in his voice is palpable. 

“You’re not a mess, sweets. Cassian’s just an ass,” Mor agrees, imbuing her tone with a sticky sweetness that has even the shadows curling. 

You sniffle. “He’s s’mean to me.” 

“Oh, Cauldron,” Cassian groans, “Rhys is gonna kill me.”

“Kill you for what?” Rhysand asks as he finally makes his presence – and the fact that he was aware of your arrival – known. 

“Mother abo- hey, Rhys,” Cassian starts, nearly dropping your rather listless frame in his surprise before hauling you back up against his side.

“What am I going to kill you for, brother?” Rhysand asks again, though he’s beginning to make some educated guesses at the fact that you can barely stand and are rather distraught in his arms. 

“What? Oh! No, nothing, we-”

“Cassian challenged Y/N to a drinking challenge and she lost and now everything he says makes her cry,” Mor quickly spews all in one breath.

Cassian swears under his breath. “First of all, she challenged me. Secondly, not everything I say makes her cry, just-”

“He’s been s0- s’mean, Rhys,” you lament around a hiccup, turning your glassy eyes and pouty lip towards him and Rhysand is a sad, pathetic male because he folds immediately. 

“What’s he done to you, darling?” He coos rather pathetically, earning him a huff of amusement from Azriel. 

“I only told her the truth,” Cassian grumbles under his breath as he transfers your weight over to Rhysand. 

“He sa- he said he wouldn’t bring me t’my husband,” the end of your sentence is punctuated by a sob and Rhsyand’s unsure which has him feeling more murderous: the idea of you with a husband, or your brokenhearted wailing. 

“Now, why would you say such a thing, Cass?” Azriel deadpans so earnestly that Rhysand’s lips threaten to pull up at the corners.

Cassian, though, turns to glare at him with a look that could level battlefields. “Because she doesn’t have one.”

“I do too!” You almost squeal, letting your arm fall in a way that Rhysand thinks was meant to simulate a stomp of your foot, if only your feet weren’t actively working against you at the moment. 

“And, who is this…husband?” Rhysand finally manages to ask, crouched on the floor of his home with the female he’s been in love with for nearly as long as he can remember – curled up in his arms and drunk six ways to Sunday – sobbing into his chest about a husband he’s quite sure you don’t have. 

You suck in a hiccuping breath, roughly rubbing the back of your fist along your eyes before looking up at him as though he might be the saviour from whatever strife you’re currently experiencing. 

“It’s you,” you murmur, bottom lip somehow finding a way to jut out even further as you blink wet lashes at him. Fissures fracture across Rhysand’s heart, leaving spidery splinters in its wake.

Mor, it seems, takes pity on her poor High Lord, attempting to placate the teary fae currently torpid in his arms. “Sweetheart, you and Rhys aren’t-”

But Rhsyand’s immediately shushing you (and her) when your eyes squeeze shut as though Morrigan telling you that Rhysand isn’t your husband causes you actual, physical pain. Rhysand is starting to wonder if he doesn’t feel it, too. 

“Sh, sh, sh. Of course I am; why would they say such things, hm?” 

He’s immediately fussing over you, brushing a few baby hairs licked with sweat from drink and dance away from your temples with gentle thumbs before moving to clean away the tears marring your perfect face. 

“Poor girl,” he murmurs as he presses fleeting kisses to your hairline. 

“Unbelievable,” Cassian huffs from somewhere to his left; Rhysand has effectively shut the rest of the world out as he leans into his new role, his favourite role. 

“So mean,” you repeat, though your ire is significantly swayed in the face of Rhysand’s affections. 

“They’re just terrible, aren’t they? Cruel, wicked fae. Let's get you cleaned up and ready for bed, hm?” 

Rhysand makes quick work of collecting you from the floor, tucking your head under his chin as he supports you with one arm behind your back and the other beneath your knees before he makes his way towards your chambers. 

He’s too busy murmuring sweet nothings into the crown of your head to pay much mind to the family snickering behind him, watching the two of you leave. 

“He is so whipped,” Azriel murmurs, offering Cassian a conciliatory pat to the shoulder for thinking he could hide you from Rhysand at all, let alone when you were so distressed. 

“Y’gotta admit, though,” Mor adds, “he’s a pretty good husband.”

“I hate you all.” Is Cassian’s only response.

7:43 am. PTMC. July 4th. 

“Where the hell is my resident?” Robby tossed his hands out as Dana walked by. 

“She no called no showed. That’s why I called Langdon in.” She gave Robby a look that appeared to say: ‘I’m sorry, but not really.’

“That’s very unlike her.” He argued in a sing-song voice. 

Dana shrugged and turned back towards the nurses’ station, not her problem. 

6:09 am. Pittsburgh neighborhood. July 4th. 

You were running late this morning. You yawned as you anxiously jogged towards the T train you rode to work. You lived farther from PTMC than ideal. And when your car broke down three months ago, it was your last priority to get it fixed as a broke resident. So, public transportation it was. 

You didn’t mind it, in fact the train ride normally helped calm your nerves on the way to work. A mindless ride where you didn’t have to focus on other drivers or endless city traffic. 

You shouldered your bag as the crosswalk lit up with the ‘walk’ symbol. Without a second thought, you crossed the street, your mind focused on not missing the next train. As you entered the striped crosswalk, an SUV took a right turn too hard, not noticing you in the soft morning light. You went down hard. 

Your ears were ringing and your vision blurred. You briefly recall reaching for your head and the slam of a car door before everything went black. 

You woke in the ambulance, the loud siren enhancing the pounding in your head. 

“Try not to move!” the paramedic shouted as she leaned over you. “Can you tell me your name?” Her brows were scrunched and you inhaled sharply at the overwhelming surroundings. 

You were in and out of consciousness the rest of the ride, your brain fuzzy and forgetful. 

6:56 am. Westbridge Hospital. July 4th. 

The hospital closest to your apartment was not your place of work. As they wheeled you in from the ambulance, you could barely stay awake. You groaned as they pushed you into the unfamiliar trauma room. 

“Ma’am? Ma’am, can you tell us your name?”

They moved you onto the table and your face scrunched in discomfort. You wanted to answer them, but your mind was too muddled. You heard the paramedic continue. “We didn’t see an ID or anything at the scene. She has scrubs on, does she work here?”

“I don’t recognize her. Scrubs could mean anything.” The doctor, you assume, answers. 

Your eyes squeeze shut. No ID? Where was your bag? Fuck, your hospital badge was in there. 

“Stay awake, sweetie. Open your eyes for me.” A softer voice was saying. Your eyes watered when you opened them again. 

“My bag-” You coughed. 

“What? What was that?” The nurse asked. 

You groaned. Your body felt hard and stiff, yet gelatin-like at the same time. You could recognize the assessments they were performing even in your disoriented state- assessments you performed on a daily basis. Your neck and airway were observed, vitals announced, a bright light was shone in your face, and a superficial glance for wounds. You felt the cold blade of scissors as your scrubs were cut. Your body was rolled, orders were shouted. 

You felt completely overwhelmed. You were having trouble understanding and processing what was going on, and you could feel blood dripping from your hairline. 

“Pulse is rising!” A new voice shouted. “BP dropping.”

“She’s in shock.” The doctor’s voice was loud. “Definitely have some internal bleeding in the left abdomen. Someone page surgery.”

“Does she need CT?”

“If we can stabilize her.”

Your blinking was hard and you felt your eyes flutter before you passed out. 

9:53 am. PTMC. July 4th. 

“We’re getting all Westbridge reroutes!” Dana’s voice sounded through the ER. 

A collective panic and disappointment filled the department, but the day moved on as it always did. 

11:41 pm. PTMC. Two weeks ago. 

You were covering a night shift for Ellis. Only catch, she couldn’t switch shifts. So, here you were working a double. You yawned as you caught up on some charting. An open cup of hot coffee landed next to your keyboard. 

You glanced up and smiled at the attending. “Thanks.” You took a sip. 

Jack smiled and gave you a small nod. “Night shift misses you.” He quirked. 

You rolled your eyes playfully. “I do not miss the all-nighters.” You tried to keep your focus on the screen in front of you. 

“Ah, they’re not that bad. You get used to them. You would have.” He nodded. 

You had switched to the day shift last month after a long year on the night shift rotation. You loved the night shift staff, and working under Abbot and Shen taught you a lot- but the constant overnight shifts were killing you. Along with the butterflies that filled your stomach when your boss was around. You started picking up day shifts, and with Langdon’s absence the past few months, Robby finally let you fill in for a few weeks full time. 

“Maybe.” You sigh and lean your head back to look at his form standing over you. “Why? You guys miss me down here?” You joke. 

“Some of us more than others.” He smirks, and you try to hide the immediate blush his words ignite. You shake your head. 

Abbot was fond of you and he knew it was apparent. He respected your character and your work ethic immensely. He was hard on you when you needed a push, but he held a strong soft spot for you. And he liked to throw out the occasional flirty line that sent your stomach spinning. 

He laughs quietly and moves on with a tap of his fist to the counter. You watch him retreat to a patient’s room, eyes trailing over his hard back. 

12:46 pm. PTMC. July 4th. 

Robby was pulled into the second motorcycle accident of the day. Beds were filling up and it was a great relief when Dr. Jack Abbot showed up early for his shift. He’d heard about the Westbridge closure and assumed the pitt would need all the help they could get. He’d taken a moment to change out of some of his tactical gear when Dana announced, “Incoming trauma from Westbridge! Car accident victim.” 

Dr. Al-Hashimi got up from her spot at the nurses’ station. She nodded for Joy to join her, grabbing gloves and heading for the ambulance bay. When they arrived, the paramedics were more frantic than she expected. 

“Car accident victim. Young female- looks to be late twenties, early thirties. She was awaiting surgery at Westbridge, but her vitals tanked on the way here. We had to bag her.” The paramedic squeezed the intubation bag as they walked speedily into the ER. Al-Hashimi nodded along. The paramedic continued, “Internal bleeding of the abdomen, possible TBI, vitals unstable. And she had no ID on her. Westbridge went into lockdown before they could search the system. We got a Jane Doe on our hands.” 

“Put her in Trauma Two!” Dana shouted without looking up from her chart. 

Jack glanced up from the computer he was working at as they pushed you down the hall. His brows furrowed and denial filled him as he registered who was on the stretcher. There was no way. His stomach sank. 

“Woah, woah, woah!” He shouted, jumping up from his seat. Eyes across the ER fell to his jogging form as he rushed over. “That’s not a Jane Doe! Fuck-” he glanced up.

Dana looked up at the scene and cursed. “That’s why she didn’t answer.” Her voice was worried under her breath as she hurried over to help. 

“Would someone like to explain to me what’s going on?” Al-Hashimi asked as you were pushed into Trauma Two, Jack right at your side now. Joy stepped back at the commotion, letting the attendings work. 

You were moved onto the table. Jack was pale, almost robotic as he worked. 

He spoke, “She’s a resident here. My resident. She- she’s not a Jane Doe.” He spoke your name with full assurance and glanced at your bruised face. 

Jesse pushed into the bay and sobered his features as he got to work. “Vitals all over the place still. She’s hypotensive. She came in from Westbridge?” 

“Yes.” Dana replied as you were rolled, her hand squeezing your arm in comfort even in your unconscious state. 

“Internal bleeding looks bad. Page surgery- now.” Jack swallowed as you were assessed all over again, at your place of work this time. 

He mumbled under his breath, “You’re okay.” Almost a reassurance to himself. 

“Pupil response is slow.” Al-Hashimi announced as she flashed her pen light. “Get neuro, too.”

“Someone get Robby in here!” Jack was sounding more impatient as your symptoms were uncovered. 

“He’s in with the motorcycle accident-" Dana started. 

Jack looked up from your limp form and into Trauma One. Robby was speaking to Santos over their patient. 

“Fuck.” He cursed again. He swallowed hard and tried not to let his gaze linger on your marked body. 

“Surgery’s sending someone.” Jesse announced. 

Abbot took the ultrasound wand and carefully moved it over the intense bruising on your side. “This internal bleeding is not good. Westbridge seriously couldn’t get her into the OR?” The frustration in his voice was evident. 

6:48 am. PTMC. Two weeks ago. Same shift. 

You were exhausted. The 24 hours in the ED were getting to you, and a nauseous feeling had been lingering in your stomach since around 4 am. You were handing off your patients to McKay and Mel, going over their stats and needs. As soon as the opportunity arose, you booked it to your locker. 

The bags under your eyes were harsh and defined. Your hair was tangled and frizzy. You grabbed your bag and slammed the locker shut. Just as relief filled you at the idea of getting home, your boss’s voice came from around the corner. “You driving home?” 

You shook your head. “My car broke down. I’ve been taking the train.”

Abbot looked at you for a moment before holding up a finger, a silent gesture for you to wait. You sighed and looked up at the ceiling, obeying. He returned a moment later with his bag over his shoulder. “C’mon. I’ll drive you.”

“Drive me? Home?”

He laughed under his breath. “Do you have somewhere else you need to be?”

You sighed, and in that moment, accepted his help. “No.”

He nodded and gestured for you to follow him. He led you to his truck and held the door for you. The drive was quiet and you felt comfortable enough to lean your head back and close your eyes. 

“Here.” He spoke quietly when you arrived. 

You jolted up and blinked hard. “Thank you.” You yawned. 

“Anytime.” 

You grabbed your bag and hopped out. You paused at the curb, hand on the door. “I’ll think about it.”

His brows scrunched. “About what?”

“The night shift.” 

He smiled. “Please do.” 

You returned the smile, shyly, and thanked him again before shutting the door. 

12:57 pm. PTMC. July 4th. 

“Where the fuck is surgery?” Abbot’s calm demeanor was wavering. Al-Hashimi bit her tongue. You were apparently one of this department's resident doctors, and she understood the urgency in the matter. 

Robby finally caught Dana’s eye from Trauma One and his face flooded with confusion as he tried to read the distress on hers. He snapped his gloves off and left Santos in charge, stepping into the second trauma bay. His inhale was sharp and loud as he took in the scene before him. 

He grabbed new gloves and stepped in right beside Jack. “What the hell happened to her?”

Dana answered, “Car accident. She was at Westbridge- they transferred her here before surgery got to it.”

“That’s bullshit.” Robby worked beside his fellow attending. 

Al-Hashimi stepped back quietly. “I will page neuro again.” She spoke calmly before stepping out. 

“Neuro?” Robby asked. 

“Low pupil response.” Jesse answered. “Paramedics said possible TBI.” 

“Possible TBI, yet they decided to transfer her here? What the hell kind of show are they running at Westbridge?” Jack spat. 

The monitor spiked. “BP’s dropping again, quick.” Jesse announced. 

“She’s probably in shock.” Robby worked. 

Garcia finally pushed in. “What do we got?” She froze for a second. “Is that?”

“Yes.” Abbott snapped. 

Garcia closed her shocked mouth and stepped in. “What- what happened?” She assessed your form as she asked. 

“She was hit by a car.” Dana explained for what felt like the millionth time.

“Shit.” Garcia whispered. “I can’t take her to the OR in this shape. Has neuro seen her? Did she get a CT?”

“No and no.” Jack said. 

“She’s at risk of-”

“Okay, then get neuro in here.” He snapped, again. 

Garcia exhaled hard and pulled off her gloves. “Bring her to me when she’s been seen and stabilized. That internal bleeding needs to be taken care of.” She left. 

The next half an hour was full of waiting. Waiting for a neuro consult. Waiting for meds to kick in. Waiting for a CT scan. And Jack stayed by your side the whole time, even when he knew he should step back out and help others. 

Neuro cleared you with a grade three concussion and your CT confirmed what was obvious. Garcia admitted you to the OR, and only then did Jack make his way back down to the ED, where he was restless and irritable. 

“You sure you want to be down here?” Robby asked in passing. 

“I’m fine.”

“She’ll be okay. They’ll take care of her.” He squeezed Jack’s shoulder.

10:17 pm. Lucky’s Bar. Last week. 

You were out. You never went out. But it was an old friend's birthday, and you would feel too bad missing it. The night had been lively and fun, and the few drinks you’d had were feeling good in your system. 

You were leaning against the bar waiting for your refill. The bar was one you liked. A more lowkey, almost sports bar/pub feeling to it. You tapped your chipped nail against the counter when an all too familiar voice spoke up beside you. 

“So, this is why you don’t want to come back to the night shift?”

He was stepping up beside you, a half-drank beer in his hands. 

“Dr. Abbot.” You acknowledged with a smile.

He smirked and leaned against the bartop next to you. “You didn’t answer my question.”

You laugh, amused. “No, I did not leave the night shift so I could go to bars. It’s a friend’s birthday.”

He nods in understanding, but there’s a mischievous glint in his eye. “So, you left because…? And don’t say exhaustion again.”

You scoff and stand from where you were leaning. “That is why!” You laugh. “I can’t do it anymore. Maybe I’m finally getting old.” 

“So, what does that make me?” He raised a brow. 

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “I don’t know how you do it.” 

His smile was genuine as he shook his head. “Just think about it some more. Coming back, that is. Robby has enough of you guys on his hands.”

The bartender placed your drink on the counter then. You thank him and Abbot clears his throat. 

“I won’t keep you. Have a good night, doctor.” 

You raised your glass and said goodnight. 

Your friends wanted to leave soon after that, and you were putting your jacket on when you met his eyes across the bar. He looked like he was with some friends, all standing around a pool table. You smiled and lifted your hand by your side to wave, a silent goodbye. He paused his conversation and crossed the room to you. 

“You leaving?”

You nod. “Yeah, my friends all called it a night.”

“Do you have a ride?”

“Um, the train again.” You laugh. 

He glances at his watch. “It’s late.”

“Not that late.” You shrug. “You don’t have to drive me home, Jack.” His name slips from your mouth like second nature, and you feel the heat of regret and embarrassment fill you. “Abbot. Dr. Abbot.”

