#acotarfandom

He didn’t know exactly why it felt so much harder with you— felt harder to argue, felt even harder to apologize. Everything else in his life, every delicate situation, every broken, jagged thing, he could attempt to handle with steady hands. But you—every time he stepped near you lately, it felt like stepping onto unstable ground. One wrong move, and everything shifted beneath him.

His shadows had made sure to remind him, trailing after you through the house, feeding him fragments of your clipped words to Mor, the slam of a cabinet door when you thought no one was paying attention. They weren’t even subtle about it anymore, curling around his ears like smoke, whispering your whereabouts.

He’d tried small things—leaving you treats, a smoothie for breakfast, or a croissant on a plate with your name carefully written on a napkin. But every time he returned to check, they were untouched. Once, he found the croissant flattened and crumpled, as if you’d squeezed it with a tight fist before tossing it back onto the plate. His shadows confirmed you were angry that night, their murmurs suggesting no coincidence in your evening spent with Mor.

Since then, every instinct told him to stay away and retreat, to wait until he’d figured out the right thing to say instead of stumbling through this mess. But waiting had gotten him here, hadn’t it? And now he was scrambling to undo weeks of silence. He thought, maybe, he should have something written out. Something properly planned, so that he knew what he wanted to tell you. But every time he thought about what to say, his mind came up blank. After hours of failure, he’d convinced himself that, with you, it would come naturally. It always had.

Or, at least, that’s what he kept repeating as he made his way downstairs, finding you in the kitchen.

You didn’t look up right away, but you knew he was there. 

“Are you sure you want to be in here without a chaperone?” you said, slicing into an apple slowly. “What if something happens?”

Shadows swirled around his shoulders. Angry, they whispered. As if he didn’t already know.

“Stop,” Azriel said. “Can we just... stop with the comments. Please.”

“Why?” You said, finally tossing a glance his way. “Is it bothering you?”

The look on your face was nothing like he expected. It wasn’t just anger. It was exhaustion, too. He didn’t like it, the way the shadows under your eyes and the stiffness in your shoulders spoke louder than anything you’d said to him in days. Didn’t like that he’d probably been the one to put that exhaustion there.

“Yes,” Azriel finally responded. “It is bothering me.”

You let out a laugh, something low and humorless, and it twisted in his chest. Should he  apologize for making you lose sleep, too? He’d already failed at the rest of it—what was one more thing to add to the pile?

Azriel cleared his throat. “Can we talk?”

“Now you want to talk?”

His fists clenched at his sides. The familiar burn of frustration, the heat of guilt, rose up his throat.  “How was I supposed to talk to you before when you’d just ignore me or say something snarky and leave?”

You stilled at his words and Azriel was almost tempted to embrace the small flicker of relief he felt. He should have apologized sooner, yes, but you had been avoiding him fervently. He convinced himself he wouldn’t have been able to apologize before now, anyways. 

“Okay,” you said, setting the knife down and leaning against the counter. “Well, I’m here now. So what do you want to say?”

Azriel’s eyes flicked to the knife instinctively. It was far enough from your hand that he probably didn’t need to worry. Probably. Not that he thought you’d do anything—though there was that one time Cassian had nearly stabbed him with a butter knife. He’d been significantly less angry than you were now. The memory did nothing to ease Azriel’s nerves. He pushed the image away.

This was it—his chance to fix things. To say all the things he’d been rehearsing in his head. But the words didn’t come. Instead, he found himself saying, “How was the meeting with Keir?”

The second the words left his mouth, he wanted to grab them out of the air and shove them back down his throat.  He could see it in the way your expression shifted—something sharp and disbelieving cutting across your face. Azriel didn’t need his shadows to tell him he’d screwed up again. The words had barely landed, and already he was bracing for the fallout.

“That’s what you wanted to talk about?”

Azriel froze. His shadows curled tighter around him. Stupid, stupid. He swallowed, desperately trying to correct it. There was no going back. “Rhys said I should expect some tension at the next meeting. I wanted the full picture.”

“The full picture?” You repeated darkly.  “Well the full picture wasn’t great, Azriel. Because you weren’t there. And because I was pissed—because of you.”

Azriel nodded, swallowing hard. Idiot. “Right. I shouldn’t have asked that. I should’ve—” He stopped himself. No, he couldn’t fix that now. He needed to focus on what mattered.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally, the words leaving his mouth like rocks tumbling down a hill. He hated the way it sounded—weak, like he didn’t mean it. But he did. He just didn’t know how to make you believe it. Azriel continued, the apology already unraveling in his head. “For how you feel.”

“Oh,” you said softly, but there was a thick sarcasm in your voice. “You’re sorry for how I feel?”

Azriel rushed to correct himself. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then what did you mean?” You shook your head, letting out a quiet, bitter laugh. “Do you even know what you’re trying to tell me?”

“Yes.”

“Then what are you sorry for?”

Azriel cursed himself for the hundredth time. Why was this so hard?

Because it was you, he heard his own voice reply, because he couldn’t bear the thought of failing you again. He knew he was failing—knew it in the sharp edge of your voice and the way your eyes narrowed every time he opened his mouth. And still, the right thing to say stayed maddeningly out of reach.

“I’m sorry that your feelings got hurt.”

His shadows slowly loosened, trailing down his body like they didn’t want to be associated with him anymore. He didn’t blame them. You blinked slowly at him, that look of exhaustion softening your features.

“That’s not an apology, Azriel. That’s—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “You know what? Nevermind.”

Azriel was transported back to the night of the fight, remembering how you’d said similar words then, too. He tried to salvage it again, but you were already moving, wiping the cutting board with a hurried motion. You didn’t notice as your apple, barely sliced, rolled off the counter’s edge. His shadows were there almost instantly, catching the fruit before it fell.

You reached out, and for a brief moment, your shoulders softened as you grabbed it from their hold.

“Where are you going?” Azriel asked. He wondered if his voice sounded as desperate as he felt. As frustrated.

“To train with Cassian,” you replied, still not looking at him. Your hand paused on the counter, and you glanced over your shoulder. “Do you think I should stop by Nesta first? Make sure she’s okay with me being around her mate? I wouldn’t want to ruin their relationship too.”

Azriel’s chest tightened. “Can we stop this?”