He laughs softly. “Jack’s fine. And I don’t think you should be walking or taking the T alone.”

“I’m a big girl.”

He scoffs lightly. “Let’s go.” He carefully grabs your elbow and leads you outside to his car. He opens the door for you. The ride is filled with the soft radio and the occasional question to fill the air. 

When you arrive at your small apartment complex, you clear your throat. “Thank you. I, uh, I appreciate it.”

“Like I said, anytime.” 

You nod but don’t move. When you glance back at him your breath is quick. “Goodnight Jack.”

He speaks your name softly, like a whisper. 

You swallow hard and lean closer to him. A subtle movement, but he notices. He notices everything you do. How when you suture, you bite your bottom lip. Or how you used to always make a coffee at exactly 3:45 am on the night shifts. Or how you would fight Shen on charting, and him too at times. He noticed how your face flushed when he joked. Or how you’d inhale at his touch. 

He noticed. And he was waiting for the time when you’d finally notice he felt the same. 

His eyes fell to your lips and he could hear your breath intake. He moved towards you. A silent game of meeting in the middle. He could feel your breath on his lips now. Your eyes shut softly and when his mouth met yours, you melted into it. 

It was soft at first. A toe in the water. He cupped your face softly as he moved his mouth against yours. The kiss grew, along with the heat in your stomach. Your hand reached into his soft curls and you pulled him impossibly closer. 

He exhaled roughly at the touch and his tongue glided across your bottom lip. You opened your mouth to him and moaned at the growing sensation. His other hand came to meet the back of your head and you desperately wanted to climb across the car’s console then. But in that moment, a car alarm rang out and you pulled back, startled. 

Both of your breaths were ragged and Jack’s hand lingered softly on your neck. You licked your lips and swallowed hard as you met his eyes. 

“I should probably go.” You whispered. 

He cleared his throat and nodded. “Okay.”

You sat back and opened the door softly. “Thank you.”

He nodded again. 

“I’ll see you Monday?” You try to ask casually. 

“Yeah- yes.” He gives you a tight mouthed smile. 

You hop out of his truck. “Night, Jack.”

He returns the sentiment and waits until you’re inside of your apartment before driving off, a hand dragging over his face. 

4:33 pm. PTMC. July 4th. 

When Jack noticed Garcia walk into the pitt, his heart jumped. Her eyes landed on him and she moved to meet him. 

“She’s okay. She’s in the ICU. She’s been stabilized and they removed the intubation tube. She’ll wake up on her own.” Her voice was authoritative and she got the information out before he could question her. 

He nodded, hard. “Thank you.”

She went to share the update with Robby while Jack moved for the elevators. His foot tapped against the linoleum floor, his anxieties surfacing. He had jumped right back into the chaos of the ED after you’d been taken to the OR. He needed that distraction, a reason to keep his mind from freaking the fuck out. 

He walked down the ICU floor with a purpose. The charge nurse recognized him, “She’s in 614. She’s okay.” 

Abbot thanked her and when he reached your room, his heart sank a little. You were still asleep. Your head was bandaged, your form still, breathing deep and slow. He pulled the chair close to your bed and sat. 

6:09 pm. PTMC ICU. July 4th. 

You groaned harshly as the pounding in your head registered. You reached a wired hand to touch it when a voice rang out. 

“Hey, hey. Careful.” 

You groaned again as the IV in your hand tugged. 

It was when he spoke your name that you realized it was Jack’s voice. 

“Jack?” You cough and blink. 

“I’m here, yeah.” He reached for the water on the table to help you take a sip. 

You coughed again after, and glanced at him. “What happened?” 

He placed the cup down and sighed. “You were in an accident. A car hit you.” 

Your heart monitor spiked. “What?” 

Jack moved closer. “It’s okay. You’re okay now. You were taken to Westbridge, but they went into lockdown. You were transferred here.” He finally reached over and squeezed your hand. 

“What’s wrong with me? What happened?” Your voice shook. 

“You have a grade 3 concussion and Garcia took care of your internal injuries. You’re okay now, I promise. I know it’s a lot.” His voice was reassuring and gentle. 

A tear rolled down your cheek and he didn’t hesitate to catch it with the pad of his thumb. “You scared me.” He whispered. 

“I’m sorry.” You mumble. 

He shakes his head. “No, no. Honey, please don’t apologize.” 

You exhale at the term of endearment, a calm washing over you. 

“So, I’m okay?”

Jack nods. “You’re okay.”

You squeeze his hand back. 

He sits with you before meeting your eyes with determination. “This just- this is making me realize a lot of things.” He glances down before continuing. “I care a lot about you, and I want you to know that. I don’t- I don’t want to beat around the bush anymore.” 

You exhale shakily but nod, tears forming in your eyes. “I don’t either.” 

He smiles softly, his hand reaching to comfort you. “Come back to the night shift where I can keep an eye on you.”

You laugh but groan when your abdomen clenches. “Don’t make me laugh.”

He laughs softly. “Sorry.” He continues, “We can make this work. And you can stay on night shift. You’re a brilliant doctor, and I don’t want you to hide away from me anymore on the day shift. I’d like my resident back. And I also want to ask her on a proper date.”

You smile at his words and nod, teary. “Okay.” 

Contents -

ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ One | Starlight in Spring | 2.8k words

ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ Two | Old Wounds | 3.1k words

ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ Three

ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ Four

ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ Five

ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ Six

ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ Seven

ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ Eight

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.

Theo and Winter's book from the Chestnut Springs series was one of my absolute favourites, and it definitely helped inspire this fic. I'm a sucker for the secret child trope, the whole "learning each other again" arc is always so sweet!!

This time the child is a boy (since in "Starlight" we already got our baby girl, Velaria!). I thought it would be fun to explore the father–son dynamic with Rhys this round :)

Her wrists were bound before she could form a coherent thought, rope scratching the skin raw. The only sounds were her ragged breaths and the heavy boots dragging her forward, etc step echoing off stone as if the walls themselves were closing in.

Cold. Gods, it was cold. The damp air smelled of mold and rust--of places no one came back from.

She fought to keep track of turns, to memorise the path, but every jolt and shove blurred together until time itself seemed to vanish.

A door groaned open. She was pushed inside, the floor beneath her knees wet and sticky. The blindfold didn't come off.

A voice slithered out of the dark, low and grating. "We need to get to the Shadowsinger," it said, and she could hear the rotting smirk in the words. "Seems capturing one of the Archeron sisters will do just fine."

The pieces clicked with sickening ease.

Of course. She wasn't the prize--she was the bait.

But the revelation didn't stop there--it pulled her backward, years and years, to where this all began.

Azriel had been the only one she could truly call a close friend.

From the moment the Cauldron had dragged her under, lungs burning, bones stretching, senses sharpening into something new, she’d been reborn alongside her two sisters. Elain’s sobs had been soft, Nesta’s silence sharp, but Y/N… she’d stared at her hands, her reflection, her glowing, strange eyes, and felt a thrill deep in her chest. She was immortal now. She had centuries ahead of her to do, see, and be everything she’d once thought impossible.

Being reunited with Feyre, her high lady older sister, had only added to the joy. There had been so much to catch up on, so many moments stolen by months of separation. And after the war--their war--there’d been peace. There had been laughter and dinners in Velaris, quiet mornings watching the city stir awake.

It was in those months after the fighting that she and Azriel had found friendship in each other--not in some grand moment, but through small, consistent ones. A nod across the River House dining room. A conversation on a balcony that stretched until dawn. Training sessions where he corrected her stance with the faintest touch, shadows curling lazily around her. Somewhere between the first sparring match and the first time she made him laugh--really laugh--he’d become her confidant.

For a while, she'd been happy. Truly, blindingly happy. Until her two sisters also found their mates.

It had started subtly: Nesta canceling their weekly sister sleepovers, Elain showing up late and distracted. Then came the excuses, the absences, the drifting away until those nights vanished altogether. No one suggested reinstating them Not even Feyre. No one seemed to notice their absence but her.

Y/N wouldn't lie...it hurt.

One night, she’d confided in Azriel, words spilling out in the quiet of his private balcony. She told him about her fear of never finding her mate, of always being the odd one out. That she felt invisible in her own family, the forgotten sister standing in the shadow of brighter flames.

Azriel had tried to make her laugh--murmuring something about how she was hardly alone, seeing as poor old him had gone 538 years without a mate. But when her voice broke on the next joke, he’d simply sat there with her, shadows curling close, listening as the night turned into morning.

They'd become closer after that.

That was, up until now.

Because now, all she felt was like a burden.

Because of her, her family--and especially Azriel--would be in danger. Or maybe...maybe no one would come for her at all. She was the overlooked one, the forgotten Archeron sister. The one whose absence barely made a ripple.

Y/N smiled sadly beneath the blindfold. At least being an outcast would work in her favor for once.

Azriel rolled the stiffness from his shoulders as he made his way toward the River House dining room. Another long day of hunting down leads and extracting information had left him with the familiar ache in his muscles, the metallic tang of blood still faint on his gloves. Dinner with the others wasn't exactly his idea of unwinding, but Rhys and Feyre insisted on having everyone together tonight.

He slowed without meaning to as he reached the last bend in the hallway. The sound of raised voices spilled toward him--urgent, sharp. The loudest was Feyre's. "...it's not like her- "

Then her name.

Y/N.

Azriel's pulse jumped.

He was moving before the thought fully formed, shadows coiling tighter around him as he burst into the room. Chaos met him on the other side. Feyre stood at the head of the table, eyes bright with worry, Rhys at her shoulder with a hand on her arm as if to keep her steady. Elain's voice broke from where she sat, fingers wringing in her lap.

"She promised she'd be back by the afternoon," Elain said, looking from face to face as though someone might have an answer. "It's well past sunset now--hours past--and she's still not here."

Nesta was pacing near the hearth, arms crossed, her jaw tight. Mor leaned against the wall, uncharacteristically silent, while Amren's sharp gaze cut between them all. Cassian sat forward on his chair, elbows on his knees, tension rolling off him.

"You're certain she went to the market?" Feyre pressed.

"Yes," Elain said, nodding quickly. "She told me this morning. Just to pick up a few things."

"Maybe she got lost on the way back," Rhys said, though his tone hel little conviction. "We should send someone to check- "

Azriel's voice through, cut steel-edged. "Where exactly did she say she'd be in the market?"

The room stilled. Nesta stopped pacing, turning to face him. "Near the fountain. At the far end by the spice vendors. That's her favourite place to visit."

Azriel's eyes went to Rhys. The High Lord's answering nod was all the permission he needed.

He was moving before anyone could say another word, shadows streaming after him, wings flaring in the tight hall. His mind was already spiralling into places he didn't want it to go--every sick, twisted possibility clawing to the surface.

Please be fine, Y/N. Please be fine.

he streets near the fountain were nearly empty now, lamplight spilling in golden puddles across the cobblestones. Azriel's shadows slithered ahead, searching every dark corner, every rooftop. His gaze swept over the crowd, sharp and searching--until a faint thread of scent brushed past him.

Y/N.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he followed it, the shadows pulling him down a narrower street. The scent grew stronger--until it stopped.

There, in the middle of the cold, damp road, lay a basket.

Her basket.

He recognized it instantly--woven with pale wood and lined with soft cream cloth, the one Elain had given her last Winter Solstice. Its contents were scattered across the stones as though dropped mid-step: a loaf of crusty bread, two small jars of honey, and a folded length of deep-blue silk that caught faint moonlight.

People had walked past it without pause, stepping over the mess. To them, it was nothing.

But to Azriel, it was everything.

He knelt beside it, the world narrowing to the sight of those familiar items strewn where she must've stood. His shadows darted out, seeking more of her trail, but came back empty. No scents but hers lingered--not a whiff of the ones who had taken her.

His stomach turned cold. They'd masked their scents. Professional. Deliberate.

Azriel's vision blurred for a moment as his jaw clenched. Slowly, carefully, he gathered the items and set them back into the basket, fingers brushing over the worn handle. His hands were steady only because he forced them to be.

In his mind, the faces of her captors--whoever they were--were already being built from shadows and rage. He would find them. He would destroy them Piece by piece.

It was certain now. She'd been taken.

Azriel straightened, the basket in his hand, and let the rage settle into something colder. Sharper.

Hold strong, Y/N.

Because he would find her.

No matter what.

She had no idea how long it had been.

Minutes, hours--it all bled together in the suffocating dark. Every second felt like an eternity, yet Y/N guessed it had only been a few hours since they'd dragged her here.

The blindfold had stayed on.

They hadn't wasted any time before the pain had began.

A blow to her ribs that stole her breath. The sharp sting of something--metal?--raking across her arm. A boot pressed cruelly into her back when she fell to her knees. Questions hurled at her in voices dripping with malice, each one sharper than the last.

“Tell us about Rhysand.”

“I don’t know anything- ”

A fist to her jaw.

“Where is the Illyrian commander? Where is Cassian?”

“I- please, I don’t- ”

A sharp twist of her hair, forcing her head back.

“What about the Shadowsinger?” A pause, a hiss in her ear. “We know you’re close. Tell us where he is.”

She bit down on her lip hard enough to taste blood. "I don't know anything!"

The blows kept coming, punctuated by jeers that cut deeper than any strike. "Not so high and mighty now, are you?"

"You think you're important, little Archeron? You're nothing but a pretty face playing at power."

"You're right, I'm not the High Lady. Not the Lady of Death. Not even the Seer. So please, let me go!"

She begged. Gods, she begged. Tried to make them see she wasn't what they thought she was. She wasn't Feyre, the High Lady with raw, untamed power. She wasn't Nesta, forged from fire and steel, death in a woman's skin. She wasn't Elain, with visions that could alter the course of war.

She didn't even know what she was.

Whatever 'gift' the Cauldron had given her, if any, had remained silent all this time. And yet they didn't care.

"Your sisters would've fought by now," one sneered. "You? You'll break like glass."

"Maybe we should start taking pieces of you. Send them to Rhysand or Azriel one by one until they answer."

Her chest heaved under the weight of their words, the pain thrumming through every inch of her body. For the first time, she truly began to wonder if she'd make it out alive.

"They want to lure us in," Rhysand said, voice cold enough to frost the air.

Azriel set the basket down on the table. The cream lining was smudged with dirt, the blue silk stained from where it had fallen to the road. “This was hers. I found it near the market fountain. Her trail stops there—no scents but hers.” His jaw tightened. “Whoever took her masked themselves. They knew what they were doing.”

Elain’s hands flew to her mouth, a choked sob breaking loose. She shook her head over and over, whispering, “No, no, not Y/N…” The sound cut through the room like a blade. Mor was at her side in an instant, guiding her toward the door as Elain’s sobs grew ragged, the sound fading only when the door shut behind them.

Nesta’s eyes were sharp and burning, her fists clenching at her sides. Feyre stood stiff, eyes twitching in restrained fury, while Cassian cursed low and vicious under his breath. Amren leaned back in her chair, silver eyes glittering like sharpened steel.

"We don't know who has her, or where," Rhys said, scanning the room. "But if they took her in broad daylight and masked their scents, it's calculated. And if they've gone after her specifically..." His gaze flicked to Feyre.

Feyre's voice trembled, just slightly. "Poor Y/N. The Mother knows what they're doing to her right now."

Azriel's hands curled into fists before he could stop himself. The thought alone--the idea of her in pain, in fear--sent a hot, slicing fury through his chest. His shadows rippled sharply, betraying what he didn't say aloud.

"We can't waste time," he said, each word clipped. "Every second we sit here, they get further."

Rhys gave a single nod. "Agreed. Azriel, Cassian--you'll take the skies. Amren and Nesta, start running the perimeter with anyone available. Also inform Mor. Feyre and I will reach out to our contacts in the city."

Cassian was already halfway to the door. Nesta moved toward him, but her gaze lingered on Azriel. "Find her," she said. It wasn't a request.

"I will," Azriel promised, the vow low and lethal.

As the others moved into motion, his mind was already a map of possibilities--every dark corner, every smuggler's route, every enemy who might dare to try this. But under it all was one clear, unwavering thought:

Hold on, Y/N. I'm coming.

If only he'd known how hard it would be to track her.

Two whole days had passed since Y/N vanished without a trace. In all his long centuries, Azriel had never faced such a challenge as finding her. The bastards who'd taken her were professionals--silent, careful, leaving not so much as a footprint to follow.

His shadows were gone, every last one, under his orders. They were scattered across the Night Court and beyond, creeping through the other courts, combing alleys, forests, docks, tunnels.

And still, nothing.

Azriel hadn’t slept. Not truly. Every hour was spent searching--questioning informants in the slums, scouring every black market and smuggler’s den, slipping through enemy borders without permission. His patience, honed over centuries, frayed more with each dead end. Fury ate at him from the inside out, each passing moment sharpening into the same relentless thought: what if he was too late?

The others were no better. Feyre spent her hours in council and in the skies, her expression hardening more each day. Rhysand was gaunt from exhaustion, spending countless hours raking through the minds of anyone even remotely suspicious...only to find walls or emptiness.

Elain sat for hours in her garden or the quietest corners of the River House, clutching Y/N’s scarf as though it could tether her to a vision. But whatever she tried, the threads remained dark, unspooling into nothing.

Nesta had taken to constant movement: searching the city, flying with Cassian, stalking into every place that might offer a whisper of information. Cassian rarely left her side, his own worry showing in the way he watched her when she wasn’t looking.

Mor and Amren hunted leads in their own ways--Mor slipping into dangerous places where her name still carried weight, Amren leaning over maps and sending out messages through her own web of contacts.

The River House had become a place of hushed voices and quick glances, everyone bracing for news that never came.

Azriel was in Rhysand’s office with Cassian when the door slammed open hard enough to rattle the shelves. Nesta stalked in, eyes bright and dangerous.

“I think I have a plan,” she said, voice low but sharp. “One that might work.”

Time had become a cruel, shapeless thing.

The interrogations didn't stop. Not once. Every few hours--though it could've been minutes or days--they came for her again. Always the same questions.

About Azriel's job.

His secrets that they were so sure he'd shared with her.

"We've been tracking you for a long time, little mouse," one whispered in her ear, the smell of alcohol and something else--something disgusting--blocking her nose. "So we know how close you've been with him. Close enough for him to share his secrets with you."

Then came other types of questions:

His missions.

Where he went when the rest of the Inner Circle didn't see him.

His every move.

She told them the truth. Over and over. I don't know. But the answer never changed their methods.

With each passing minute, the fragile thread of hope she’d been clinging to frayed thinner. At first, she’d tried to hold on--imagining Feyre’s wings blotting out the sun as she landed, Nesta’s steel gaze cutting through chains, Azriel’s shadows spilling into the room before he cut down her captors. But those images came less and less.

Now her mind wandered into darker places.

What if no one was coming?

What if they couldn’t find her?

What if she simply… disappeared?

At some point, they’d torn the blindfold from her eyes. The light in the room had been dim, but it still burned after so long in darkness. And then she’d seen them.

Three faces--if they could be called that. All warped, ugly, monstrous. Their skin looked stretched too tight, their eyes too small for their skulls. She didn’t know them, didn’t recognize anything in them except hunger.

The questions had kept coming. Her begging had stopped.

"I do not know," she murmured again, her voice a rasp. She barely flinched when the slap came, her head snapping to the side.

Her wrists and ankles were bound in heavy chains that dug into her skin, the weight pulling at her shoulders and hips. Every breath was a reminder of the bruises painting her ribs. One shoulder hung at an odd angle, dislocated from when they’d slammed her into the wall earlier.

The pain had dulled to something constant, almost background noise.

It was the anger that burned brighter.

At herself--for being careless.

At her captors--for thinking they could break her.

At life--for making her the one who always seemed easiest to take.

She swallowed, straightened as much as the chains allowed. If this was the end, they would not see her beg again.

Not now. Not ever.

"No."

"No!"

Azriel blinked, and Nesta's shocked, furious glare was met with identical expressions from Rhysand and Cassian.

"What?!" Nesta barked. "But- "

Rhys cut her off, his voice sharp. "You cannot just use the Mask to call the dead to you and command them to search for Y/N!"

"Well, why the hell not?" Nesta snapped. "The Dread Trove is mine! I can do whatever I fucking please with it, can't I?"

Rhysand let out a long, frustrated sigh. "Look...I know you're desperate to find Y/N before it's too late- "

"Watch it, Rhysand," Nesta shot back, eyes flashing.

He didn’t stop. “-we all are. But summoning the dead is extremely dangerous. I understood it during the war, but now? You can’t just summon thousands, if not millions, of dead skeletons, to one place. It’s not just about control. You’d risk catastrophic collateral damage. The dead might not stay contained. The laws of life and death aren’t forgiving.”

Cassian crossed his arms, voice low and steady, though edged with worry. “He’s right, Nesta. It’s too dangerous. The risk to everyone--even to the Night Court--is enormous.”

Azriel’s fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. Heat pooled in his chest, sharp and relentless.

“Are you two even hearing yourselves?!” he barked, voice booming over the office. Both Nesta and the others froze mid-gesture. “Y/N IS LOST! GONE! And yet here you are, rejecting a perfectly logical plan because of what? Too many dead roaming our court?!”

He stepped forward, the shadows around him pulsing like living things. “We should be doing EVERYTHING we can to find her. Every possible path, every option! And you’re sitting here squabbling over what could happen if we take a chance? Do you even understand what’s at stake? She’s not just missing--she’s in the hands of monsters who are professionals at keeping her hidden, and we are running out of time!”

His voice dropped to a low, trembling growl, fury mingling with fear. “Do you even hear me? Do you even hear what I’m saying?!”

Cassian opened his mouth, but Azriel didn’t wait. He spun on his heel, shadows curling tight around him as he stormed toward the balcony.

“You can argue all you want!” he snarled over his shoulder. “I don’t care about ‘too dangerous’! She’s all that matters right now!”

With a powerful leap, he vaulted over the balcony railing, wings unfurling and catching the wind in a rush of motion. In an instant, he was gone, streaking into the night, the city lights blurring beneath him as every ounce of his being focused on one truth: he would find her. No matter what.

The nights were endless, the city below him a blur of streets and rooftops, shadows stretching and curling with every step. He hunted tirelessly, gliding from court to court, village to village, through forests and along cliffs where smugglers and thieves might hide. The wind tore at his cloak, the stars offering no comfort. Each street corner, each dark alley, was a potential lead, and yet, every time he followed one, it dissolved into nothing.

Sleep had abandoned him. Food, water--he barely noticed. The only thing that mattered was finding her.

And with every failed attempt, every lead that came to a dead end, the anger at himself grew. He should have seen it coming. He should have been faster. How could I have let this happen? The questions clawed at him relentlessly.

Her face came unbidden to his mind--the tilt of her head when she laughed, that spark in her eyes when she’d figured something out before anyone else. The way she’d lean slightly into him during training, a silent trust he hadn’t been sure he deserved. The quiet moments at the River House, the way she had confided in him, sharing her fears and her hopes.

He remembered one night after the war, sitting on a balcony with her, her voice barely above a whisper as she told him she felt forgotten. He had laughed softly then, hiding the weight of his own solitude behind teasing words, shadows coiling around them like silent guardians. That had been a simpler time.

Now, those memories were knives in his chest, reminders of everything at stake--and everything he might fail to save.

Every whisper of movement, every trace of scent, every shadow that shifted in the corner of his vision became a possibility. He followed them all, tortured by the thought that maybe, just maybe, he was too late.

Yet he refused to stop. He couldn’t. She was out there somewhere, and he would not rest until he had her safe, until he had torn her from whatever hell she had been thrown into.

Azriel’s wings beat the cold night air, and his shadow stretched long and furious across the land. Every heartbeat, every pulse, every whispered memory of Y/N drove him onward.

No matter how long it took.

No matter what it cost.

Time blurred. Hours felt like days. She had no sense of the sun, no clue whether it was night or morning. The only constants were the pain and the voices.

The interrogations never stopped. Questions spat at her again and again--about Rhysand’s power, about Cassian’s defenses, about Azriel’s missions. What does he do when he disappears? Where does he go? Who does he kill?

Every time her answer was the same, low and rasped from exhaustion: "I don't know."

The slap would come before she could even draw her next breath. Or the punch. Or the boot to her ribs. Her body was already a map of bruises and bleeding welts. She wanted to cry, but even her tears had run dry. Instead, her silence only made them crueler.

One of them leaned close, his breath rancid as he snarled, "Useless little sister. No wonder your family barely remembers you exist." Then he turned toward his companions and sighed frustratedly. "We should've taken a more useful sister. It's been four fucking days and Azriel still isn't within our reach. Nor do we have any intel on them."

Another male, the one without his left eye, looked at Y/N in disgust and then back at him. "So...what should we do with her?"

All four heads turned towards her as their 'leader' spoke with a smirk. "We kill her and send her body back in pieces."

Her chains rattled as she shifted, her body aching from the cold stone beneath her. Every inhale was a battle, every exhale a reminder of how fragile she felt. Hope had begun to slip through her fingers like sand.

Her lips trembled, but she forced the corners upward into a bitter smile. Maybe being forgotten would work in her favor, just this once. If her family wasn’t dragged into this because of her--if Azriel wasn’t dragged into this--then perhaps it wouldn’t be so terrible to simply… fade away.

The thought twisted like a knife in her chest. And still, she sat there in the dark, body broken, voice hoarse, bracing herself for her death. The next reminder that she was prey, caught and waiting.

The war room was drowning in silence. Four days. Four days without a trace, without a whisper of her, and every passing hour scraped Azriel raw. His shadows hissed and clawed, restless, angry, unable to find what he needed most. He stood by the window, fists clenched so tight his knuckles burned, his gaze fixed on nothing.

And then-

A choked sound tore through the room.

"Elain?" Feyre's voice was sharp, alarmed.

Azriel turned just in time to see her collapse to her knees, a strangled cry ripping from her throat as her hands clutched at her chest. Her eyes glazed--gone white, pupils swallowed by a light that was not of this world.

"Elain!" Nesta was already there, gripping her sister's shoulders. Cassian crouched low beside her, panic flashing in his eyes.

But Rhys's face went deadly still. "No one touch her."

"She's- she's- " Feyre's words faltered as she looked at her sister.

Azriel's heart slammed against his ribs. His shadows went utterly silent, curling tight against him like they knew. A vision.

Elain's body trembled, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She muttered something no one could understand--fragmented words, broken syllables. Then her head snapped back, a cry ripping from her lips that sounded like pure agony.

Nesta shook her again, desperate. "Elain, damn it, tell us what you see!"

Azriel's chest was a cage, every inhale sharp and shallow. He forced the words out, steel and prayer entwined. "Please...let it be about Y/N."

Rhys' eyes narrowed, already reaching out with his power, steady but tense. "It has to be."

And then Elain's voice broke through the storm of fear--ragged, trembling, but clear enough to freeze the blood in Azriel's veins.

"I see her."

The room erupted, voices overlapping--Nesta demanding where, Feyre begging how, Cassian and Mor swearing--but Azriel’s vision tunneled. His heart thundered as he moved closer, every muscle taut.

“Where is she, Elain?” His voice was low, lethal, but underneath--pleading. Tell me. Give me something. Save her.

Elain’s eyes flicked toward him, though she couldn’t possibly see him. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks as her lips trembled, shaping words that would seal their path.

"They're going to kill her."

Her mind was slipping. Threads of memory and hallucination weaving together until she could no longer tell which was which. Her mother’s soft humming. The way sunlight used to filter through the trees when she was small. Azriel’s unreadable hazel eyes watching her too closely. Cassian’s booming laugh. Elain’s gentle hands brushing flour from her cheek.

It all bled together, comforting and cruel, reminders of a world she wasn’t sure she belonged to anymore.

Her body had long since given up screaming at her--numbness had taken over, the ache buried so deep it was almost easier than fighting. It was a miracle she had lasted this long without food, without water. Another cruel gift of being High Fae. Endurance meant only a longer stretch of torment.

Her head lolled to the side, breath shallow, vision blurred with shadows and stars she couldn’t quite blink away. Maybe--maybe if she closed her eyes, she would see her mother again. Maybe she would be waiting. Y/N had always been her mother’s shadow, her little echo. Out of all three sisters, she was the one who had clung to her mother’s warmth the most.

At least think of nice things before it ends.

Her thoughts were severed by the cold bite of iron, the sound of chains scraping against stone as they fastened her to something solid--a boulder, jagged against her spine.

Through the haze she caught the sight of them. The males. Her captors. Standing before her now, blades glinting in the dim light. Predators circling the inevitable end.

Her chest rose once, twice, on a deep inhale that tasted like blood and metal. Slowly, she let her eyes fall shut, surrendering to the darkness. If this was her last moment, she would meet it with calm, not tears.

The scrape of boots drew nearer. The hiss of steel raised.

And then-

The first blow came. A sharp, tearing agony as the sword plunged into her lower stomach.

Her body arched against the stone with the impact, a choked sound strangled in her throat. The pain was fire, white-hot, merciless.

But she did not scream.

Not this time.

The cave was filled with screams before the soldiers even realized what had descended upon them. Shadows erupted like a living storm, snuffing out light, searing fear into every corner. And at the center of it--Azriel. His siphons flared blue, his wings slicing the air, each movement a promise of death.

He had thought, in those endless nights searching, that maybe he’d hold back when he found them. That maybe he’d just incapacitate the bastards so he could take his time later, wring every secret out of them with a blade. But then… he saw her.

Y/N.

Chained, bleeding, body too still. A sword protruding from her lower stomach, crimson staining the stone. Her eyes were half-lidded as if she had already started to drift away.

And Azriel snapped.

He didn’t fight. He slaughtered. Silent, efficient, merciless. Every male who had laid a hand on her was cut down before they could even lift a weapon. Shadows pinned one against the wall as Azriel drove Truth-Teller through his chest. Another tried to flee--his wings were torn from his body before Azriel slit his throat. Not even screams had time to form

Nesta’s fire flared cold and deadly as she ripped through two more, her blade singing with death. Cassian was a whirlwind of brute force, slamming one into the rock hard enough that bones cracked like twigs.

And then--silence.

The three of them stood amidst the carnage, blood dripping, shadows hissing low and restless around Azriel. His siphons pulsed like a heartbeat gone wild. But none of it mattered. None of it compared to the sight of Y/N, broken and barely breathing.

“Cauldron damn them,” Nesta breathed, her voice shaking with rage as she dropped to her knees beside her sister. Her hands hovered uselessly, trembling as she whispered, “What did they do to you, Y/N…”

Cassian’s eyes were burning, fists clenched, chest heaving with fury. “Monsters,” he spat. “Fucking monsters. They’ll never touch you again, I swear- ” His voice cracked.

Azriel didn’t hear the rest. He was already moving, already kneeling, already sliding trembling hands beneath Y/N’s limp body. Blood--her blood--soaked his leathers instantly, hot and suffocating, and he thought he might vomit from the sheer terror choking him.

“Stay with me,” he whispered harshly, pulling her against his chest as carefully as he could. His shadows curled around her, frantic and protective, as if they could hold her soul tethered to her body. “Y/N. Please. Stay with me.”

Her lashes fluttered weakly, her lips parting. A broken breath escaped before she whispered, barely audible, "Azriel...is that you?"

His heart stopped.

And then-

The snap.

It ripped through him like lightning, a tether locking tight around his very core. A bond. A truth. His mate.

Azriel froze, staring down at her in shock, even as her faint, disbelieving gasp echoed the same realization. His mate. His mate.

A thousand emotions warred in him a once: fury at fate for making this moment their beginning, guilt so sharp it could tear him apart, and desperate, desperate hope that she would not leave him now. Not when he had just found her.

He had never had a mate. Had never thought he would. And now--now the Cauldron had given him Y/N, only to try to rip her away on the very same day.

Her trembling hand rose weakly, brushing his chest before her lips moved again, shaping two soft, broken words.

"My mate."

And then her body went limp in his arms.

Two days.

Two entire days since they had dragged her broken, bleeding body back through the wards of Velaris. Two days since she had slipped into a deep, unmoving unconsciousness. Two days that had stretched longer than any of the centuries Azriel had endured before them.

The memory of that return still clawed at him. Feyre’s scream as she caught sight of Y/N in his arms, raw and keening, enough to shake the walls. Rhysand’s immediate roar of command, summoning every healer in the city. Elain stumbling ahead of them, pale and trembling, whispering prayers under her breath as she guided them through rooms. Mor’s sobs, her hands slick with Y/N’s blood as she tried to help stanch wounds that would not stop bleeding. Amren, uncharacteristically silent, her ancient eyes glittering like steel as she barked orders no one dared disobey.

And him, Azriel, who had refused to let anyone pry her from his arms until the healers forced him to. Who had not left her side since. Not once.

He’d braced himself for it, the words he dreaded most. Too late. Nothing we can do. She won’t wake. Every time the healers stepped out of her chamber, he expected it. Every time they sighed, every time they whispered, his heart split further, until he was sure there was nothing left to shatter.

But the words never came.

Still, the silence was its own torment. Her breathing shallow but steady. Her pulse faint but there. He should have felt hope. Instead, Azriel felt only self-loathing.

He had failed her. He had let them take her. He had spent days chasing shadows while she had been chained, beaten, stabbed. He had let himself believe that she would be safe, that he had time. Stupid. Blind. Weak. He had promised himself long ago he would never let someone in only to fail them. And now, the Cauldron had cursed him with a mate he did not deserve.

Maybe he never should have had one at all.

Azriel sat in the dim chamber, shadows curling around him like mourning veils, head in his hands. The scent of her blood still clung to his leathers, even after scrubbing until his skin was raw. It lived in his lungs, choking him, each inhale a reminder of how easily he could lose her.

And if she never woke? If she slipped away before he could ever tell her--before she could even truly know--what she was to him? His chest caved with the thought. He wouldn’t survive it. Not this.

The door burst open.

He shot to his feet instantly, siphons flaring, shadows hissing.

Mor stood in the doorway, breathless, wide-eyed. “She’s awake,” she blurted, not sparing another word before she spun and dashed down the hall.

For a heartbeat, Azriel just stared, the words refusing to register. Awake. Alive. Moving.

Then it hit.

His shadows shrieked with a sound like wind snapping through trees, and he was already moving, heart hammering so hard it hurt, thoughts a blur. Awake. She’s awake. Please, Cauldron, let it be true. Please let me not be too late. Please-

He ran, faster than he’d ever run without flight, hope so sharp it was painful, tearing through the fog of despair that had bound him for two endless days.

The room was packed. The entire Inner Circle crowded around the bed, voices hushed, faces taut with relief and fear alike. Feyre sat perched on the edge, both of Y/N's hands held tightly in hers, her High Lady composure cracked by the tears streaming freely down her face.

Azriel barely saw them. He pushed past bodies, ignoring Cassian’s hand on his shoulder, ignoring Amren’s sharp look, ignoring Elain’s soft sob. His entire world narrowed to the small, fragile figure lying beneath layers of blankets.

Her.

Y/N’s eyes were half-lidded, her skin far too thin, but they were open. Open, and finding him, and--Cauldron help him--she smiled. It was faint, pained, but it was there.

She didn’t move much; every shift made her wince. One arm was tightly bound against her side in a sling, her dislocated shoulder still healing. The bruises had not yet faded from her throat, her cheek, her temple. She looked broken. And still, she looked radiant to him. Alive.

Feyre was whispering something, voice trembling with joy and relief, but Y/N’s gaze didn’t leave his. Slowly, weakly, she slipped one hand from Feyre’s grasp, her fingers trembling with the effort. She lifted it slightly, beckoning him forward.

Azriel’s knees nearly gave out. He moved to her without thinking, sinking down at her side, so close now that he could see every flutter of her lashes, every shallow rise and fall of her chest.