“No,” you replied swiftly, and Az could have sworn he heard a crack in your voice. 

And then the silence stretched. You ate the small slices of apple as you put things away, the quiet dragging on as he stood there, still unable to speak. Finally, you stopped and looked at him. He tried to offer a smile, something to soften the weight in the air. But you just frowned.

“Did you expect to wait this out? Wait until I got over it?”

Azriel shook his head, his voice low. “No. I never thought that. I just—”

“Just what?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

You stared at him for a long moment, like you were seeing him for the first time, and the disappointment in your gaze made his chest feel tight. He should have been able to find the right words. But it didn’t matter anymore, not in this moment, not as you let out a small, bitter laugh, nodding as if something inside you had finally broken. 

“Always so afraid of saying the wrong thing that you never say the right one.”

Azriel opened his mouth, desperate to correct himself, to make it right, but the words just wouldn’t come. He had never considered that before—at least, not with you. He’d never thought he needed to say the right things, never cared enough to learn how.

“I never realized how much of an asshole you could be,” you said, with a final, almost dismissive glance. “I guess some females are into that.”

And then you were gone.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Training couldn’t have come at a better time.

You needed to hit something—needed to feel that release. Not in a petty, frustrated way, like slamming your fist into a wall, but in the desperate, raw way that left you aching. It was the only way to escape your frustration and, maybe, remind yourself that you were still you, despite how Azriel made you feel.

And for a while, it worked.

Cassian had spent centuries mastering the language of battle, the unspoken rhythm of war. He could read the tension in a stance, spot when someone's body didn’t follow through with the mind’s intentions. He didn’t get enough credit for it, you thought, his ability to read someone without words. He was looking at you now, with that critical eye, head tilted slightly, like he was waiting for you to crack. 

“Alright,” Cassian grunted as he parried another strike. “What’s on your mind?”

You ducked beneath his swing. “Nothing,” you said, deflecting the question with a swipe of your sword. Too fast, too aggressive.

Cassian dodged it easily, raising a brow. “Right. Because ‘nothing’ is exactly what makes you swing like you’re trying to decapitate me.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up, but you didn’t laugh. You weren’t in the mood for his teasing, no matter how good-natured it was.

“It’s nothing. Seriously.”

He rested the flat of his blade against his shoulder.  “Come on, spit it out before you take my head off for real. I’ll pester you all day.”

You sighed, pacing a few steps away. He’d wait. He definitely would. And there wasn’t much point in pretending anymore—he clearly knew you weren’t fine. Continuing to train like this was useless when your head was so unfocused. Avoiding the topic wasn’t helping either. At this point, everyone knew what was going on. Hell, they all seemed more bothered by it than Azriel.

Still, you’d been dodging these conversations. Talking about it felt...stupid. Saying it out loud would make it real—all the messy, painful feelings you’d been shoving down would be out there, staring back at you like some pitiful mirror. Your conversation with Azriel this morning had only made your bitterness stronger.

But Cassian was watching you, expecting, and it was nice, in a way. Having someone care this much. Maybe it would be easier to talk to him. Mor had helped, sure, but her comfort recently came in the form of dragging Azriel through the dirt. It didn’t actually solve anything.

"It’s this stupid thing with Az," you muttered finally. "I’m starting to feel like he doesn’t actually care about me." 

Cassian leaned on the hilt of his sword. “Well, that’s not true.”

You leveled him with a stare, your body tensing as a surge of frustration ran through you, hot and heavy. “It isn’t? He talked to me for the first time today and didn’t even apologize. Not properly. Just asked about Keir.”

Cassian’s expression softened. “He gets wrapped up in his own head about things. Probably just embarrassed, you know? Doesn’t know how to approach the situation.”

You’d run that possibility through your mind a hundred times. Mor had even said it herself. But it didn’t help with the ache, the anger. It was hard to believe your spymaster—so fearless, so eager to throw himself into the fire—was struggling to talk to a friend. Out of all the hard things Azriel had done, surely a simple apology wasn’t beyond him. You’d forgiven him for so much, had let things go because he was your friend. But you were tired of letting it go. He had the perfect opportunity to apologize, to properly acknowledge how he’d hurt you, and he hadn’t taken it.

“Embarrassed by what? Accusing his friend of something so absurd?”

Cassian tilted his head in subtle agreement, like he too thought the word absurd was right for the situation. “I think Az doesn’t want to be seen as...whatever he thinks people see him as. Like he’s incompetent in love. Or that he can’t handle his shit.” He rolled his shoulders, sighing. “He’s defensive. When he’s cornered, he reacts badly. It’s not about you, Y/n. You know that, right?”

You knew that. Of course you did. But it didn’t feel like a proper explanation this time. It didn’t feel like enough.

“But it feels like it is about me. He listened to her. He took her word, over mine." Your fists clenched involuntarily. "And the way he acted—like I wasn’t worth considering, like my opinion doesn’t matter. I’ve known him for centuries. She—" You paused, taking a breath, "She’s barely been in his life. And he immediately assumes that my care for him is because I just want something from him. That it’s some selfish, self-serving thing. His whole job is to see through lies, Cass. He didn’t even second-guess her.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t actually see it like that. He probably just reacted out of instinct. It’s Azriel, Y/n, he’s complicated. "

“Shit, Cass, way to play sides.”

Cassian sighed, stepping closer. “I’m not playing sides. I’m trying to help. Az makes stupid decisions. Half the time, I don’t think he even understands why. I don’t want you driving yourself crazy trying to figure it out. It’s not worth it.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” you snapped. “Just wait it out? Move on? That’s not happening.”

The words came out sharper than you intended, and guilt pricked at the edges of your conscience. This wasn’t Cassian’s fault—he didn’t have to ask, didn’t have to care. But lately, your anger over everything—over Az—felt like a thorn lodged so deeply under your skin that the irritation seeped into everything. You were struggling to control it.

It was a small blessing there weren’t any court matters to handle for the time being. Rhys was likely still preoccupied with Keir’s incessant whining about your last outburst.

Still, it felt like acid rising in your throat, a bitter burn you couldn’t swallow down, even as Cassian opened his mouth to respond. The words were spilling out of you before he could say anything.

“I’m not even mad about this one fight anymore,” you started, the grip on your sword slipping as your fingers unfurled. The blade clattered to the ground, the sound loud enough to make Cassian flinch. “It’s everything. All of it. He never apologizes for anything—have you noticed that? Like, ever. And I’ve let it slide because that’s just Azriel, right? Quiet, brooding Azriel, who’s somehow above—”

Cassian raised a palm out. “Alright, alright, stop,” he said. “You’re going to drive yourself crazy. It’s not worth it.”

You exhaled sharply, realizing you were halfway to a full-blown rant.

He stepped closer, giving you a knowing look. “Listen, you can’t force him to apologize properly. You just...can’t. You have to let him come to it on his own.”

Your teeth clenched. “I shouldn’t have to.”

Cassian sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I agree. Believe me, I agree. But until he figures his shit out, maybe we focus on what you can change.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. What else is bothering you?”

You let out a humorless laugh. “It would be easier to list what isn’t bothering me right now.”

Cassian tilted his head again, considering. “Does it bother you that Selene sees you as competition?”

You blew a strand of hair out of your face. Did it bother you?

Azriel had believed her instantly—disregarded you with a swiftness that stung. He’d accused you of selfishness, of something you’d never been with him. But Selene’s opinion of you, the thoughts she’d planted in his mind, those bothered you too. You hadn’t realized it until now.

She didn’t know you.

And yet, her words had curled under your skin, sitting heavy and raw, making you ache in a quiet, tired way. Worse, they’d made you overthink every interaction with Azriel since. You’d spent so much of your life trying to be the diplomat, choosing empathy even when it sucked—when it drained you. You wanted to like Selene—gods, you wanted to like the people Azriel cared for, even when it felt impossible. But she hadn’t even given you the time of day.

“I don’t like that I’ve been vilified somehow,” you admitted with a frown. “I don’t want to feel like I’m fighting for his attention or validation. It’s not like that.”

Cassian gave a small, knowing smile. “I know it’s not.”

“It’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not.” 

He paused, clearly mulling something over, then asked, “Do you want to hear what I think?”

You gave him a wary look. “I feel like you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“Correct,” he said, grinning. Then he sobered. “Az aside...I think Selene’s reaction makes sense.”

You blinked at him, incredulous. Was he serious right now? A sharp heat rose in your chest. “Okay, well, that’s clearly choosing sides—”

“Hear me out,” Cassian said quickly. “I mean, look at you, Y/n. I’d be jealous of you too if I were her. You’re beautiful, smart, someone Azriel deeply cares for. Hell, I’d probably be a mess.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “So, because I’m so wonderful, I’m responsible for her insecurities?” you asked dryly, arching a brow.

Cassian shook his head. “No. What I’m saying is that this might be the one aspect of the situation you can change. The one thing you have control over. Maybe talking to her would help. Clear the air.”

You mulled over his suggestion. Maybe he had a point. Maybe talking to Selene would help. Not just to ease the tension, but to give Azriel room to come to you—to clear the air between you both. If you did this—if you took the first step—maybe he’d finally take you seriously. Apologize for dismissing you so easily, so carelessly. You could find a way to move on, comfortably, with Selene in his life. Right?

It wasn’t like the situation could get any worse.

"Okay," you murmured, more to yourself than to him. "Yeah. Maybe I’ll talk to her."

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Cassian was waiting for Azriel as he stepped out of the townhome, his massive frame leaning against the railing. One glance at the general was enough to confirm it: Cassian wasn’t there to exchange pleasantries. No—Cassian stood with his arms crossed, his wings partially flared, exuding the barely-contained anger Azriel recognized all too well.

“We need to talk,” Cassian said.

Azriel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He tightened his fists, shadows curling around them instinctively, obscuring his hands from view. Not now. Not tonight. He had no energy for this—not for Cassian’s righteousness or whatever lecture he’d come prepared to deliver.

“I’m not in the mood, Cass,” he said flatly, brushing past him.

“Too bad.” Cassian stepped into his path, blocking him with ease. “I didn’t endure an hour of Mor yelling at me for you to decide you can’t have a conversation.”

Azriel paused, his brow furrowing. “Why was Mor yelling at you?”

Cassian crossed his arms. “Because of you.”

“Great,” Az muttered. “What have I done now?”

“I gave Y/n some advice that, in hindsight, wasn’t great. Mor made the situation a lot clearer for me. Now I’m here to make sure you clean up your mess before anyone else slips.”

The mention of your name made Azriel’s chest ache in a way that felt too raw. He’d told himself he wouldn’t think about you tonight—not your voice, not your expression when he’d spoken to you this morning. But here was Cassian, dragging it all to the surface like a wound being forced open.

“I don’t think this is any of your concern,” Azriel said coldly, stepping around Cassian in a last-ditch effort to leave.

Cassian didn’t budge, spinning on his heel and following. “It is my concern because you’re my friend. And Y/n is my friend.”

Azriel could feel his shadows tighten their hold, whispering, urging him to end this. He wasn’t sure if they meant the conversation with Cassian or the situation entirely. Azriel could only control one of those.

“Cass, leave it alone,” he said, his voice low, barely masking the warning there.

“No,” Cassian responded immediately. “You did something shitty and you need to own up to it, Az.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened. “Sometimes friends fight,” he ground out. “Sometimes we get on each other’s nerves, like you’re getting on mine now. It’ll settle.”

“This isn’t going to ‘settle.’” Cassian’s voice rose. “You didn’t just get on her nerves—you offended her.”

The words hit harder than Azriel had anticipated.

“Because the idea of having feelings for me is so offensive? Am I that repulsive?”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, the question jagged, biting. He hadn’t meant to say that. He wasn’t sure where it had come from. 

Cassian blinked, his anger giving way to confusion for a moment before his brow furrowed. “What the hell are you talking about? Don’t twist this into something it isn’t.”

Azriel’s chest tightened, a sudden rush of heat creeping up his neck. His outburst had come from nowhere, and now, Cassian’s eyes were full of confusion and something else—something close to pity. Azriel felt small under it, a flush of embarrassment prickling down his body. He wanted to look away, to escape.

He needed to leave.

Think later. Process later. Just get out of here.

Azriel squared his shoulders, forcing himself to meet Cassian’s gaze with as much indifference as he could muster. “Are you done now? Selene is waiting for me.”