Her hand brushed his jaw, then settled against his cheek. Her skin was fever-warm, her touch barely there, but it undid him.

“My mate,” she whispered, so soft it was almost a breath.

And Azriel...Azriel broke. Centuries of restraint shattered in an instant. His head bowed, his shoulders shaking as tears burned and spilled, as his hand rose to cover hers against his cheek. He didn’t care about the audience, about the Inner Circle watching in stunned silence. He didn’t care that they were seeing him unravel, seeing him feel. All he cared about was her.

He forced himself to lift his head, to meet her gaze through the blur of his tears. “No,” he choked, voice breaking. “No, not yet. Don’t- don’t accept it yet. You’re not well enough. Not like this.”

But she shook her head, slow, weak, stubborn as ever. Her lips curved faintly in a smile that was both fragile and defiant. “Please,” she breathed, voice rough with pain, “I’m… well enough.”

The bond between them snapped taut, a golden thread pulling tight, and Azriel felt it--the certainty, the recognition, the eternity. His soul locked with hers, and there was no undoing it now. Not that he would ever want to.

He pressed his forehead gently to hers, shadows curling protectively around them both. “I’ll always be by your side,” he swore, voice low, steady despite the tremor in his chest. “I’ll never leave you again. This will never happen again. Do you hear me, Y/N? Never.”

Her lashes fluttered, a tear slipping free. Her hand squeezed faintly against his cheek, and her lips curved once more.

“I hear you.”

And though her voice was faint, though her body was weak, the bond between them thrummed with strength, with promise, with the beginning of something Azriel had never dared hope for.

For the first time in his life, he let himself believe.

It was stupid, really, how you ended up in this situation. Falling up the stairs, mother above. You’d deserve any teasing coming your way. Gritting your teeth, trying to drag yourself up and yelping. Something was broken, but you couldn’t figure out what. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

You chanted as many curses as you could, like that might alleviate some of the pain currently shooting up and down your leg. Daring a look down, you saw - nope, and tilted your head back up to the ceiling. 

Running the stairs in the House of Wind. Cassian’s idea. Now, you were stuck on step one-thousand something, both Rhys and Azriel out in Illyria, and Cassian upstairs. Maybe he’d come looking for you if you didn’t return. 

After a few minutes of careful breathing, you realized you’re the only one who can get yourself out of this situation. Miserable, this was misery in it’s prime. Given the situation, you figured some dramatics are acceptable. 

Palms pressing against the stone, you winced as your upper body took on the brunt of your weight, alternating each push with a yell - as if someone might hear. 

Maybe twenty stairs, and you were already exhausted - your head swirling, nausea creeping in. You pinched your cheek, now is a horrible time to fall asleep. 

-

Rhys couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but he knew something was wrong. Off. He and Azriel were due back that night, and the only thing getting him through dealing with the Devlon was the knowledge you’d be waiting there for them. Maybe awake with a book, or a cup of tea, waiting for them, cuddled in a blanket. 

Rhys, Cassian’s panicked voice came through, faint with the distance. 

What? He questioned, panic starting to rise in him. It took minutes for the reply to come back. 

She’s hurt. Fuck. Devlon was still pattering about something insignificant. 

“There’s something we need to deal with,” he said coolly, hiding his panic, and held an arm out to Azriel. “We’ll be back.” 

Azriel followed his lead without question, and he dropped them into the sky just above the house of wind, flying the rest of the way in. 

The first thing he scented was blood. Your blood. Then your fear, and a hint of your pain. 

-

Apparently someone heard your yells, or realized something was wrong, because you awoke laid out on a couch, Cassian crouched next to you. 

“Don’t look,” he advised. “Mor’s getting Madja. They’re on their way.” 

Relief filled you, mostly that they, meaning Azriel and Rhys, were on their way. 

“I’m an idiot,” you grumbled. 

“We've all been here,” he chuckled, “how did this happen?” 

“Will you keep it a secret?” 

His mouth tilted up at the corners, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I promise.” 

“I fell up the stairs.” 

Laughter, and then rapid footsteps. Cassian backed up, clearing the way, and Azriel and Rhys were there in seconds, a blink and they’d crossed the room, even though they couldn’t winnow in here. 

Rhys’s hands ran over your face, panicked, and paled when he saw your leg. “I wouldn’t look,” you said a bit weakly. 

The pain started coming through again, the tiny relief of adrenaline wearing off. You vaguely heard Mor telling them Madja’s on her way, but pain encompassed every inch of your being. Flaring through your nerves, flooding your senses, vision, screaming at you, taking over every sense, and black greeted you, unconsciousness tugging you back under. 

Complex break. A week to heal. Take it easy. 

Fragmented phrases came in, your vision blurring in and out. Head tilted, a tonic poured down your throat, your body too weak and limp to try and protest. Gods, it was nasty. 

When you came into full consciousness, you were awake in your bed. Clean, changed, and tucked into cozy blankets and pillows. A hum of content left your throat, not unlike a purr. 

Clattering against wood. Peeking your eyes open, Azriel had dropped a dagger on the dresser, a sharpening stone still in his other hand. You gave him a weak smile, and he crossed the room in a few powerful strides, sitting next to you on the bed, clutching your hand like a lifeline. 

Cold, your hand was cold, even in the absolutely boiling room. His was warm against you, scarred skin brushing the cold away, his thumb running soothing strokes over the back of your hand. 

Azriel didn’t say anything, only looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time again, memorizing every inch of you. 

“Hello,” you said quietly, giving his hand a small squeeze. 

“Hello,” he replied, brushing some of the hair away from your face. 

The door quietly opened, Rhys sliding in. 

“You could’ve told me she’s awake,” he hissed at Azriel, shoving him off the bed, taking his place next to you. The other male grunted, pinning Rhys with a look that promised vengeance. He didn’t notice, only running his hand up and down your cheek. 

“How do you feel?” 

You wiggled your fingers, and they felt heavy, like you were trying to push against something. The same thing with your toes, but … there was some kind of hard bandage wrapped around your left shin and calf. Kicking your other foot, you started trying to push down the blankets. Rhys picked up on it, and much more gently tugged them the rest of the way down. Sure enough, thick bandages covered the entire area. But … you couldn’t feel any of the pain, everything was numb. 

“Numb,” you’d come across the right word. 

“That would be the tonic,” he said dryly. 

Azriel was still glaring at him, and you caught his eye, patting the mattress on your other side. They could share. Still silently seething, he settled on your other side, looping his arm around your shoulders. 

“How did this happen?” 

“Cassian didn’t tell you?” 

“He refused,” Rhys answered. “Said you asked him to keep it a secret.” 

A small laugh, “I forgot about that.” 

“How did this happen?” Azriel repeated himself, not seeming quite happy to do it. 

“Your shadows didn’t tell you?” you teased. It was rare you knew something he didn’t. 

Put him out of his misery, Rhys said to your mind, he’s been trying to figure it out for days. 

Days, you’d been out for days.

“Promise you won’t make fun of me?” 

“Never, darling.” 

A slow exhale, and you leaned into Azriel, his arm tightening around your shoulders. 

“I fell up the stairs,” you mumbled, burying your face into his side. Neither replied, but you felt his chest moving - a barely concealed laugh. You pinched his side, but he didn’t react. “I told you not to make fun of me,” you said a bit louder. 

“We haven’t said anything,” Rhys moved closer, voice laced with amusement. 

And then Tobias had spoken to you earlier, and Azriel spiraled. Even if it wasn't really about Tobias.

"I can't seem to understand why you won't listen to me. I know what it looks like to be in love with you. "

You scoffed and raised an indignant brow. "I have a hard time seeing that right now."

Something flashed across his expression, and then Azriel was raising his voice. He never raised his voice. "How dare you insinuate that—I have never—"

The heat in the room was intensifying with the volume, and you felt yourself shrink out of habit. There had been others—before Azriel—that made yelling and violence feel more commonplace. Azriel knew about them. It was one of the reasons he never yelled.

But there was too much leading up to this argument, and you both had been defending your fruitless points for too long.

He didn't notice that you'd begun to stutter, too caught up in the continued fight. You didn't know why you were still going. "I-I just meant that i-it doesn't seem like you trust me. How—how are we supposed to talk to each other about things if you don't listen to me? If you can't trust m-me!"

Your hands were flailing now, trying to prove points that didn't mean anything anymore. Azriel yelled a few things back, matching your tone. And then he moved his own hands, and you flinched. An unintentional movement, a raise of your hands and a hard blink, but it was enough to extinguish the heat in the room. Enough for Azriel to turn starkly pale.

And then you were apologizing.

"Sorry! I'm—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I was just—"

Azriel's face crumbled. He picked up where your words failed, his hands now dead weight at his sides. "Did you think I was going to hit you?"

You scrambled to appease him. An old habit. "No! No, of course not. It was just a reflex, and I would never think that you'd—"

You stopped talking as the wetness met your cheek, the sight of the single tear making Azriel look even more crestfallen than he already had. His shoulders slumped even as you quickly brushed it away.

"Angel, I would never—I would never hurt you. I am so sorry."

An uncomfortable laugh pushed from your chest. The emotions in the room were no longer sensible, and you felt like a live wire. "I know that—I'm being ridiculous. Let's just forget about this. I shouldn't have talked to him."

Azriel's neck bent to catch your eyes. You were looking at the ceiling, willing the tears to pool back in your waterline.

"Can I touch you?"

The question was like a punch to the gut. He asked so softly it hurt.

You released your lip from the vice of your teeth, gave a single nod, and then a slow, soft touch was on your chin, tilting you back down, allowing the flurry of tears to cascade down your cheeks.

And Azriel—your Azriel—looked broken at the sight of them.

His eyes became punctuated earnestness, brows low. "I would never hurt you, do you hear me? I shouldn't have yelled. I know that's difficult for you. I was selfish."

You shook your head, lips parting to make excuses for him—because you loved him—but Azriel gently shushed you. He let his gaze track along each of your features and moved his hands to the sides of your neck.

"Never apologize to me again. Not for that." When you looked at him, unsure, he only nodded. "Promise me that."

The slight downturn of your head was enough, and Azriel began to wipe the tears from your face. He kissed along the high points of your cheeks and your temple, brushing the hair from where it stuck to your skin.

"I won't say I'm sorry, but I will say that I wasn't—reacting to you. I know you wouldn't hurt me."

Azriel’s mouth fell shut, a flicker of surprise, and then guilt, crossing his face.

“Yeah,” you breathed out, “I know about those. I know you are the one that told Rhys I couldn’t handle it. But this time, Rhys came to me, and I said yes. You don’t get to decide this time.” It wasn’t entirely truthful, but you wanted your words to stick. You wanted him to feel guilty, to regret keeping you from the field. 

You had been training for a year, and while you had started later than the others, you would like to think you had proved yourself. You had proved yourself. Azriel wouldn’t have agreed to train you as a spy if you hadn’t, but now he wanted to be difficult, to delay your transition into the field without any real explanation, and you were tired of it.

“It’s too dangerous,” he tried again, voice quieter but still hard with anger.

“Everything we do is dangerous,” you said, exasperation making your voice heavy. “It’s our job. It’s what I signed up for. You made sure I knew that on day one.”

“It’s an Illyrian rebel camp, and you are going in alone—”

“I’m not going inside the camp,” you cut him off. “I’m spying. The whole point is to stay undetected, like you trained me.”

“You are just a priestess.”

His words made your heart drop, a buried insecurity once again unearthed. “Right,” you whispered, fighting to keep your voice steady. “Because that’s all I’ll ever be to you, isn’t it? The broken and bloody priestess you carried out of Cesere.”

The regret was clear on his face as he said softly, “I didn’t mean that.”

An ache spread from your core to your bones as his words rang through your head. The two of you had grown undeniably close over the last year. You knew that your feelings were morphing into much more complicated ones for the shadowsinger, and you had convinced yourself that he might see you in the same way—or, at the very least, he respected you as a friend and as a spy. 

Everytime he touched you, or even spoke to you, a swarm of butterflies erupted inside you. Now, those butterflies were dead, and lying heavy in your stomach.

Something akin to desperation pulled taught in your chest, making your breath falter, but you ignored the strange feeling and you swallowed your hurt. “You did,” you said quietly. It had been a long time since you worried that Azriel still saw you as the pitiful priestess in distress, but now those worries were back ten-fold, they were confirmed, and you felt sick.

“It doesn’t matter what you think,” you bit out. “I’m going on this mission.”

~ ~ ~

You lost track of how many drops of water had dripped against the stone beneath you. You were fighting to stay awake, but you couldn’t remember when you stopped counting. The steady dripping was like a sword against stone at this point, after spending endless hours tied up in this cave, with the drops and the skittering of rodents the only sounds to keep you company.

You tried to refocus on the dripping again, but the light echoing of every drop was like an anvil against your head. The rhythm of the drops seemed to be off too, as if they were competing with one another to fall. You dragged your gaze up to your wrist hung over your head, rough rope rubbing the skin raw, and a trail of blood trickling down your arm, onto your shoulder, and likely onto the stone below. The competing drops, most likely.

Azriel was right. You were just a priestess, who decided she wanted to play spy, and ran headfirst into danger to impress her High Lord. Rhys had tried to dissuade you from the mission, too, which you failed to share with Azriel. Rhys had asked you a research question, and when you probed him for more information, you pushed him to send you on this mission until he acquiesced. Convinced him that your knowledge of Illyrian culture and folklore (an embarrassing and inexplicable research obsession you garnered after Azriel rescued you) made you the best person to go on this mission, next to an actual Illyrian. You were tiny, and would be able to slip in and out of places with ease, and you would be able to recognize any abnormal practices in the camp. You would know where to hide, when to move, how to stay hidden and collect the intel Rhys needed.

You weren’t sure how they found you. You had barely stepped a foot inside their territory, only just finding your first scouting position, when a male plowed into you from your perch in a pine tree, knocking you flat on your back into the snow. Two more males had materialized from the shadows, and dragged you through the bitter cold snow until you reached this cave, deep in the Illyrian Steppes. 

You were freezing by the time you reached the cave, and your body was shivering relentlessly from the damp and cold clothes plastered to your body. What you would do for those clothes now, as you hung from your arms, your chest and legs bare, save for the scrap of underwear they had left intact. You hoped you died before they removed it.

You were certain your leg was broken—shattered, most likely. You had lost feeling in it awhile ago, but you had no way of truly knowing how much time had passed. Your head was pounding, and it felt like sand was sloshing around inside it with every movement you made. Your body was painted with dried and fresh blood, thanks to the fresh cuts they added every so often.

This was the longest they had left you alone. Every second that passed by filled you with more trepidation. You kept waiting for them to cross another line, to finally finish you off, to realize you weren’t going to tell them anything and to just get rid of you.

Your body was so heavy. You had long ago given up on holding yourself up, to try to alleviate the pressure of the ropes on your wrists. Your ankles were bound too, and your toes barely grazed the stone beneath you as you slowly swayed back and forth. 

You flinched as something brushed against your ankle, a chill instantly going up your spine. Mother only knew what was in these caves, what was waiting to feast on your carcass.

Your vision started to swim again, the rocks before you tilting as consciousness finally abandoned you.

~ ~ ~

You awoke in a panic, your body all too aware that someone was there, and they were touching you. Adrenaline took over your body as you thrashed and screamed, refusing to just lie there and make it easy for them.

Hands cupped your cheeks, and your eyes snapped shut as their fingers slipped through the mixture of tears and blood on your skin. “Sweetheart,” the male said, and the breath whooshed from your lungs. You knew that voice.

“Y/N, it’s me. It’s Azriel.”

“No,” you sobbed, refusing to give into whatever cruel hallucination your mind had cooked up. They must have drugged you while you were unconscious, pumped you full of Mother only knew what.

He brushed the hair from your face, and your mind was screaming at you to give in, to let yourself have this final moment of peace, with the male you loved and would never get to see again. Your fear was too powerful, though, your last shred of hope that you could survive this too potent.

Another set of hands were at your wrist, their touch like acid in your wounds. You screamed as they pulled at you, the rope rubbing against your raw wrists. You were so desperate, desperate to do anything to make them leave you alone. Your screams turned to sobs, and suddenly your body was falling forward, and your arm fell to your side. The male caught you before you could hit the ground, your body going limp against his. He smelled like cedar, and salt, and for a moment you found yourself relaxing in the comforting scent.

Your other arm soon fell to your side too, and your hands burned as the blood rushed back into your fingers. “Y/N,” he murmured, brushing your hair back gently. “Open your eyes. Please.”

A comforting warmth flooded your chest, and your eyes slowly fluttered open. A blurry Azriel was holding you up, his face mere inches from yours. A heavy fabric was draped over your shoulders, making you flinch away from whoever stood behind you, but that only pushed you further into the other male’s arms.

“It’s okay,” he cooed. “It's just Cassian. You’re freezing, love.”

You hadn’t noticed the shivers racking your body until then. Black wisps brushed your face and neck, and their familiar touch made you crumple.

“Azriel?” you sobbed, body limp in his arms as you looked up at him.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes. It’s me. You’re safe now, I promise.”

He pulled the cape Cassian had draped over you around your shoulders, effectively covering your bare body.

A million things were rushing through your head, a million things you wanted to tell him, but all that you could get out was a sobbed, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“This wasn’t your fault,” he said, voice firm.

“I should have listened—”

Azriel shushed you, his finger gently stroking your face. “Stop. This wasn’t your fault,” he repeated softly.

Panic seized you as you realized you were just sitting here, waiting for those males to come back. “Those males—”

“Rhys has them,” Cassian answered, his voice dangerously low. “We’ll take care of them.”

Azriel’s grip on you tightened. “Take her home,” he told Cassian, voice dipped in lethal rage. You immediately tensed. “Madja is waiting.”