Cassian stepped closer, his wings flaring in frustration. “Selene can deal with a few lost minutes of Azriel time. We’re talking.”

“No,” Azriel said, voice flat, his gaze turning icy. “You’re talking. I’m leaving.”

He moved to step past Cassian, but the larger male blocked him again.

“Is this some weird self-pity thing?” Cassian demanded, his tone growing sharper. “Thinking you’re not worth being forgiven so you don’t even try?”

Those words hit a nerve. 

Azriel’s anger sparked instantly, snapping through his ribs like a whip. He couldn’t decide if it was directed at Cassian or himself. But Cassian didn’t understand. None of them did.

“Cass, just let it go.”

“No,” Cassian shot back. “You always do this. You make decisions that are selfish. You push people away because you think it’s easier, and it’s not. It’s bullshit.”

It wasn’t easier—it was never easier. But what was Azriel supposed to say? That it was better than risking more damage? That every decision he made, no matter how distant or cold, was the only way he knew how to protect the people he cared about?

“Cassian—”

The slap came out of nowhere.

Azriel’s head snapped to the side, his shadows scattering in shock before reforming around him. Slowly, he turned back to Cassian, his eyes blazing.

“What the hell was that?”

“Sorry,” Cassian said flatly. “Must’ve been the wind.”

Azriel’s lip curled. He opened his mouth to respond, but a second slap landed, harder this time.

“Would you stop that?” Azriel growled, his wings flaring slightly, the shadows around him vibrating with his tone. “Don’t touch me.”

Cassian stepped closer. “Why?” he asked, mockingly. “This is what you deserve, right? If you’re so terrible.”

The third slap was the breaking point.

Azriel’s fist flew, connecting with Cassian’s jaw in a blur of movement. The force sent Cassian stumbling back a step, but he recovered quickly, his retaliation swift—a sharp uppercut to Azriel’s ribs.

They fought like brothers—wild, messy. Not about technique, but about something else. Azriel wasn’t sure why Cassian needed this release, but he could feel it—the desperate need behind every punch. And Azriel… Azriel didn’t realize it at first, but he needed it too.

He was an Illyrian, no matter how many times he tried to convince himself otherwise. Fighting cleared his mind. Whatever Cassian was trying to achieve, whatever he needed to prove, it was working.

Azriel barely registered the sting of each hit. The ache in his ribs, the burn in his muscles—it all blurred into the same tight, unrelenting pressure in his chest. Like there was no room left for air, for thought, for the gnawing guilt that had dug its claws into him and refused to let go. Cassian tackled him to the ground, pinning him, both of them struggling for breath.

“This is stupid!”

“I agree,” Azriel spat, shoving him off. “Get off me.”

“No, you!” Cassian said, pushing himself to his feet. “You’re stupid.”

Azriel sat up slowly, chest heaving as his shadows curled protectively around him. 

Cassian shook his head, wiping blood from his lip. “You’re better than this, Az. So be better and properly fuckin’ apologize. If not for you, for me—so my mate will stop glaring at me every time I say your name.”

Azriel’s gaze dropped to the ground, the weight of Cassian’s words sinking into him like a slow burn. His fists clenched at his sides, but he said nothing. Offered nothing. 

Cassian didn’t stop. “Gods know Y/n has done enough for you. Put up with enough. We’ve all done shitty things. But you know what? You take the hit, you own it, and you try to be better. You can’t lead with self-loathing forever.”

Azriel sat there longer than necessary, long after Cassian had walked away. People passed by—some casting glances his way, most not bothering to look at all—but he didn’t move. Didn’t feel the flicker of shame he might’ve once felt at sitting there, bloodied and bruised, shadows curling restlessly around him.

The sting in his cheekbone from Cassian’s knuckles pulsed dully, but it wasn’t enough to distract him from the gnawing thoughts taking root.

Maybe it wasn’t the fear of you rejecting his apology that held him back. Maybe it was the fear that you wouldn’t.

That you’d accept it. 

That somehow, he’d manage to make it up to you. That things would settle for a while, until he inevitably did something worse. Something irreparable.

He was terrified of succeeding—of pulling you back in, of you continuing to see something in him that he wasn’t. That you’d keep believing in this illusion, this version of him he’d somehow convinced you existed.

For centuries, it felt like he’d been holding his breath, waiting for the inevitable—waiting for you to see him as he truly was. And if he made this right, if you forgave him, it would only give him more time to fail you again.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You were walking without a proper destination in mind.

You’d never been to it, but Azriel had once mentioned that Selene worked at a flower shop near the Palace of Thread and Jewels. He’d first run into her on one of his free days, when he’d stopped by a few of his favorite parts in the city.

This area made sense. It was near his usual route, tucked away in a cozy corner of the city. As the scent of flowers suddenly enveloped you, you heard Selene’s unmistakable voice. Relief surged through you; you’d found the right place. 

You thought back to your conversation with Cassian. You knew you weren’t in the wrong, that this current visit wasn’t expected of you. But it was something you could control. You’d wanted to get to know Selene better anyway. You prepared yourself, putting on a smile and stepping towards the door, but then—

“I mean, is he really worth all that effort?”

This was a voice you didn’t recognize. It curled around you, something about it making your stomach clench. 

A small sigh. “Azriel?”

This time, the voice belonged to Selene. You froze, rooted to the spot. Any inclination to quit eavesdropping washed away at the sound of his name. You felt a tightness in your chest—an almost primal urge to run in there, to stop the conversation before it even began. 

“Yeah,” the second voice pressed, “He’s a freak, Sel. Hot, sure, but a total freak. And so intense all the time.”

For a moment, there was silence. And then, Selene’s voice, almost reluctant, like she was holding back. “Well—”

Her friend interrupted. “And those shadows? Don’t they freak you out?”

A sound of disgust, maybe a shiver, followed her words. Something cold rushed through you, crawling beneath your skin, and for a moment, you didn’t know whether you wanted to shout or run. Or maybe both. Anger churned in your gut, and the calm, composed facade you’d been carefully maintaining on the walk here began to crack, slipping away piece by piece. 

“Hey, knock it off,” Selene replied, her voice soft.  “He surprises you. He’s sweet. He makes me happy.”