“No,” Cassian said, and relief flooded you. As much you trusted Cassian, you couldn’t fathom another male touching you, carrying you all the way back to Velaris. Azriel was…He was the exception. His touch made you feel whole, and safe. He was your anchor. But the thought of anyone else made bile rise in your throat.

“Excuse me?” Azriel growled, his chest rumbling beneath where your head had lolled.

“No,” Cassian repeated. His voice was a little warped, and your head was growing heavy. “You take her home. Rhys and I will handle those males.”

“They deserve—“

“I know,” Cassian placated. “I know they do.” His voice was so far away now. Adrenaline had abandoned you, and you were in Azriel’s warm arms, and your exhaustion was slowly stealing you away.

“You need to take her home,” you thought he said, but it was so difficult to focus, to be certain that your reality was not meshing with your dreams. “Go home, and take care of your mate.” A dream, then.

~ ~ ~

You were certain your skin was melting from your bones when you awoke. Your scream that filled the room sent a chill through your core, a direct contrast with the scalding of your skin. You couldn’t understand where you were, who was touching you. Everything was mush, and pain, and terror. Your brain had tricked you, fooled you into a false sense of relief by showing you Azriel, and then yanked him away. You were still in that cave, still a captive to those sadistic males.

Except the hand on your forehead was far too small and delicate to belong to one of those brutes. Their skin was soft and cool against your own, and gently forced your head to lay back, cold porcelain meeting your neck. “You’re in Velaris. In the House of Wind,” a delicate voice murmured. Female. The voice was female. “You are safe,” she cooed, and your terror slowly abated, dulling into a sickening anxiety that left you trembling.

You slowly realized you were in a bath, the water a murky green color that continuously flooded the wounds littered across your body.o Every movement you made sent the water sloshing against your skin, and you forced yourself to stay still as you met the female’s eyes. Madja.

Your eyes stung as you stared at the familiar healer, whose ministrations and focus did not falter. “Madja?” you croaked, your throat raw and sore.

“Yes, dear,” she affirmed gently, lifting your arm from the water to probe at your inflamed and oozing wrist.

“Where is Azriel?” you practically whimpered.

“He’s just outside.”

“I need him.”

She glanced at you. “You are not dressed, love. He did not want—”

“Please,” you begged. “I need him. Please get Azriel.” Your volume rose steadily as you yelled desperately, another flare of pain searing through you, “I want Azriel!”

“I’m right here.”

Your eyes darted behind Madja, Azriel standing there in the doorway. His eyes were pained as he took you in, and your body went limp as soon as you saw him. A sob broke free from your mouth, your body shuddering uncontrollably.

He immediately rounded to the other side of the tub, crouching down next to you.

“Shadowsinger,” Madja warned.

“Can I touch her?” he asked, voice cracking. You whimpered through your sobs as she pressed a balm against the wounds circling your wrist.

“Just her face,” she relented.

Azriel’s hand immediately cupped your cheek, and you leaned heavily against him. “It hurts,” you whimpered, eyes falling shut.

“I know,” he murmured. “It will be better soon.”

You sniffed, hesitantly meeting his eyes again. His normally bright hazel eyes seemed muted, exhaustion and worry dulling them. “Is this real?” you whispered, voice so small and vulnerable. You wanted to curl up in a ball, and hide away forever. You wanted to erase these last few days from your memory, or however long you were strung up in that cave. You wanted to go back and listen to Azriel, to not let your pride and anger push you into something so rash.

“Yes,” he assured, his voice soft and gentle. He brushed some hair behind your ear, the strands damp and clinging to your face. He glanced at Madja, then picked up a cloth hanging over the side of the tub. He dunked it in the water then ringed it out, before gently bringing it up to your face. “This will sting a bit,” he warned softly, then dragged the cloth across your forehead.

It did sting, but the discomfort was drowned out by the excruciating burns that consumed the rest of your body fully submerged in the water. You sucked in a breath as he brushed over a tender part of your forehead, and he murmured soft apologies as he continued cleaning it. You could only imagine how you looked at that moment, how disheveled and broken you must have been. Just like that horrid night in Cesere.

“I’m sorry you had to save me again.”

Azriel froze, his eyes wide as they met yours. “Why–” he spluttered, then shook his head. “I will always come for you,” he promised, his voice a bit desperate. “Why would you think—”

“I should have listened to you,” you rasped, chest heavy with guilt and shame.

“Shadowsinger,” Madja cut in, preventing Azriel from answering you. “Keep her calm,” she scolded. “And hold her hand now. This is going to be painful.”

Your stomach lurched, and you looked at Azriel in panic. He dropped the cloth in the water, then gently picked up your hand, wrapping it in both of his. “It’s going to be fine,” he murmured, squeezing lightly. “I’m right here, okay?”

Madja coaxed you to sit forward, the water falling from around you as your shoulders broke through the surface. She held you up with one hand on your collarbone, and Azriel went rigid as he stared at your bare back.

“What is it?” you asked quietly, fear running through you. His eyes snapped toward yours, immediately softening.

“It’s nothing,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over the top of your hand, careful to avoid your injured wrist. “Madja is going to take care of you. Don’t worry.”

Madja held a purple vial in her free hand, and she gave no warning before pouring its contents over your back. Your body fell into Azriel as you screamed, the liquid like lava as it seeped into your wounds. Madja dropped the vial, and she let Azriel hold you up as her hands fell over your back, the heat of her magic exacerbating the scalding across your skin.

You were sobbing into Azriel, and one of his hands moved to cradle your head against his chest. “Make it stop,” you begged.

“I can’t,” Azriel choked out. “She has to do this, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

“Just another minute,” Madja murmured, her voice apologetic.

You were shaking by the time she was finished, and you felt near delirious from the agony still flaring across your back, every throb agitating the wounds that must have gone farther than you realized. Azriel was pale as he watched you, his face stricken.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, and you couldn’t understand why he was apologizing. You couldn’t think about much beyond the pain you were drowning in.

Madja gently coaxed your head from Azriel’s chest, pressing another vial to your lips. “This one won’t hurt,” she promised, slowly pouring the fruity liquid in your mouth. You swallowed hard, watching her in a haze.

You glanced at Azriel again, who looked a bit blurry, his face becoming distorted. “What—”

He shushed you gently, brushing your cheek. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “Just get some rest. I won’t leave you.”

You didn’t want to sleep. You didn’t want to leave him again, to be left vulnerable, but before your panic could sink its claws in too deep, darkness blanketed over you. It was soft, and cool, and comforting, and you thought maybe you could stay there, just for a little while.

~ ~ ~

“It’s my fault.”

“Az–”

“It is. You didn’t see her back, Rhys.”

A beat of silence, then, “Can I—”

“No,” Azriel growled. You felt guilty for listening to their conversation, but you couldn’t bring yourself to open your eyes yet, lethargy still weighing them down. “There are two gashes down her back, right where wings would be. You know what that means. It was intentional. They knew she was important to me.”

“Or,” Cassian said gently, “They knew she belonged to Rhys’s circle.”

“They could smell me on her, Cassian! I should have known better—”

“Az,” Rhys cut him off quietly. You held your breath as the room went silent, your heart rate picking up.

The bed dipped at the edge, and the touch of familiar scarred knuckles lightly brushed across your cheek. “Hey,” Azriel murmured, his voice far more gentle than it was seconds ago. You guiltily fluttered your eyes open, the light of the room making you squint. “You’re awake?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you rasped, your voice a mere whisper.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, his hand settling on your hip that was covered by the duvet. A black duvet, that was definitely not your purple one. You slowly took in the room you were in, lavishly big with books and weapons adorning the walls. The bed you were in was far too large for your frame, but it smelled like cedar, and you knew exactly who this room belonged to, even if you had only ever caught glimpses of it before.

Your eyes fell back on Azriel, and he looked more than worse for wear. He looked like he was hanging on by a thread, his eyes limned with exhaustion and his face taught with anxiety. You slowly pulled a shaky hand out from the covers, reaching for his hand beside you. You weakly squeezed his hand, smiling faintly. “It hurts,” you admitted, voice still a weak rasp, “but it’s better.”

Azriel didn’t smile, but he squeezed your hand back, and it made your heart clench.

“Y/N,” Rhys said from the foot of your bed, startling you from your bubble with Azriel. Embarrassment and shame flooded you as you met the eyes of your High Lord, and your eyes quickly started to sting. An apology was about to spill from your mouth, but before you could, Rhys said, “I’m so sorry.” He sounded anguished, and guilty, and you couldn’t fathom why.

You shook your head lightly, a frown pulling at your lips. “Why?”

“I never should have sent you on that mission. It was too dangerous, with too many unknowns, clearly, and I’m sorry.”

“But, I’m the one—”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Azriel cut you off, voice hard. “They had an aerial patrol unit we didn’t know about. So while you were focused on avoiding anyone on the ground, they likely spotted you from above within minutes of stepping foot in their forest.”

Your face burned with even more shame. “I didn’t even think about—”

“Neither did we,” Cassian said, stepping up beside Rhys. “We should have, but we underestimated the camp’s efforts, their numbers.” He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “There’s a lot more of them than we anticipated, but they were anticipating us. They knew Rhys was suspicious of them. It wasn’t your fault, it was ours.”

You took in his words, struggling to accept them. You looked at Azriel, fighting back the tears still threatening to break free. “But you warned me, and I didn’t listen.”

“I was just being selfish,” he murmured softly. “I didn’t want you anywhere near Illyria, but had I known, had I received tangible intel that this was waiting for you, I would have warned you. I would have gone with you.”

He brushed away a tear that fell down your cheek, murmuring softly, “It wasn’t your fault, love.”

Then why did it feel like it was your fault? No one ever knew what you would find on a mission, what you would run into. It wasn’t anyone’s responsibility but your own to anticipate an attack, to map your enemies’ moves, and you failed.

The door creaked open, and Madja’s kind and gentle face appeared in the doorway. She smiled at you, granting you a reprieve you were quickly growing desperate for. “We should change your dressings,” she said, moving toward your bedside, completely unfazed by the three males hovering over you. You, however, only just realized that you were laying there bare, aside from the gauzy white fabric bound around your chest and torso. You wished this bed would just swallow you whole.

“We’ll give you some privacy,” Rhys said softly, then guided Cassian out the door.

Azriel lingered though, hesitating to leave your side. He glanced at Madja, and your face went hot as you thought about your bath earlier, about how you screamed and cried for him to help you. “I’ll be fine, Az,” you said quietly. His eyes darted back to yours, clearly not believing you. 

“When was the last time you ate, Shadowsinger?” Madja hummed as she aligned vials and balms on your bedside.

Azriel didn’t say anything, and alarm flitted through you. “You haven’t eaten?” you asked him, shuffling a bit. “Azriel—”

“I’m fine,” he assured, glaring at Madja.

She scoffed. “You haven’t left her side since you brought her to me last night.”

“Az,” you chided softly, guilt flooding you. “Please, go eat something. I’ll be fine with Madja.”

His shadows pulsed haphazardly around him, his eyes clearly conflicted. Eventually he sighed, and stood up from your bed. “I’ll be nearby if you need anything,” he promised softly. Madja gently shooed him out of the room, and you felt empty and conflicted once he disappeared. 

Your mind was swimming. You could barely piece together a general timeline of the last few days, let alone come to terms with whatever complicated feelings you had toward Azriel. It didn’t matter, though. None of it mattered. You were just a broken priestess that would never be worthy of an Illyrian warrior. 

As if your heart wasn’t bruised and battered enough, Madja rubbed salt in your wounds by humming, “That boy loves you.”

Her words hurt. They were meant to comfort, to soothe, to tease—to distract you from whatever pain you were in as she slowly sat you up in bed—but instead, they only prodded at your already tender heart. She stuck another knife in your chest as she said, “I shooed him out because you seemed a bit suffocated, but you need to lean on him.”

“Respectfully,” you said quietly, voice lacking any true bite, “it’s not your place.”

She started to gently undo your bandages, the cool air on your raw and mangled skin making you hiss. She didn’t seem the least bit offended by your words, and simply hummed with a far too knowing voice, “Love heals.”

~ ~ ~

A few days passed, and you had effectively isolated yourself from everyone. At least, as much as you could. Your friends still brought you food, checking in every so often, and reluctantly leaving after you promised you were fine and you just wanted to rest. Azriel never returned, though. He was never one who brought you meals. You couldn’t deny the ache in your soul that throbbed everytime one of your other friends’ faces appeared in your doorway. If you weren’t surrounded by the scent of him from being bundled in his bed, the ache would likely be unbearable. You didn’t know where he was staying while you took over his room.

An oily anxiety was slowly accumulating in your stomach, trickling into your veins to spread throughout your body. Madja took you off the sleep tonics yesterday, and sleep had evaded you the entire night. Every time you closed your eyes, you were back in that cave. Every little sound made you flinch, made you grit your teeth and brace yourself for those males to return, to finish what they started.

“You look like shit,” Nesta drawled as she shut your bedroom door behind her, making you jump. You sat up slowly, resting your back on the mountain of pillows that had accumulated along the headboard. Rhys continued to ply you with gifts, flowers and blankets and pillows now littering Azriel’s room. You could probably move to your own room now, but you selfishly didn’t want to leave.

“Thanks,” you grumbled.

She sat your food tray on the bedside table, a bowl of steaming soup and buttered bread sitting neatly on the wood. She assessed you with cool and calculating eyes, her brow furrowed into a hard line. “Before you kick me out,” she began, “Madja said your bandages need changed, but she can’t come by tonight.” She started pulling gauzes and balms out of the drawer. “So you’re stuck with me.”

“No,” you said quickly. Nesta stilled, side-eyeing you. “That’s not—I can do it myself.”

You didn’t want her to see. You didn’t want anyone to see. It was bad enough Azriel had seen you thrashing and screaming in that bath, had seen the wounds across your back—you couldn’t handle anyone else seeing the remnants of your failure.

“Y/N—” she started to say, voice unusually gentle, and it made you recoil.

“I’m fine, Nesta,” you said. You were fairly certain you would never be returning to training with the Valkyries, that you would be resigning to your life as a researcher in the library, but showing her your wounds, your weakness—it felt like the final nail in your coffin. You weren’t ready for that.

Her eyes narrowed, and she shut the bedside drawer with more force than necessary. “Fine,” she said, voice clipped. “That’s utter bullshit, but fine. As you wish.” She turned her back to you, heading toward the door. “Tell the House if you change your mind.”

The harsh slam of the door made you jump. Guilt mixed with the anxiety in your veins, a muddy mixture that would likely cement inside your heart. 

~ ~ ~

Searing pain jolted you from sleep, lava running down your back. A sudden hand on your shoulder made you scream, undiluted terror mixing with your pain, and defeat took over you as you were yanked back to that cave. You had never left. None of it was real. You were still there, they still had you tied up, and were—

“Y/N,” Azriel’s voice pulled you from your spiral, splashing ice cold water on your terror, blurring the memory you were trapped inside. “You’re safe,” he cooed. “You’re with me.”

Your eyes slowly focused on his figure, his wings flared out a bit and shadows pulsing with tension. His eyes were wild and frantic, and he slowly sank down on the bed beside you as he realized you finally recognized him. 

Relief overwhelmed you, and you couldn’t control the sobs that broke free. Azriel shifted closer, his hands shakily cupping your face to wipe away your tears. “It’s okay,” he whispered. He brushed a hand over your hair as you cried, his shadows nuzzling against your neck. 

The ache in your soul dulled under his touch, and more tears fell down your cheeks as you leaned into him, desperate to cling to the male you had been longing for the last few days. Despite the shame and mortification you felt every time you thought about him having to save you again, him having to hold you together while Madja treated you, you couldn’t stop wanting him. You couldn’t cut the tether you felt binding you to him.

“You’re bleeding,” he murmured gently, concern evident in his eyes.

“What?” you rasped. You sucked in sharp breath as another bout of pain washed over your back, and you remembered why you awoke in the first place.

Azriel’s hand shifted to your shoulder, gently pushing you to lay on your side. His breath faltered at whatever he saw, making your heart race. “Sweetheart,” he choked out. “Your bandages are falling down.”

You face heated in embarrassment, and you wished your stupid pride had just let Nesta help you earlier, and Azriel didn’t have to see you as a fucking mess again. “Why didn’t Nesta make them tighter?” he said, voice growing angry. “And there’s no balm—”

“I did them,” you cut him off, avoiding his gaze.

“What?” he asked, voice going soft. 

“I told her I could do them,” you said. “How did you even know she—”

“Why wouldn’t you let her help you?” he asked.

You bit your lip, your eyes burning with fresh tears. “I didn’t want her to see,” you whispered.

Azriel paused. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he said quietly.

Your hackles instantly raised, and you sat up to meet his gaze, the covers falling around your waist and your back barking in protest. “Really?” you asked, voice incredulous. “I was captured within an hour on my first field mission alone. Rhys didn’t even want to send me on that mission, but I convinced him. I should have known that they would have an aerial patrol—me. That was on me. I should have anticipated—”

“Stop,” he ground out. His eyes were pained and angry as he met your gaze, making you swallow whatever words you had left. “It was not your fault. Maybe there were things that could have been done better, maybe you did make some mistakes, but ultimately, I failed you by keeping you from the field, and by failing to realize—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. He muttered something under his breath, and then said, “No one blames you. Missions go wrong, and sometimes it will be your fault. It’s inevitable that you will make mistakes, but this one is not on you.”

You wished you could believe him. You wished that his words could erase your fears and insecurities, but you would be a fool to ignore the mound of evidence staring you in the face, that littered your skin.

Azriel sighed, as if he realized he wouldn’t be changing your mind tonight. “Let’s get you some clean sheets and clean clothes,” he said. “I’ll get Nesta or Feyre to help with your bandages.”

“No,” you rushed out, making Azriel freeze. “Please, don’t get them. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re not fine,” he argued. “Your wounds aren’t covered which is why you woke up in pain.”

That made you falter. “How did you know that?”

Azriel blinked, hesitation flickering in his eyes before they shuttered again. “My shadows.”

Your chest went tight. “They’ve been watching me?” you squeaked out.

Azriel looked slightly guilty when he answered, “I just left a few with you, in case you needed something. That’s all, I promise.”

Well, you certainly hoped they didn’t tell him about the tears you shed throughout the day, or the sleepless night you had beforehand, or the pitiful attempt you made at putting the damned bandages around your torso. “Okay,” you sighed.

“Come on,” he coaxed, helping you up from the bed by your arms. You were immensely grateful Madja had helped you bathe yesterday. He helped you into the bathroom, letting you sit gently on the stool beside the bath. He crouched down in front you, making himself eye level with you. “Your back needs to be cleaned and properly bandaged,” he said quietly. 

Your lip trembled as you thought about anyone else touching you, seeing you so vulnerable. It made you nauseous. “Can’t you do it?” you asked, voice embarrassingly small.

His eyes widened a bit, and his hand fell to your knee. “Of course, I can,” he said softly. “But do you want me to?”

“Please,” you begged. “I can’t—I don’t want anyone else to—”

His thumb brushed your knee, making your words die off. “Okay,” he murmured. “That’s fine, love. I have no problem helping you.”

“Then why did you disappear?” you asked, immediately regretting the words.

His eyes snapped to yours. “I didn’t—” he fumbled, shaking his head softly. “I didn’t think you wanted to see anyone.”

“That didn’t stop everyone else,” you grumbled.

“You had to eat.”

“Then why didn’t you bring me meals?”

Azriel stared at you, his throat bobbing. “I didn’t know how to face you—but I’ve always been here. I haven’t left the House.”

“Face me?” you asked.

Azriel ran a hand through his hair, his wings rustling slightly as he stood up. He moved toward the sink, wetting a cloth before returning to you. “Those gashes on your back have meaning,” he said softly, eyes swimming with guilt. “They are exactly where wings would be, exactly the kind of wound that would be left behind if wings were removed. They obviously knew you were…” He hesitated, and you couldn’t fathom why. “You were important to an Illyrian.”

You didn’t know what to make of that. You didn’t understand why he felt he was personally responsible for those wounds, why he would be the reason for them. You also didn’t know how they would have known that, unless they guessed you were a part of Rhys’s court. You still found yourself saying, “I don’t blame you.”

He averted his eyes, squeezing the cloth tighter. “And I don’t blame you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, realizing neither of you would believe the other. He moved behind you, then tugged at the hem of your camisole. “Can I take this off?” he asked gently.

Your heart started racing, and your mind was yanked back to that cave, where you were strung up with your chest bare to those wicked males, and—

“Hey,” Azriel murmured, his face in front of yours again. His hand cupped your cheek, his touch featherlight. Your hands were trembling in your lap, and embarrassment made your throat tight.

“I’m sorry,” you rasped.

“No,” Azriel said. “Do not apologize.”

You sniffed. “Just take it off and get this over with please.”

“Y/N,” he said softly. “That’s not how this works.”

“It’s nothing you haven’t already seen.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to let me see it again.”

A tear escaped from your eye, and you felt so defeated as you looked at him. “I don’t want anyone but you to touch me right now.”

Azriel’s face was a mixture of pain and reverence, and you didn’t know where to go from here. “You know I would never hurt you,” he finally said, voice quiet.

You nodded quickly. “Yes,” you whispered. “I do. I trust you, Azriel. That’s why I want your help. I just, I don’t know why—”

“Let’s try this,” he murmured. “You take off your shirt, and my shadows will cover you, and I can clean your back.”

Relief flooded you. “Okay,” you agreed.

“Yeah?” he hummed. He moved behind you again, and you worried your lip between your teeth. “I won’t look until you tell me to.”

You sucked in a breath, toying with the silk hem. You removed the fabric from your body with a little difficulty, your shoulders and back screaming at you as you stretched the raw wounds across your skin, but you managed to get the material over your head and toss it on the floor. As promised, his shadows clouded over your chest, effectively covering your skin. “You can look,” you mumbled. 

You heard him shuffle behind you, and goosebumps skittered across your skin when he brushed your hair over your shoulder. “Ready?” he asked softly.

You nodded, and the warm cloth pressed to your skin. Azriel didn’t linger in any one area, cleaning your bloodied skin quickly and expertly. He then reached for a tin on the counter, and you heard him unscrew the lid. “This is the healing balm,” he told you quietly. His fingers gently lathered the balm along the edges of your wounds, his touch as light as possible to avoid inflicting any pain. His touch was soothing, and the balm quickly eased the pain radiating up and down your back. Your chest was flooded with the most comforting warmth, and you caught yourself leaning into him as the tension eased away.

He swapped the tin for the roll of gauze. He handed you the end of the roll, the cotton material soft between your fingers. “Hold this in place for me,” he murmured.

You did as he asked, pressing the gauze firmly against your chest. Azriel wound the gauze around your chest and torso with quick precision, never touching anywhere he shouldn’t. The material was snug against your skin, and you knew it wasn’t going anywhere. He smoothed the end of it out, securing it in place, before gently squeezing your hip. “Done,” he murmured.

“Thank you,” you whispered, heart near bursting. 

He pulled a clean shirt over your head, it smelling like cedar and salt. It was clearly one of his, and you didn’t know when he had time to grab one for you, but you practically melted into the soft fabric.

His shadows dissipated, and he smiled at you softly as he rounded the stool. He offered you his hand to help you up, then shifted to brace your lower back as you walked back to your bed. The sheets were swapped for fresh and clean silk ones, and you were sure you had the House to thank for the courtesy. Azriel pulled the covers up and over your shoulders once you laid down, his hands lingering briefly over your shoulders before he pulled them back to his sides.

The moonlight filtered in through the drapes, streaks illuminating the bed and bits of his skin that weren’t covered by his sweats and tee, a reminder of how late it was. “I’m sorry for waking you,” you mumbled, sleep quickly creeping back in.

“Don’t be,” he hummed. “Get some sleep.”

He took a step back, a small smile briefly pulling at his lips before he turned around. Panic sunk claws into your chest, and you blurted out, “Azriel.”

He immediately froze, and turned back to look at you. “Please stay with me,” you begged, voice wobbling.

“Of course,” he agreed easily, moving toward the sofa under the window.

“Lay with me?” you blurted, face burning from your request but something inside of you just needed him close. You needed to feel him next to you. You couldn’t explain it, couldn’t comprehend why you so desperately wanted to cling to him, but you were too exhausted to fight it.

He looked almost boyish as he stared at you with wide eyes. “Are—are you sure?” he stumbled out.

“If—if you don’t mind.”

Azriel’s response was to quickly slip under the covers next to you, turning so that he faced you and his wings draped over the edge of the bed. His warm arm brushed against yours as he shifted around, and you realized this bed was barely big enough to share with an Illyrian warrior. He didn’t complain, though, and you selfishly didn’t want to risk him leaving you, so you kept your mouth shut.

You were facing each other, heads resting on separate pillows but only inches separated you. He was so warm, and he smelled so good. You had caught yourself indulging in his scent far too many times at training, your friends had even caught you once or twice, but this time it brought you a comfort you had never felt before. It made you feel safe. You felt like you were home when you were wrapped in his scent. It’s why you were still holed up in his room after days of him avoiding you.

“Can you tell me a secret?” you asked, voice low.

Azriel hummed softly. “A secret?”

You bit your lip, focusing on the collar of his shirt where his tattoos poked out. “Yeah,” you whispered. “You’ve seen me at my worst, twice. It’s mortifying, actually.” A sad huff of a laugh escaped you. “You’re too perfect in comparison.”

Azriel let out a surprised, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m not perfect. Not in the slightest.” He glanced at his hands, whether it was intentional or subconscious, you didn’t know. It killed you that he saw the evidence of him surviving the cruelty of others as his flaw.

“You don’t need to be self-conscious, though,” he continued, his breath lightly fanning your face as you shifted closer. “I know what I said the night you left, and I am so sorry.” His voice was low and thick as he continued, “I’ve never doubted you. I only said that, because I was desperate to keep you here. I’m sorry.”

Before you could reply, before you could question him or accept or reject his apology, he shifted back to your question. “I’ll tell you a secret, though,” he hummed. “I’m scared that one day, the mating bond will snap, and my mate won’t want me.”

It was like a red-hot knife was stuck in the center of your chest, hearing him talk about his future mate. You swallowed your jealousy, your pain and longing, and rasped, “I don’t think that’s possible.”

Azriel studied you for a moment, and you fought back the acid burning at your throat. You wished you could go back and never have asked him the stupid question. “What if I’ve kept it from them?” he asked, voice sounding fragile.

His question only twisted the knife. This was an entirely new form of agony. “You’ve met them?”

Azriel’s eyes were soft as he said, “Yes, love.”

Your stomach churned. You pushed yourself back, sitting up frantically. “I shouldn’t be making you share a bed with me then. Gods, Azriel—”

His fingers wrapped around your wrist, tugging you gently to lay back down. “Please,” he murmured, “Just listen.”

You closed your eyes a moment, swallowing the lump in your throat before returning your gaze to him, hoping he didn’t keep ripping at your bleeding heart. This was not how you saw the rest of this night going. “What if me keeping this bond from her, nearly got her killed?” he asked, voice weak. “What if the scent of her bond to me, painted a target on her back, that she was completely unaware of as she walked into enemy territory?”

Your breath caught in your throat as you pieced together the meaning of his words, as you pieced together fragments of your rescue and healing that you had dismissed as hallucinations. “No,” you gasped, shaking your head. “This isn’t funny. This is not funny, Azriel!”

You pulled your wrist from his grip, mind swimming and heart racing. His eyes flashed with hurt, and you realized you were reacting exactly how he feared. You were playing out his worst fear he had just confided in you with—but it’s not that you didn’t want him. You didn’t deserve him.

“It’s not possible,” you choked out, voice thick with your tears. “I cannot be your mate. This is a cruel trick. I am just a broken and battered priestess, and you—”

Realization dawned on Azriel’s face, and your words died in your throat as he pulled you to his chest. “You are so much more,” he murmured into your hair. “I have known for a while, been suspicious even longer—since we met really.” Someone had stolen the breath from your lungs. “And while I have doubted that I was worthy of you, I have never doubted you. I’ve spent this year of our training questioning the Mother, asking why she would stick you with me as your mate, but I’ve never considered myself anything less than blessed.”

You pulled back from him, and you took in this male who—who was apparently your mate. The male you had longed for and had stifled away your feelings for as some silly crush, when in reality, they were anything but. His hazel eyes were bright in the darkness of your room, shining with vulnerability and a hesitant hope. One of his hands still rested gently on your hip, and the touch felt like a stream of electricity connecting the two of you together.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His eyes fell away from yours, a shaky breath leaving his lips. “I didn’t want to scare you. I didn’t—I wasn’t even certain until a few months ago. At that point, you trusted me. I couldn’t—” Azriel was stumbling over his words, and it made your heart clench when you noticed his cheeks were dusted with pink as he shifted into a beam of moonlight. 

“I couldn’t take advantage of that trust. I didn’t want to ruin it, but I still did. I—I was too overprotective. I kept denying missions that Rhys offered, because I was scared, and he told me I couldn’t let the bond control me—control you—but I was terrified of something happening to you. It made me ill to think of someone hurting you, or worse, and then that’s exactly what happened anyway. If I had kept myself in check—”

“Azriel,” you interrupted him gently, and his mouth fell shut. “I understand.”

His thumb brushed your cheek gently, and your eyes fluttered shut. “This was probably the worst time to tell you,” he murmured guiltily.

You caught his wrist, fingers gently wrapping around the scarred skin. “It’s not,” you whispered. “It actually makes me feel a little less insane for how much I want to cling to you.”

He chuckled lightly, brushing some hair out of your face. “You have no idea. I’ve been sitting in the hall for days, just in case you needed me.”

You shuffled closer, your heart practically glowing. “Really?”

“Yes,” he murmured. 

Your breath caught in your throat as your eyes fell to his lips, and you didn’t really think before you pressed your own against his. He kissed you back immediately, his soft lips melding gently with yours. You arched closer to him, desperate to be closer to him, but the movement pulled at your back, aggravating the healing muscles, and you sucked in a sharp breath that made you break away.

“Are you okay?” Azriel asked frantically.

You nodded, embarrassed. “I’m fine. I’m sorry.” You moved to keep kissing him, but he gently held you back.

“We can wait, love,” he said softly.

You sighed, leaning your forehead against his chest. “We probably should.”

He smoothed a hand over the back of your head. “Madja is already angry with me for leaving your bedside. I don’t need to make it worse by tearing open your wounds.”

You smiled softly, then said, “She told me love heals.” You looked up at him. “Did she know?”

“Probably,” he hummed. “I was a mess when I brought you to her. It wouldn’t have been hard to guess.”

Your smile widened, and you burrowed against his chest, your cheek pressed against the soft fabric covering his heart. “I think she was right,” you said into him. “Having you here—it’s the best I’ve felt since before everything happened.”

That familiar warmth bloomed in your chest, and you reached inside to sink your fingers in it, letting the love and adoration weave through your fingertips. Now that you finally could recognize it for what it was, now that you knew the source of that warmth, you sent your own love back down the glowing thread that reached from you to the male next to you.

Azriel sucked in a sharp breath, his body going rigid before relaxing again. “Was that you?” he asked breathlessly.

You nodded shyly, your face still buried against his chest. “You’ve been making me feel that for a while—I just didn’t know it was you.”

His arm squeezed you to him, his hold firm and comforting. “I love you,” he breathed.

When the overwhelming wave of nausea finally abated, you slumped against the hard porcelain, only slightly cringing at where you had rested your head. At least it was your own bathing chamber.

In a magic house.

You huffed a half-delirious laugh, your ribs aching and throat burning as you slowly pushed away from the toilet. Your movements were sluggish, your limbs heavy and trembling as you fully lowered yourself onto the cold floor. Your cheek pressed against the chilled tile, eyes fluttering shut at the momentary relief. You curled in on yourself, exhaustion curling around you like smoke, and you begged it to take you away.

~ ~ ~

A gentle brush against your cheek made you twitch, your face twisting as you turned away from whatever had broken through your momentary reprieve. The touch still lingered, a featherlight caress that followed along your jaw up to your forehead, pressing gently against your sweat-damp skin. Their touch was cold and soothing—a harsh contrast to the bitter chill running up and down your spine.

You tilted your head up, chasing the touch you had turned away from seconds ago. Everything felt heavy. Hot. It was so hot.

“Y/N,” a deep voice murmured. Their tone was cool like their touch, a soothing balm over your inflamed mind cascading into hazy delirium.

You sucked in a breath, your face turning toward the voice. “Y/N,” they said again, this time a little louder, firmer.

You forced your eyes open, your lashes fluttering as light from the window made you wince. It took a moment for your vision to focus, for shapes and blurs to regain their sharp lines and definition—for you to recognize the massive figure kneeling beside you.

“Azriel?” you rasped. You swallowed hard, wincing at the burn in your throat and the acidic taste clinging to your mouth. “What are you doing here?”

There was a little crease between his brows as he looked at you, his gaze otherwise eerily still. “You’re burning up.”

You huffed a pitiful laugh that sounded more like a cough, your ribs flaring with pain. “I didn’t notice.” His palm was still pressed to your forehead, and you were still lying on the floor of your bathroom. Next to your toilet. The mortification that flooded you was almost hot enough to dull the chill nestled deep in your bones. “Did one of my sisters send you?”

Azriel scowled, the crease between his brows morphing into a deep furrow, his lips forming a flat line as his eyes flared with indignation. He pulled his hand away, leaving your flushed face entirely exposed to the stale air around you. You shivered, as if your body wanted to physically remind you that it was currently at war with itself. As if you had forgotten.

Azriel’s scowl disappeared as quickly as it had formed, even the crease between his brows smoothing out as he slipped a hand behind your back. “Come on,” he coaxed. “Let's get up.”

You let him guide you up, not that you really had to let him do anything. He was so large. Even kneeling on the floor with his wings pulled tight behind his back, he still dwarfed you. Everyone here looked like they could crush you with the toe of their shoe. 

The change in position sent a rush through your head, your blood pulsing in your ears as your vision danced with spots. You grabbed the edge of the toilet as another violent wave of nausea roiled through you, heaving your body over the bowl just in time to expel whatever little remains lingered in your stomach.

Azriel didn’t leave. As much as you wished he did, as much as you wished you could fall through the floor and weather this alone, he stayed. He stayed with a steady hand on your back that rubbed up and down your spine, the thin fabric of your nightgown a weak barrier between your skin and his.

It was ugly, and disgusting, and you felt like a frail shell of yourself when the heaving finally ended and you sucked in shaky desperate breaths. Azriel brushed the errant strands of hair plastered to your skin away from your face, the tie you had sloppily pulled it back in failing at its job.

“How long have you been like this?” he asked, voice quiet and restrained, as if worried about breaking the fragile stillness that had fallen over you.

You opened your eyes, still sucking in breaths with more effort than you would have liked. You glanced at the window, the sun streaming through with bright beams. You shrugged, sort of, and answered weakly, “It was dark.”

Azriel murmured under his breath, his ministrations on your back faltering. “Why didn’t you call for someone?”

Your mouth was dry. Your throat hurt. Your head ached. You really weren’t in the mood to be chastised. “Who?” you bit out. “How? No one is here. Cassian is away. Nesta is away. You—”

“I would have come. I did come as soon as—” his words cut off, Azriel seeming to think better of whatever he was about to say. You slowly moved your head toward him, lifting your head from where it was cradled in your arm still resting on the toilet. He met your gaze, his eyes wild with emotions you didn’t have the energy to tease apart. “I gave you that pen and paper. Told you my shadows would deliver any message.”

You remembered. Remembered the pitiful safeguard your sisters had likely forced upon Azriel to give to you as a sad Solstice gift. “That’s for emergencies.”