Her friend snorted. “Has it been an ego boost for you, then?”

“I mean, yeah,” Selene admitted quietly. “But that’s not all of it. Things with him actually aren’t… great right now. He canceled on me again tonight. I think it’s because he had some kind of fight with Y/n.”

The mention of your name stole the breath from your chest, and your body constricted almost involuntarily. 

Her friend’s voice was full of disbelief as she asked, “He actually told you?”

“No,” Selene said softly, “I—I heard them. I feel really bad, but…”

The next sound was unmistakable—the sharp intake of breath from her friend, a squeal of sorts.

“Did you actually use the listening charm I gave you? You little min—”

Something snapped in you as the words registered. A listening charm. A strange, gross invasion of privacy. And to think you had felt bad standing here, eavesdropping on their conversation in a public store, of all places. You’d been this close to giving her the benefit of the doubt.

You stormed into the shop, the door slamming behind you, and both voices froze. You barely registered Selene’s friend’s wide-eyed realization, the quiet “Oh shit” leaving her lips as she turned toward Selene.

Your focus was on Selene—on her and no one else. She stood there, an image of calm beauty that twisted something deep inside you—a type of beauty that felt somehow wrong, as if it were too polished, too perfect, for the situation. Her dark hair framed her face, her delicate features still and pale as she stared at you. The color drained from her face the moment your gaze locked with hers.

“Do you want to explain what I just heard?” you asked, your voice tight, sharp, biting. “Or should I just tell you what I’ve gathered?”

Silence. 

Her friend opened her mouth to protest, “I don’t think you have any right coming in here and—”

“I think this is a conversation for me and Selene,” you said coldly, not bothering to spare her a glance. 

Selene blinked a few times before she turned her head and offered her friend a small, almost reluctant nod.

“You should go,” she told her quietly. “And put the closed sign on the door, please.”

Her friend hesitated, but with a final glance in your direction, she walked out, the soft click of the door behind her leaving the two of you alone. You didn’t miss the way she’d muttered under her breath as she left, a quiet but very clear “Bitch.”

“Y/n,” Selene said after another moment of silence, her voice tentative, like she was trying to find the right words. “I didn’t know that you were here.”

“Clearly.”

Selene’s movements were stiff, awkward as she fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, like she didn’t know what to do with her hands now that she was trapped in this uncomfortable moment.  “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t think that matters anymore,” you replied. “I asked you a question. I’d like to know what I just overheard.”

Selene’s ears flushed pink, a deep red that spread across her neck, as she took a deep breath. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

You could feel your patience unraveling. Of course she didn’t know what to say. She’d been caught in the act. There was no excuse for this.

“You listened to us,” you snapped, the words bitter in your mouth. “You spied on Azriel. Do you just want to skip ahead to how you justify it?”

Her face paled, and for a moment, she looked younger—small, almost fragile. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“Oh please.” The frustration boiled over, flooding your veins with anger you hadn’t realized was possible. Anything you’d felt before this moment paled in comparison. You shouldn’t have asked her to explain. You already knew whatever she said would only make things worse, would only add fuel to the fire that was your growing irritation.

This is stupid. This is ridiculous. How did you get roped into this?

“I know it was wrong!” she said quickly, the words tumbling out. “I know, okay? I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have let Runa convince me it was a good idea. But I didn’t know what else to do.”

That had to be the worst excuse you’d ever heard. It wasn’t just the stupidity of it that pissed you off—it was the weakness of it, the desperation in her voice that made you want to scream.  Azriel must be blind. Had he really been so wrapped up in whatever bubble he’d built around her that he couldn’t see the cracks? Was he so fucking love-blind that this—this—was what he was left with?

“What else to do? About what? Surely any other solution would have been better.”

She let out a deep sigh and her shoulders sagged with the motion. “I really like him,  Y/n.”

You snorted, a sound of genuine amusement—more out of sheer disbelief than anything else. You couldn’t help it. “Alright,” you said, dismissing her with a wave of your hand, not buying it for a second. “Don’t start.”

“I do,” Selene said, her voice more insistent now. “I think I might even love him. But it’s hard.”

You shot her an unimpressed look. 

Her voice was louder, more frantic, as she continued. “Azriel doesn’t talk about anything—anything real.”

You didn’t bother hiding the scoff. “Bullshit. Az talks. You just have to be patient. Communicate like a normal fucking partner.”

Her frustration flashed across her face, the defensive crossing of her arms only making her look more like a child. “Do you think I didn’t try that? He doesn’t tell me anything. Not really. He keeps everything locked up so tight—he barely even looks at me sometimes. What was I supposed to do?”

“Maybe not violate his privacy?” 

“You don’t get it.” Her hands trembled as she gestured at you. “He doesn’t talk to me like he talks to you. Do you know what it’s like to be the one he’s supposed to care about but feel like you’re always on the outside? Like there’s this wall between us that I can’t get through, but somehow you can?”

You should’ve walked away then. The urge to just let her talk herself into a hole was strong. But you didn’t.

“You’ve been dating him for a few months,” you said, crossing your arms, your stance slightly defensive. “We’ve been friends for centuries. You can’t expect him to open up to you completely overnight.”

“That’s not the point!” she snapped, her voice rising, a crack of desperation leaking through. For a fleeting second, you almost felt bad for her. A tug of sympathy.

“Then what the hell is the point?” you demanded. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re just looking for someone to blame. And for some reason, that someone is me. Are you seriously trying to imply I'm somehow responsible for you spying on him?”

Selene flinched, but she didn’t back down. You had to give her credit for that.  “No. I—I don’t know,” she mumbled, her hand tugging at her hair in jerky movements, like she was trying to yank the thoughts from her mind. “I panicked, okay? I didn’t think—I just… I didn’t want to lose him. I thought if I could figure out what was going on, maybe I could fix it. Maybe I could stop feeling like…”

“Like what?” 

“Like I’m always on the outside. Like I’m never going to be enough.”

A part of you wanted to snap back at her, to remind her that this wasn’t a justification, that none of this made it okay. But something about her voice—broken, raw, like a crack that had been growing for too long—slowed your response. Your anger faltered.

“I know it’s insane,” she added, “I know it was wrong, and I feel awful about it. But I didn’t know what else to do. It feels like i’m competing with someone who’s known him longer, who gets to see parts of him I never will. How am I supposed to make space for myself?”

“Still not a good enough excuse,” you bit out. “You can’t just violate his privacy because you’re insecure.”

Selene took a deep breath and met your gaze. There was no fight in them anymore. “Please, just go. Run off and tell Azriel everything. I know you’re probably excited to.”

Her words stung more than they should have.

“Why do you say it like that?” you asked, “Like I’m thrilled to ruin your relationship?”

Selene’s eyes flickered with something sharp. “Aren’t you?”

For a second, you almost wished you could be. Almost.

“No,” you said firmly. “I would never do that to Azriel. I’m not your competition. I’m his friend. I came here to give you the benefit of the doubt because I wanted you two to be happy. But this? This is…” You trailed off, unable to even finish the thought, because it was too much—everything about it felt wrong.

“Crazy?” Selene finished bitterly, shaking her head. “Yeah, I know. Believe me, I know how it looks. But like I said, you don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like to care about someone so much that you start losing sight of yourself. I think about him, about how much I care about him, and all my instincts go out the window. ”

Selene had always existed a certain way in your mind.

Azriel had seemed lighter when he first mentioned her, a softness in his voice that you hadn’t heard in years. And you’d been happy for him—thrilled, even, at the idea of someone bringing him a bit of joy. You’d wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, wanted to believe that she could be good for him. You were excited to meet her.

But then Az started to change.

The more he changed, the more Selene shifted in your mind, too. She became untouchable, an image conjured more from your worry than from anything real. You imagined her as someone clingy, someone who demanded all of his attention and made him forget the people who loved him first. Someone full of herself, reveling in the power she had over him.

And then you’d met her.

She wasn’t what you’d expected—though not in the way that might have changed your mind. She wasn’t warm or open, wasn’t eager to charm or connect with Azriel’s family. Instead, she’d clung to him like a second skin, her hands always on his arm, her smile reserved only for him. And maybe it was unfair, but you hadn’t liked the way she’d looked at you, hadn’t liked the guarded, wary edge to her voice when she spoke.

You’d trusted your gut, let it guide you through the uncertainty. And when things fell apart—when the argument between you and Az finally erupted—Selene’s image had shifted again.

She became a villain in your mind, a figure painted in sharp, unforgiving lines. It was easier that way. Easier to picture her whispering in Azriel’s ear, twisting his thoughts, pulling him further away from you. You’d built her into someone cruel, someone who reveled in the divide she’d caused.

But now, standing before her, you saw something else entirely.

Selene didn’t look cruel. She didn’t look smug or victorious. If anything, she looked fragile. There was an unease in her posture, a vulnerability in the way her hands fidgeted at her sides. The guardedness was still there, but it felt more like armor than arrogance.

And for the first time, you questioned how much of the image you’d built of her was real—and how much of it was your own fear, your own concern for Azriel, projected onto her.

“Why did you tell Azriel that I had feelings for him?”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you weren’t sure where they came from—but somehow, they lifted a deep weight off your chest.

Her brows furrowed, genuine confusion crossing her face. "What?"

“Why did you tell him that you thought I had feelings for him?”

“I wanted to see what he’d do,” she admitted. 

Disbelief tightened in your chest.  “So you lied to him for fun?”

She shook her head. “No I didn’t.”

“Yes,” you said, the word bitten out, “You told him I had feelings for him.”

“Because you do,” she answered, as though it were the simplest thing in the world, like she understood your feelings better than you did. And for a second—a stupid, fleeting second—you almost believed her.

Selene’s gaze didn’t waver. “I know what a female in love with him looks like,” she said quietly,  her voice soft in a way it wasn’t before. “I see it every day when I look in the mirror.”

Something inside you twisted painfully, a knot of emotions you couldn’t untangle fast enough. You focused on the irritation. 

“Am I wrong?” she continued. “Is he the best part of your day? Do you look forward to talking to him? Can you tell him things you’d never tell anyone else? Do you save bits of good food just so he can try it?”

Your throat felt tight, the words stuck somewhere between anger and disbelief. How had this conversation managed to spin so completely?

The breath you took felt jagged, like your lungs couldn’t quite expand all the way. “That’s not true,” you said. “Azriel and I… We’re friends. That’s all. We’ve been friends for centuries. That’s just—what happens when you’ve known someone that long.”

For a moment, you thought she might apologize, or at least reconsider. Her expression faltered, but instead, she just stared at you.

“Do you really believe that?”

When you didn’t reply, Selene blinked, cleared her throat, and turned away from you, leaning against the counter with a sigh. “This is so pathetic,” she muttered, her voice tinged with bitter amusement. “I’m standing here, basically pushing you to him.”

A sigh slipped past your lips before you could stop it. You hesitated, torn between frustration and a strange sympathy. Against every instinct telling you to be petty, a part of you felt bad for her. She cared about Azriel. Deeply. You were certain of it— unsure of how you knew, but you were certain nonetheless. There was no malice in her voice, just insecurity and raw, unspoken fear.

You hated that you could sense it, but you couldn't ignore it either. You could almost hear Amren in your ear, urging you to walk away, and Mor's voice reminding you that Selene didn’t deserve your kindness. But somehow, you couldn't bring yourself to leave. If Azriel saw something worth loving in Selene, maybe you did too.

“Okay, well, don’t do that,” you muttered, taking a step closer. The urge to comfort her was almost overwhelming—to show her that maybe she could learn and grow from this. “You need to talk to Az, Selene. Just sit down, be open—”

“Stop. Don’t be nice to me,” she snapped, spinning to face you. Her voice was sharp.

She moved as if to push you away, but hadn’t realized how close you’d stepped. The edge of her bracelet caught your cheek, and the sharp sting of metal cut straight through it.

Selene froze, her eyes widening as she took in the line of blood blooming on your cheek. “Oh my gods,” she whispered, her hands hovering uselessly. “I—I didn’t mean—”

You stepped back further, your hand still on your cheek, blood warm against your fingertips. 

This seemed about right, you thought bitterly to yourself. This is what happens when you try to be the bigger person. You were gonna kill Cassian. You were going to wring his godsdamned neck.