“It’s for anything,” he argued, his voice rising a bit. He sighed, shaking his head as his hand came up to cup the nape of your neck, the touch sending goosebumps across your skin. “Are you done?” he asked, voice much softer.

You blinked at him, your mind swimming from the fever and pain and his touches and his voice and the way you just noticed his shadows licking softly at your bare feet. You grimaced as you glanced at the toilet, reaching to flush the contents away as you pushed yourself up. “For now,” you murmured.

Azriel didn’t move, barely gave you space to sit back on your heels. You felt a bit detached from your body, your limbs shaky and heart racing as you struggled to keep your mind tethered to your arms and legs that were meant to carry you through this wretched illness. 

“Good,” Azriel said, his voice incredibly close to your ear. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

You shook your head, immediately protesting at the thought of walking to your bed just to inevitably have to hurdle yourself back in here soon. “Can’t.”

“I will get you a bowl,” he said, like a man that was used to plucking solutions out of thin air without being challenged. 

Your bed would be nice. You were suddenly freezing after suffering through the wave of heat you had awoken to, and your ostentatious but undoubtedly soft mattress would inarguably be more comfortable than this hard bathroom floor. Your blankets, your sheets—

Your sheets. Embarrassment curled in the center of your chest, almost mistakable for another bout of nausea if you didn’t know better. Your sheets were uninhabitable after you had awoken from your sleep so suddenly, so violently, you didn’t have a chance to do more than throw the covers off your body before the nausea won over you. “My sheets are—”

“Clean.”

Your eyes snapped toward Azriel. “What?”

His lips curved slightly, into what might have been a smile if he was not kneeling beside you on your bathroom floor after watching you throw up in your toilet. You shivered again, a mixture of your self-disgust and the fever sending another chill through you.

His hands squeezed your arms. “Come on.”

You really didn’t want to stand up, but you did want your bed, and something told you Azriel wouldn’t leave until you got up off your bathroom floor. You nodded, head lolling a little too far forward as your vision swam and your ears buzzed.

“Okay?” Azriel asked softly.

You took a slow breath, willing the dizziness and fatigue away for just a few seconds. “Fine.”

Azriel had moved onto his feet at some point, but he was still crouched beside you as he watched you pitifully push yourself up using the toilet as leverage. Whatever blood and tension that had pooled in your head, making it feel heavy only moments ago, vanished once you stood.

You stumbled, reaching blindly for something to stabilize yourself with before two arms curled around you. “Okay,” Azriel huffed, then lifted you with startling ease. “That’s enough of that.”

He was still in his leathers, you realized, only once your cheek was pressed against the dark fabric across his chest. Where did he come from? How did he even know to look for you? Why did he care?

Your chest prickled with indignation as he carried you into your room, an undercurrent of anxiety running through your veins as you thought about just how vulnerable you were. Anyone could have found you in that bathroom. Sure, you were safe here, in this mountain you could never leave unless you asked someone. They said you were safe.

But you were still a human in the fae lands. You were a human in an enchanted house that was your only company for sometimes days on end, and you were weak and alone. You could never defend yourself if it came down to it. Let alone when you were sick and unconscious on your bathroom floor.

Azriel could have done anything he wanted. He could have—he could have touched you. He could have taken whatever he wanted from you, like the males in your village had once tried—had almost succeeded—and they were mere humans. Azriel was not only fae, he was a warrior, a spy, and he served alongside the most powerful high lord. He could—

He sat you gently on the bed, crouching in front of you as his hand came up to cradle your face with so much gentleness, his thumb hovering before wiping away a tear you didn’t know had fallen. “Hey,” he said, voice a gentle hum. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain?” His eyes ran over you, a little frantic. “Did I hurt you?”

Azriel would never. You knew that. 

You knew that.

A sob forced its way through your lips. Azriel’s eyes went wide, and before you knew what you were doing, you were falling into him. Your forehead pressed against his leathers, your nose inhaling the faint cedar scent that lingered around him. His arms immediately wrapped around you, one of his hands cradling the back of your head as you cried into his chest.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured.

The name weaved in between your ribs and coiled around your heart, squeezing tight as another ugly sob broke free. You wanted this. You wanted him. You wanted a life with your sisters. You wanted a mate, a love, like they had—and you never would.

“Hey,” Azriel murmured, holding you tight against him as he came up to join you on the bed. He pulled you into his lap, holding you in a way no one ever had before. Even as a child, you couldn’t remember a time someone just held you. “Breathe, Y/N,” he soothed, the words soft and gentle. “Take a breath. You’re okay. It’s okay.”

“I’m scared,” you admitted through broken and shaky sobs. “I’m so scared.”

Azriel held you tighter. “You’re going to be fine,” he murmured. “Madja is coming. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

You shook your head, sniffing as exhaustion made your sobs die out, but tears continued rolling down your cheeks. “One day I won’t be,” you whispered, the soul crushing words burning your throat. 

“What?” Azriel asked softly.

“I’m human, Azriel.” You sniffed, turning your face into his chest. “One day, I won’t be here, whether because of illness, or age, or a stupid accident, because I’m human. I’m weak, and I’m alone,” you choked on the word, trembling as anxiety and exhaustion and lingering nausea scraped their claws through your chest. “I don’t want to die,” you whimpered, shoulders shaking. “I don’t want to die while everyone I love gets to keep living. I don’t want to grow old without my sisters. I don’t—I can’t—”

“Okay,” Azriel murmured, rubbing his hand over your head. “Okay,” he said again, the word sounding fragile. “You’re not alone,” he finally said, the words a soft rasp against the top of your head.

You scoffed, starting to protest, but he cut you off. “You’re not.” He squeezed you tighter. “You’re not alone, Y/N.”

“They have mates,” you argued brokenly, “I will never have that.”

“That’s not true,” Azriel assured, the words sounding a little strangled—like they might mean as much to him as they would to you. “I promise, that’s not true.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to get mad, to yell, to tell him he couldn’t possibly know that. You wanted to push him away, you wanted to hide from whatever feelings you felt toward the man—male—who currently held you in his lap. You wanted to protect yourself from another inevitable heartbreak.

But like you said, you were alone, and you so desperately wanted not to be. You were sick, and shaking, and the fever was still clouding your mind in a dense fog, even as your volatile emotions started to evaporate under the pressure of exhaustion.

“I’m tired,” you murmured weakly, head lolling against his chest.

“I know.” His hand rubbed up and down your arm, and you might have been falling into delirium when you thought he pressed his lips to the crown of your head. “Do you want to change?” he asked, softly.

You nodded, hating the thought of climbing into bed wearing the same gown you had spent hours lying in on the bathroom floor. It was also thin, and short sleeved, and you were freezing.

“Okay,” Azriel said, shifting you gently off his lap. You might have whined, or whimpered, your body aching from the movement and your heart throbbing at the loss of him. He ran a hand over your head as he left you leaning against the many pillows along your headboard. “You’re okay,” he soothed. “I’ll be right—” His breath caught, his eyes snapping toward the foot of your bed. He blinked, his shadows pulsing once, twice, and you thought his ears might have turned pink—it was hard to tell in the dim light of your room thanks to your closed drapes.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said instead, the words releasing some of the tension that had held your shoulders up to your ears. He reached toward the end of the bed, a navy sweater folded neatly at your feet. “Put this on,” he told you. “It will be warmer.”

You glanced at the sweater he had lain on your lap, the fabric absurdly soft and plush against the exposed skin of your thighs. It wasn’t yours.

And as much as you wanted to engulf yourself in Azriel’s sweater, to swaddle yourself in the lush fabric that would feel worlds better than the scratchy nightgown that was beginning to suffocate your skin—you didn’t want to move. You didn’t want him to see how your arms would undoubtedly shake, and you didn’t want to use every last ounce of your strength just to change out of a single article of clothing.

“I can help you?” Azriel asked, a gentle offer with only a hint of hesitation, his hazel irises dripping with sincerity and concern that made you flush all over despite the chills still crawling under your skin. 

This was—it was too much. You couldn’t ask him to do this. He should leave. He had done more than enough for you already, more than enough just by caring enough to check on you, for whatever reason that had been. You weren’t his to take care of, and he wasn’t yours to want him to—even if you did, with every fiber of your being.

You were human.

And he—

He was—

He sat down on the bed, his wings draping gently behind him, one covering your lower leg. He didn’t seem to notice.

You dragged your gaze away from the sight of his wing against your skin, forcing your eyes to meet his. He smiled softly, his lips turning up so gently at the corners. “Let me help you,” he nearly begged. Your eyes started burning again, and he reached up to wipe away the moisture that quickly escaped from your waterline. “No more tears,” he murmured. “Not tonight.”

You nodded, taking in a shaky breath as you stared at the sweater still on your lap. Tan and scarred fingers picked it up, setting it beside you on the bed. “It will take seconds if I help,” he said.

“You shouldn’t have to,” you whispered.

His hand cupped your face, your eyes immediately meeting his again. “I want to,” he murmured. A shadow crawled up his wrist to stroke your cheek alongside his thumb. “If you let me.”

“Okay,” you whispered.

Azriel’s hands immediately went to the hem of your gown that was already rucked up embarrassingly close to your waist. Then he paused, his eyes meeting yours, waiting for one last confirmation.

Something in your chest fractured. A fissure branching out from your heart and all the way down to your soul, another hit with the startling reality that this could be your life. If things were different, you could have had this. Him.

You could pretend to have him tonight.

You nodded, and Azriel’s lips pulled into another tiny smile as his eyes stayed on yours, and he pulled the gown up and over your head with gentle ease.

The soft sweater went over your head in quick succession, Azriel guiding your arms through the sleeves as the fabric fell down your torso and pooled around you on the bed. Only then did he let his gaze wander below your shoulders. “Oh,” he murmured, “here.” Then he gently coaxed you forward, and the pads of his fingers brushed the skin of your back as he did up one of the slats in the back of the sweater. 

Because it was his sweater. Meant for large, magnificent wings.

“There,” he said, satisfied, and then guided you to lie back into the pillows before standing up. He pulled the covers back, gently tugging them out from underneath your legs just to pull them back up to your chin as you scooted further down.

It had been a very long time since someone tucked you into bed.

Azriel brushed some stray hairs away from your face, and you didn’t even have the energy to care how you must look. He leaned down, his lips pressing to your forehead, and you were fairly certain you were not hallucinating this time—not when his kiss lingered, and he pulled away just to press a second quick peck a little closer to your hairline.

You watched him closely as he pulled away, watched how his shadows seemed to pour from his body and seep toward your bed, watched the way his wings twitched before he refolded them behind him. Watched the way his throat bobbed and his cheeks tinted the same shade of pink you thought his ears had earlier.

“You’re still pretty warm,” he murmured, the back of his knuckles tracing gently over your cheekbone, as if he couldn’t quite pull himself away.

When his touch finally fell away, and he took a half step back, panic squeezed the air from your lungs. “Azriel,” you rushed out, your panic poorly hidden in the rough and breathy words. “Please,” you said, swallowing once. “Please don’t leave.”

His face turned softer than you knew was possible, and you wanted to keep this version of Azriel to yourself for an eternity—even if your chest hurt at the reminder that his eternity would span centuries beyond yours. Tonight then. Tonight, maybe you could keep him, just until you were well enough to stand without crumbling to the floor.

“I’m not leaving,” he assured.

He kicked his boots off, soft thuds on your floor as they fell over. Then he started unbuckling sheaths and straps that held…who even knew what close to his body. “I’m not leaving,” he said again, before disappearing into your bathing chamber.

Your heart was racing. You glanced at the large bowl that had magically appeared on your nightstand, and you desperately hoped you wouldn’t need it. For the first time, you wondered if anyone else knew you were sick.

Probably not, unless Azriel told them somehow. You still didn’t understand how exactly they all communicated with each other.

You hoped no else knew, and that Azriel would stay.

He came out in a new set of clothes, his leathers traded for soft lounge pants and a plain t-shirt, his sock-covered feet carrying him back to you. You didn’t know where he got the clothes, just like you weren’t sure where his sweater you were wrapped in now came from, but you had learned to stop questioning every little thing since living here.

This time, he crawled onto the other side of the bed, his back leaning against the headboard as his wings flared out on either side of him. One of them grazed your cheek as he tried to extend it, then bumped the top of your head as he moved around. “I’m sorry,” Azriel murmured, almost embarrassed. “Do you want me to move?”

“No,” you answered a little too quickly. You shuffled closer to him, closing the distance between your bodies and making more room for him to rest his wing. “You’re warm.”

You had not meant to say that, not really, but Azriel seemed to preen from the possible half-compliment, if you could even call it that. Then his wing draped completely over you, a second cover that offered immediate warmth you were craving. The edge of his wing rested gently against your cheek, the membrane silken and smooth against your skin, and you wanted to touch it with the tips of your fingers—but you were not entirely lost to your illness, and still had some decorum, so you kept your hands tucked beneath the covers, and let yourself finally drift off into sleep as you breathed in the soothing scent of soap and cedar.

~ ~ ~

Later, when your room was darker and the sun no longer creeped out behind the edges of your curtains, you awoke with your head in Azriel’s lap, and his fingers gently drawing figures along your collarbone. His wing still covered you, an extra layer of protection from the outside world that you never wanted to leave.

Your head was spinning as you shifted around, sleep still clinging to the edges of your mind. Azriel’s fingers came up to lightly trace your jaw, the motion gentle and soothing in a way that had you melting back into him, allowing sleep to slowly creep back in.

Exhaustion reclaimed you, and you were dreaming again.

You must have been, when you murmured, “In another life, maybe you were mine.”

Maybe this was a terrible idea, after all…

To travel through time. To see his love again.

He’d practically begged Zatanna to throw him back to the past with whatever spells she knew, just to see you. 

He wanted to see you. Not the version of you from the pictures he kept, or the videos he saved on his phone, or even his memories— where the color of your eyes were starting to fade, or how he’d sometimes find himself forgetting what your voice sounded like.

(The latter would usually leave him to a heap of guilt and hollowness carved deep in his chest.)

No, he wanted you. The real you. 

Even if he needed to turn back time for it to happen.

Of course Dick’s stubborn ass only realised it now, not when absolutely everyone else told him so. But when he was standing frozen at your doorstep, hands clenched at his sides, with nowhere else to go for the next three hours— ‘till the clock strikes 12, then the spell would break. 

What in the Cinderella shit was this?

He'd been standing on your porch for precisely four minutes and nineteen seconds. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three...

His mind was shrieking at him like a beast. YOU JUST WASTED FOUR PRECIOUS MINUTES, YOU STUPID FUC—

With another deep breath, he finally found the courage to knock on your door. Three light taps, before his hand fell to his side once more. As he did, he'd unconsciously held his breath, posture tensing, still as a marble statue as he waited.

A little later, the sound of jingling keys sounded from the other side of the door, latches and locks from the other side unlocking.

Then, before he could even process it he was faced with you. Sweet, beautiful you. 

Your eyes, your hair, your lips.

“Dick?”

Your voice.

A shiver went through his body, the air feeling like it had been sucked out of his lungs at the mere sight of you, your voice, saying his name so sweetly like you always did. When was the last time he heard your voice?

He knew he probably looked stupid right now— standing in front of you, breathless, awestruck, yet his heart squeezed painfully in his chest with feelings of sadness, regret, longing bunched up together carving an even deeper hole in his chest, making it hard for him to breathe.

He managed to mutter out a small, “Hi.” a mere breath that he himself almost didn’t hear.

“Hi,” you echoed, voice soft, warm, like a home he hadn’t been to in years.

That was true enough.

“What are you doing here?” you asked with a smile adorning your lips, stepping aside from the door as a silent invitation.

Instead of a verbal answer, once Dick stepped inside, he wasted no time to close the door behind him and engulf your frame in his arms, his head falling to your shoulder, arms holding you tight, eyes squeezing shut to keep his tears at bay.

He felt you still in his hold, confusion written on your body language before you slowly relaxed, your arms sliding around his neck as you reciprocated the hug just as tightly. “It's okay.” you whispered in his ear, your hand raking through his hair.

“It’s okay,” you whispered softly, your blood staining his fingers where his trembling palm laid to rest at the gaping wound on your stomach.

His breath hitched, body shivering as he shook the memory away. You were here in his arms, alive, real. Real. Real. Real. Real.

For a moment, Dick stood there, with you clutched tightly in his arms, his hands fisting your shirt. It’s been so long. Your presence was both a soothing balm and an agonizing torture for him. All at once. And he couldn’t decide whether he felt relief or regret. 

Because at the end of the day, he knew that this would undo whatever progress that he had made— that it would reopen the deep tear in heart that he thought was healing. 

But you were here. 

Real and alive, not the form that was bleeding out in his arms, pale and lifeless. Or the version of you in his dreams, on the beach, telling him to move on, that he’d be okay without you, because God knows what a complete lie that is. 

He wasn’t well without you, he hasn’t been ever since that day at the warehouse.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled back slightly, just to look at you. Your eyes that gleamed with unsaid concern, your cheeks that would glow his favourite shade of red, the slope of your nose, the lips he’d kissed a million times before. Embroidering every detail of your face to his memory.

He felt your hands cup his cheeks, swiping his tears—tears he hadn’t realised he shed— away with your thumbs, your touch light as the wind, he couldn’t help but to lean into it, eyes fluttering closed.

He’s home.

“Hi.” he whispered again, voice hoarse, yet steady. His hand left your waist to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, staying there, caressing the side of your face gently, timidly almost. He was scared if he moved too swiftly you’d disappear, or that he could somehow hurt you.

Your eyes softened, “Hi.” Your hand hadn’t stopped caressing his face even when his tears had dried. “Are you okay?”

No.

“Yeah.” He nodded, mouth twitching at a shit attempt to smile. No… I’m not. “I just missed you.” So much…

Your brows pulled, “Missed me? You saw me two days ago.” that lovely smile of yours appeared. His chest ached. “And you texted me, like, what, 15 minutes ago?”  He should’ve spent every day with you…

A fond smile took place on his own lips, “I know. But two days is plenty long.” he pointed out, his chest feeling lighter. “And you know a text isn’t the same as seeing you in person. I just missed you.” He didn’t even need to lie about that.