Selene’s voice became a rush of apologies, each one more frantic than the last, but your attention was already slipping away. Your gaze fell to the bracelet on her wrist. The metal gleamed, twisting slightly with every motion of her hand. You recognized it instantly.

Azriel had a similar one in his room. On his dresser.

“Is that how you did it?” you asked, pointing to her wrist.

Selene’s face drained of color, guilt flooding her expression. She nodded slowly, her hands shaking as she removed the bracelet and held it out to you, eyes wide and full of regret.

You took it from her fingers and, just for a moment, you almost let yourself fall back into the anger, the hurt. But you didn’t. You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself before shaking your head.

“I’m sorry,” Selene whispered, voice breaking. “I really am. I was— I was just desperate. And Runa kept pushing, and—”

You cut her off with a sharp shake of your head, locking eyes with her. Her voice faded, but it didn’t matter anymore. “You’re not terrible, Selene. But you have terrible friends.”

You turned to leave but paused at the door, glancing back over your shoulder. “I suggest you find new ones.”

You tried to steady yourself as you stepped into the bustling streets of Velaris. The bracelet in your hand was cold against your palm, and the sting of the cut on your cheek throbbed with each beat of your pulse. Everything inside you felt scrambled—emotions tangled, confusion still clouding your mind.

The shuffle of footsteps broke through your fog. You looked up, just in time to hear a sharp voice.

“Ouch, that looks like it stung.” A small chuckle. “Although I’m sure you’re excited to have a reason for the Shadowsinger to tend to you.”

You scanned her. “Runa, right?”

She smirked, crossing her arms. “Yeah, that's me.”

Without hesitation, you found yourself saying, “You gave your friend some hurtful advice.”

Runa shrugged nonchalantly, almost amused. “Oops.”

You held your tongue for a moment, your irritation intensifying the longer you looked at her. Unlike Selene, who had managed to evoke some sympathy, Runa didn’t even come close. She shifted, as if waiting for you to bite.

The silence stretched before she finally broke it with a snide laugh. “Honestly, Selene’s better off without that freak of a boyfriend. She doesn’t need to be wrapped up with shitty court politicians.”

Something in you snapped. Maybe it was the words, maybe it was the whirlwind of emotions from the last half hour, but your patience with her was gone. You inhaled sharply, trying to steady your temper, and placed the bracelet in your pocket.

“Do you know who I am?”

Runa raised an eyebrow, the slightest trace of mockery in her smile. “Uh, yeah. You're an emissary or something, right?” She waved her hand dismissively, as if it didn’t matter.

You closed the distance between you in a few long strides. “Good,” you said, letting the word settle in the air. “I want you to remember that when you report.”

Runa looked confused, her smug attitude faltering. “Report what?” 

You smiled. And then you punched her in the face. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note: fun fact, this was the 6th draft of this!! and this felt like the way to go with the story....gives me some options to exploree. its also so long bc i wanted to keep all the fun scenes together tehehe sorry yall i got carried away

but selene....selene...selene... how i thought about her for a bit. i wanted to avoid making selene a caricature of a soulless mean jealous girl, i think it makes it somehow worse and even better to write knowing she was just incredibly insecure and misguided by people she trusted...doesn’t make anythinggg she did okay but

we out here rly testing our reader with a selene like villain rn. tehehe

also....time to imagine rhys holding nyx on his lap as he tells reader that shes in trouble for fighting a citizen in the open mf streets. rhys was so smug and now he’s like damn…wait a min… our public imagine SUCKSS

thank you for reading!!<3

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@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark 

@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered 

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@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

“Hey.”

You don’t turn, not at first. Once, the sound of his voice would’ve made your heart leap. Now, it lands like a weight on bruised ribs. His voice echoes in the silence of your apartment—and in the hollow of your heart. The word lingers in the air like smoke from a dying flame—thick, bitter unspoken. You stay facing the fire, arms folded around yourself, as if that could hold you together. Your fingers dig into your sleeves, anchoring you. If you move, you might just unravel.

The silence stretches between you. Not tense, just heavy, tired. Familiar, like the dull ache of an old wound you thought had healed.

He takes another step towards the sofa. You hear it—the creak of the floorboard, the scuff of his boots against the rug.

“You weren’t at the clinic today,” his voice is soft, tentative. Careful. As if even now, he’s afraid to step too close.

You don’t look at him, but your spine straightens, stiff with defense. “You used the window.” It’s not a question, nor is it marred by surprise or anger. A statement. He had used the window, as if you were something shameful, hidden behind curtains and shadow. Windows were for secrets—not for lovers.

A pause. Then, quietly, “You didn’t answer the door.”

“I know.”

The silence stretches, thick and aching. The fire in the hearth crackles behind the silence. The shadows around you flicker with it, but not his. His shadows stay still, as if they know. As if they, too, are holding their breath.

You think, maybe, if you stay quiet long enough he’ll leave. Maybe silence will do what words never could. He’ll understand that something in you has broken and can only be fixed by his absence. But he doesn’t leave. 

His scent reaches you before he does, a storm of memories you wish you could erase, curling around you like smoke. He stops in front of the sofa, close enough for you to see his boots. Close enough for you to feel his presence in your bones. 

“I’m tired, Azriel.” 

You see it hit him, the way his name—his full name—slices the air between you. You haven’t called him Azriel in years. Not since he first smiled at you, with something close to affection, and asked you to call him Az.

His jaw clenches. One hand rises to rake through his hair but drops halfway, limp with hesitation. His shadows stir uneasily, curling around his ankles, as if bracing for a fall.

“I’m sorry I just thought- I mean, your lights were on-” He stops, looking at you for a few seconds, “I’ll come back tomorrow.” 

He waits for you to speak, but you don’t, preferring to stare at the fire that burns in your fireplace, mirroring the burn in your eyes as the tears start to rise. 

Azriel turns, heading for the door, slowly, deliberately, as if giving you the time to protest, to ask him to stay. He wants to stay. His hand on the doorknob, he pauses.

“Don’t.” A single word, but it slices through the air like a blade. Azriel will take anything over silence. 

He looks back at you. “You want me to stay?”, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t come back.” You don’t raise your voice. You don’t need to. The way he stills—like a blade just missed him—tells you he heard every syllable. He always hears you, but never truly listens. The fire crackles in front of you, the only true witness to your unraveling.