Your eyes turned mischievous, and he could sense the witty remark before it left your mouth. “Aww, you came to me after a nightmare?” you gasped exaggeratedly, putting a hand on your chest. “Why, I’m flattered, Boy Wonder.”

He flicked your forehead lightly. “You’re not funny.”

You raised a brow, with a tilt of your lips, “Okay, first of all: Ow. That was rude.” You swatted his hand. “Second: you just laughed, so that means I’m funny. And third: I could make Bruce laugh, so that means I’m actually very, super-duper funny.” you listed, voice lilted with your usual chirp, your sentence finished off with a triumphant smirk like a cherry on top.

Shaking his head with affectionate exasperation, he let out a small laugh. You were as much a menace as you were lovable. That was why he loved– loves you so.

“You are such a menace.” he told you. Despite his words, his tone was nothing short of loving. “Never change, Bug.” 

“Don’t worry, Hero,” you assured with a nod of your head. “I wasn’t planning to.”

Silence filled the hall.

“Are you gonna continue clutching me like a teddy bear or…?”

“Oh.” 

You laughed, a melodious tone that filled his senses. Then you broke away from the hug, opting to take his hand and pull him along with you to the living room.

Along the way, his eyes swept over the area, a plethora of memories playing in his head— of when he used to watch movies with you in the living room, of him helping you build your bookshelf in your room, of how you used to dance around the place with dramatic music blasting in the background.

It hasn’t happened yet for you, but oh, he missed all of it.

Even of the memories where you fought, he regretted wasting those precious times over some stupid fight. Regretted that he’d ever taken it— taken you, for granted.

Both sitting down on the plush couch, you faced him with a solemn expression, the concern from before making its return to your face. “Okay, spill.” you said, but reiterated your shortly words after. “Or not. Depends on if you wanna talk about it or not. I’ll just be here.”

It was right at this moment that he realised just how much you loved him. Even before the two of you got together. The love was so clear in your eyes, he must’ve been so blind, so stupid to not have seen it sooner. 

How could you?

How could you be so lovely, yet so, so mean for leaving him?

How could you leave when you promised him forever?

His unsaid thoughts left him speechless, just staring at you with a mix of awe and betrayal. It wasn’t your fault, he knew that. None of it ever was. But how could you?  How could you love him so greatly just to leave him?

His face crumpled with anguish, eyes flooding with tears that flowed down his cheeks. And this time, it was you who took him into your arms and let him cry into your shoulder. He couldn’t stop the choked sob that clawed its way out of his throat, his hands grappling onto you like a lifeline. 

Desperate. 

Tender as though he was holding onto the most precious piece of his heart.

And you were. 

You took a part of his heart with you when you died.

His chest constricted with the pain, choking him, keeping the air unable to enter his lungs. It hurt. Your hold on him was worsening the pain but how could he deny your affection when it was the very thing he dreamt of these past years?

“You left me.” It was an accusation laced in grief that he never really healed from. How cruel of him to take it out on you when it was him that had failed you in the first place? He never did deserve you, did he? 

Your hands drew circles on his back, “It’s okay, love.” you whispered over his unwavering sobs. “I’m right here. I’m not gonna leave you.” Your soothing words dug the knife deeper into his chest. You didn’t know. You didn’t know. You didn’t know.

“You promised me!” Dick felt like he was screaming. But it was no more than a hoarse whisper. The two rings on a chain beneath his shirt felt like biting cold ice against his heated skin. 

You, oblivious, kept reassuring him, “I know. I’m right here with you.” 

“I couldn’t save you.” he wept until he ran out of breath, “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. I love you.” he mumbled repeatedly, his throat raw. He needed to say it. He didn’t get to say it last time. 

He’d beg you to stay then, now he’s letting out all the words he didn’t get a chance to say.

Finally he knew, this was what he was here for. 

To apologise to you. 

He loved you too much. Even when he hadn’t been in love with you. His love for you was too great, and so were yours for him. He loved you the way even the word ‘love’ itself wouldn’t be nearly enough to convey the adoration, the devotion he had for you.

The moment you had said that sweet ‘yes’ to being his love, and ‘yes’ to forever and more with him as he was down on one knee before you.

You almost had it all. God, you were so close. 

He was a fool. 

But he’d rather be a fool and spend the short time he was given to love you, even knowing how it ended, than not loving you at all. He’s grateful to have loved you, and be loved by you in return. 

As the minutes, perhaps hours, ticked by, he continued to hold on to you. If this was truly the last time he ever got to see you, he was going to hold you until he can’t anymore.

“Do you wanna stay the night?” your careful voice sounded in his ear, your hand caressing his hair. 

“I wish I could,” he replied through a sniffle, head leaning on your shoulder. Even if he wanted to lie, he thought he’d burnt down all his energy for that. “But I have to go.” 

He didn’t have to look at you to know of the frown that rose to your lips. “Are you sure?” you asked. “Just stay the night, I don’t mind, you know that.”

But Dick shook his head, going against what his heart tells him despite himself. “I’ll have to go back.” he insisted with much reluctance. “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, the action itself told him to not be sorry. “Don’t be.” you told him. “I’m sure you still need to help Tim for the wedding anyway.”

Even when he forgot that Tim and Cassie’s wedding was only a few days away for your time, he nodded along as if he knew. “Yeah.”

Looking towards the clock on the wall, his heart dropped at the time. 11:42 PM.

Has it really been that long?

Internal panic began to creep in, his heart pounding in his ears. No. No. No. He thought he had more time. He needed more time with you. He’s not ready to let go of you again. He’s not ready to say goodbye to you. 

He’ll never be ready for that.

A tap on his shoulder brought him into focus again. And suddenly, you were right in front of him.

“Dick?” you were holding his hands, lacing your fingers together. “Hey, breathe.”

Following your instruction, he inhaled a deep, shuddering breath, exhaling once you told him to. Repeating them until his breaths went back to normal.

Keeping his eyes closed, he rested his forehead on yours, tightening his hold on your hands. In his mind, he kept chanting ‘Please let me stay with her. Please let me stay with her. Please let me stay with her.’ 

But even he knew that his efforts were vain.

“I really have to go now.” His voice was weak and raspy from all the tears he shed. He hoped that you won’t ask him to stay again, for he didn’t know how he was going to reject your offer for the third time.

Thankfully—or maybe not— you nodded. “Okay.” you whispered, your eyes already on him when he opened his eyes. “Call me tomorrow, okay?” 

He nodded, not having it in his heart to lie to you. And he knew his past self would’ve called you even when you don’t ask him to.

The two of you walked back to the entrance hall. Hands joined as you trailed behind him quietly. Remembering something, he turned, reaching into his pocket to pull out an envelope. “Here.” he placed the envelope in your hand. “Give this to me the next time you see me?”

You raised a questioning brow, he could see the confusion in your features. “You want me to…?” 

“Give this back to me when you see me next time.” he repeated, nodding in confirmation. “Yeah.”

You nodded slowly, slipping the envelope in your pajama pocket. “Okay.”

“Thank you.” He gave you a grateful smile, unlocking the door and opening it before stepping out. “See you.” He couldn’t bring himself to say goodbye to you. 

Walking out, steps slow, a gust of wind hit his face. He could still feel your eyes on the back of his head. Every step he took farther away from you felt heavy. 

He stopped walking. 

Turning to face you again, his feet stayed rooted on the spot before he asked: “Can I have-” His voice broke. 

He tried again.

“Can you hug me one more time?” he requested, eyes glazing over again. “Just one last hug, please?” 

Without hesitation, he saw you run to him, throwing your arms around his neck. His hand took place on the back of your head, another on your waist, swaying on the spot lightly. He pressed his lips to your temple, a lump clogging his throat. “Hey. I love you.” he whispered, voice wavering.

“I love you, too.” he heard you reply, and he knew you meant it. 

With a light squeeze, he pulled back, and did his best to put on a smile for you. “Go back inside, it’s cold.” he jutted his chin towards the door. 

“Bye.” you waved at him, walking backwards to the door.

He could only manage a wave back before his vision blurred.

And just like that he was back at the cave.

He didn’t remember much after that, other than falling into Bruce’s awaiting arms and weeping his heart out like he did when he was a little boy.

Henrik had been killed and Esther and Mikael in turn made the rest of their children undead forever.

However it was only when Klaus's true identity came to light that Y/N was punished too. In addition to Mikael locking away Niklaus's wolf side and swearing hatred on him, he sought to punish him further by shoving a dagger deep into her chest.

Niklaus's scream shook the trees, Elijah held him as his sobs dragged the grass back into the ground and buried the life that was lost.

As centuries past, his grief was hidden behind more death and agony of which Klaus inflicted across the world. Her face was painted a million times over, a thousand different styles until Klaus could not bear to look at her anymore, it was like tearing his heart out over and over.

When the daggers came into his possession, they reminded him of her. He could still see her fearful eyes begging him for help as the blood seeped through her dress. And yet the weapon made him feel close to her each time he used them.

Her memory began to fade as the years went by, she drifted within his mind as other things came and went. But she could never be forgotton.

Esther knew that, and she used that to her advantage. She knew from the first time she stumbled across her son bathing in the lake late at night with his arms hanging loosely around a girls naked hips, their foreheads touching as they gazed lovingly at each other. When mikael killed her, she kept the girl preserved and buried safely.

A thousand years later she finally had use for the girl.

So when her children stood threateningly at the doorway, Klaus's rage on full display, Y/N's frightened whisper would break his attention.

His eyes found her. She was in that same dress she died in, still stained by her own blood but now coated head to toe in mud. He stepped forward but Esther's hand grabbed Y/N's wrist tight in a warning and he froze. So did Elijah and Rebekah.

"She's human, Niklaus." His mother reminded. "You could be human with her, have a family, a real life together like you were supposed to." She offered, watching the glimmer in her sons eyes.

Elijah stepped forward, hold hand resting on Klaus's shoulder as he too stared straight at the confused, petrified girl they had all loved.

"She's not real." Elijah whispered, assuming it was a trick and Esther's expression darkened as a blade was swiped quickly across Y/N's wrist, not hard enough to be fatal but enough to draw blood and panic Klaus.

He was in front of her in a second, trying to pull her to him but Esther threw him to the wall before he could reach and just like that Elijah and Rebekah were moving too.

Y/N was shaking silently in the corner by the time that Esther had been torn apart.

Her body flinched and trembled even once she resided in Niklaus's arms. She whimpered weakly, confused words recited in the same language they had used all that time ago. Niklaus didn't remember much but he had played the memories of their words over and over so many times that he was still able to comfort her in his mother tongue.

They got her home quickly, hiding her away in Klaus's room and muttering amongst themselves as to what to do.

"There must be a way to at least let her understand english-" Rebekah questioned and Elijah sighed, glancing over to how Y/N's fingers touched Klaus's curls and she whispered in their old language about how short it had become.

"We'll ask Davina... we should let Niklaus get her washed...she appears as though she'd been dug up." He murmured, a furrow to is brow.

Rebekahs gaze drifted to her dirtied finger nails. "She wasn't dug up...mother wouldn't be so kind. She dug her own way out." She uttered and Elijah grimaced.

"Come, we should get her some tea..." Elijah swallowed thickly, guiding Rebekah out of the room and leaving his brother alone with his old love.

His hands tried to pick the clumps of dirt from her hair whilst also trying to understand the fast words she threw at him. He tried to give her the word for bathing and eventually she nodded, holding onto his hands as he lead her into the bathroom.

The bath was small, not like the lake and the water was hot, it startled her. Klaus steadied her, helping her down and climbing in behind her when she cried out for him not to leave her alone. Not again.

The feel of her skin back against his was a feeling Klaus had been so sure he had forgotten forever. She tried to turn to face him, ending up completely pressed on top of him as his hands washed the soap and water down her back only start panicking when the expensive body wash made her soft skin scatter with red rash.

"Oh-" He muttered and wrapped his arm round her waist and lifted her up with him. She muttered out in confusion but didn't struggle, too happy to be in his hold as he drained the water and started again, laying back down with her. "Come here, my sweet." He guided her onto her back so he could reach and see her hair as he washed it enough until it was back to the silkiness he remembered so fondly.

He heard her little sniffles first, before her shoulder shook slightly with a sob. Klaus's heart sunk slightly and he nudged his nose into the side of her neck, placing gentle kissed like she had loved so much but they made her cry harder.

Her words were lost on him, he couldn't recall the language well enough after so long and it made his guilt swirl so much it hurt. Klaus tried to make sense of something but all he could make out was "Darkness" and "loneliness".

He tried to comfort her with the few words still in memory but she wouldn't stop, not even once she was dressed in one of his shirts and tucked to his chest under the covers, a cup of tea in Klaus's hands that he'd insisted she sip on from time to time.

Eventually she sunk into sleep but it only lasted for so long before she was clawing at her throat with her already broken nails, as though she were suffocating.

Klaus grabbed at her hands, immediately being sucked into her mind. The image of her waking beneath the ground, unable to breathe or see as her hands tried to find the light above.

Only a few seconds passed before Elijah was bursting through the door, awakened by the screams. Rebekah and Marcel a few seconds later.

"I'm calling Davina." Marcel muttered to Rebekah after actually seeing the girls condition and hearing her foreign cries.

The lights were back on which calmed her partly, finally being able to see. Her hands clung onto Klaus's shirt, clutching the fabric against her palm for any sort of security.

Elijah and Rebekah were sat on the edge of Klaus's bed, watching the once full of life girl from their village full of fear and confusion.

Ages went by before Marcel returned with a half asleep Davina and a couple candles. Klaus rocked his love calmly, hand stroking her arm to prove he was still there as Davina set up around them. Her chant echoed through the room, flames standing tall and proud as she reluctantly held her hand out for Klaus to take and then gently held Y/N's in the other.

"I'm sorry...this is the only way I can think of." She whispered before a thousand years worth of Klaus's memories were thrust upon Y/N.

A loud sound of pain emitted from her and she held her head. Klaus frowned in concern, trying to cup her face to see what was happening but when she looked back at him it was like she had seen a ghost.

A thousand variants of each emotion painted her expression before she crawled back against him and breathed in his scent with each hiccuped cry.

After a while the others left and Klaus rest his chin on top her head.

She didn't utter a word for days, not in any language. Klaus would dress her and feed her each day, hold her to him as he showed her the television which only seemed to hurt her head.

He had left her downstairs on the couch when she had fallen into for once a stable sleep without the traumatic nightmare of being buried alive.

He was just in the other room, trying to think of any way to make things better for her and for them.

Y/N being alive had never once been a possibility in his mind, especially her being alive with no knowledge of any time passing to all of a sudden knowing every shameful act he'd committed.

Klaus was too lost in thought to hear Camille making her way into the abattoir, calling out for him and stumbling across Y/N who had just woken.

"Oh...uh hi." She blinked at the girl. She was clearly in Klaus's clothes. The sweatpants were barely holding onto her hips and the shirt was easily recognisable. Y/N stared back, she recognised her, from Klaus's memories. Camille, Cami.

He liked her, they'd danced together. He'd thought about her, a lot. It made her stomach twist uneasily and her knees pull to her chest self-consciously.

"Camille." Klaus's voice echoed over her head before he was kneeling down beside her and stroking her head, checking she hadn't woken in terror again. "I'm afraid this isn't a good time." He informed her, sitting down on the sofa and noting how Y/N withdrew, instantly making the mental connection.

"You haven't been answering, I worried something had happened." She explained warily as she watched Klaus watch Y/N.

"This is Y/N." He introduced faintly, his attention not lifting to her. "She died a thousand years ago but my mother brought her back, she's struggling to adjust for the moment. I'd appreciate if you left, I don't think new people is helping right now." He tried to tell her to leave as politely as possible.

Cami only nodded, the information hitting like a wave as she apologised under her breath and retreated.

Klaus stroked Y/N's cheek as he sighed softly, "Please understand that I love you Y/N." He murmured. "I would have chosen you over any woman I have ever come across without a doubt. I would have taken my mother's deal, I would be human beside you." He told her, eyes sincere. "I only wish we could go back all those years, I should have married you then." He uttered, a kiss pressed to her cheek.

"Why didn't you?" She whispered, speaking in english for the first time.

"I was afraid. Not of us, of-"

"Mikael." She mumbled, “I remember now, sorry." She sniffed and he sighed.

"You shouldn't have been given all my memories like that, it's too much for anyone to handle all at once." He sighed, his hands cupping her face and stroking her soft cheeks. "I won't ever leave you alone again. Never in the dark, never in the cold, never anywhere."

"I don't understand why she would bring me back." Y/N whispered and Klaus frowned.

"I'm happy you're here, my heart." He murmured, his brows furrowed. "I've lived to long without you, and you have not lived long enough. Things will be better now."

"You hurt and kill..." She whispered, a soft sniff to her words and he looked down.

"I know." He nodded. He hated all the evil she had seen him do through his memories. He was nothing like he used to be. "But I'd never hurt you, and I'd keep you safe."

"I don't want to be here." She whimpered and he held her onto his lap.

"It's just hard at the moment, we've only just started adjusting. It'll get easier and you'll start to like it. I know you've seen things through me but it'll be so much better when you actually experience them." He persuaded, stroking her hair but she didn't look overly convinced.

"I don't want to push my way into your new life." She mumbled and sighed softly to himself in slight annoyance, not being annoyed with her but annoyed with the idea that he could ever not want her with him in his life. She would never be an inconvenience for him, a long time ago she was every thing for him and now she was that again. It had been clear that Klaus's attention had remained on her since the second his eyes found hers again, it was very possible that Klaus wouldn't be so infatuated with power so much now.

She held the innocence of his past that he had lost. She gave him something that no thing or other person could ever supply.

She was old life and she would be his new life, he could finally have a second chance worth taking.