Azriel doesn’t move. Not at first. 

His fingers tighten on the doorknob, knuckles white. He turns, slowly, his expression unreadable in the firelight, shadows casting strange patterns over the planes of it. He looks like a half-formed creature. A man unmade.

Even his shadows—those watchful things usually swirling at his feet, who used to curl at your ankles like a prayer—have gone still.

You don’t move. Your stillness a statement etched into silence. Only your thumb moves, rubbing over a small scar on your arm—one he once kissed on the balcony under the watchful eyes of the stars.

“You don’t mean that.” His wings twitch, pulling taut behind him like they’re ready to fight or flee. It’s instinct, born out of panic. He speaks like a man grasping at smoke, refusing to believe the fire is already gone, fingers flexing uselessly at his sides.

You laugh. Quiet. Bitter. “I do.”

He steps toward you again, cautious, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. His shadows stir restlessly at his boots again, rising like mist—like they want to crawl to you and beg on his behalf.

“Don’t. Just—” you sigh, your gaze fixed on the fire. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“You’re tired. It’s been a long day—”

“Azriel, this isn’t about today.” Your voice cracks. Barely. But it’s enough for Azriel to stiffen up. His shadows flicker towards you, a subconscious extension of him. “It’s about every night you come only to forget. When your shadows get too heavy, when Mor’s name echoes in the marrow of your bones and her silence hollows out your chest. I’m the only thing that quiets the ache, and you made me think that mattered.”

He flinches slightly, as if your words struck him. He looks like he wants to deny it. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

His shadows reach towards you as you stand, like the arms of a child grabbing his mother’s legs, but the moment they brush your skin, you flinch. They recoil instantly. Your eyes catch the firelight, reflecting something raw.

“I want more than this, Azriel. I want to be more than a body you come to when the world outside is too heavy for you to hold. I want to be more than the arms you fall into because hers were never open for you.” 

His mouth parts, but the words don’t come. Fingers flex at his sides, again, and again, as if he’s grasping at a phantom thing—hope, maybe.

“I want to matter to someone, you can understand that,” You take a step towards him, “Can’t you?”

“You matter, Y/n. Gods, of course you matter.”

“Do I? When’s the last time you stayed past sunrise? When’s the last time you asked me how my day went? Gods, when’s the last time we just talked? Have you noticed we never do anything anymore? You show up when it’s dark, we have sex, and then, when you think I’m asleep, you slip out before the sun can catch you, like a thief in the night.” Tears sting your eyes. Your throat burns. “If I matter so much, why did I have to keep a drawer full of your apologies to remind myself that I did?”

Your blood was pumping now, as warm as the fire in the hearth. He stares at you, devastated, his wings drooping slightly, edges folding inward as if trying to retreat into himself.

“I want something real. Not borrowed. Not broken. Someone I don’t have to beg for. I deserve better. I can’t be your band-aid, I can’t patch up the hollow Mor left behind. Not anymore”

“That’s not fair,” he breathes, “You think this doesn’t hurt me too?”

“I think you don’t know what hurt means if you think you can keep showing up like this without expecting something to break inside me every time.”

“I care about you.” 

“Not enough. Never enough. You care just enough to keep me close, but never enough to stay.”

“I can’t stay. Not the way you want me to.” his voice trembles now, the mask beginning to slip. “Not because you’re not worth it, but because I don’t know how.”

“And I can’t keep being convenient,” you whisper. “I can’t keep setting myself on fire just to keep you warm, when you never even look back to see what you’ve burned down.”

Azriel’s face twists—anger, grief, desperation. “I can change. I will. I just—just give me time.”

Your eyes soften at the underlying fear in his eyes. Fear of losing you. “You’ve had years. I waited. I made excuses. I begged the stars—your stars—to carve me into something worthy of you. I told myself if I stayed long enough, if I gave enough of myself, you’d see me.”

“I do,” he says quickly, voice breaking. “Gods, I do—”

“No, Azriel. You’ve never seen me, not really. You see the comfort, the warmth, the silence. But you never see me. I don’t think you ever really knew me. I’ve never been more than the one patching you up, physically or more.” Your voice sharpens, edges slicing open all the tenderness that once filled the space between you. “You say you can’t get attached. That you’re not ready. That you’re broken. And I swallowed every excuse like it was love, because admitting the truth meant admitting I didn’t matter.”

He takes a shaky breath, steps forward like he's walking through a war zone. “I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t know how to—”

“Then why didn’t you let me go?” you ask, voice trembling. “Why did you keep coming back if you knew you’d never stay?”

His lips part, but you already know he has no answer. One shadow inches forward, then pulls back, as if ashamed.

“I gave you time Azriel, so much time. But you never changed. You just wanted the comfort I brought.”

The quiet between you hums with something unspoken. Something final.

“I accepted this, and accepted whatever scraps you could give me, because having part of you felt better than none of you. I thought I could earn your love, and that someday eventually maybe,” you look away, a tear rolling down your cheek, glistening in the firelight, “maybe you’d want me back. Want me the way I wanted you.”

He flinches.

“I do want you. Please, I can’t lose you.” He takes a step towards you, he’s shaking now “I know I’ve been distant but please—”, another step, “Please don’t do this.” Another step. He’s standing in front of you now, one hand lifts, but he doesn’t touch you. Can’t touch you. His shadows have wrapped tightly around his fingers—restraining him. Protecting you. “I thought if I kept you at arm’s length I wouldn’t fall, but I did. Gods I did, I’ve been falling for years, I just couldn’t see it.” 

His voice is unrecognizable—raw, and desperate. Even his shadows writhe, unsettled, as if they too can’t bear to watch this scene unfold. Your heart twists. Gods, it wants to believe him, but you don’t let it win. You can’t.

You take a shaky breath, letting the silence stretch. Your eyes fall to Azriel’s shadows, coiled around his wrist like shackles, begging him to stop, afraid he’ll step too far and break you beyond repair. “You aren’t in love with me Azriel, you’re in love with the way I make you feel—safe.” Your voice drops to a whisper, “And I deserve to be loved for all of me. Not just the parts that make your pain easier to bear.” 

His hand drops.

“Please, love, I—I coudn’t let myself. I was scared, scared to fuck up. Scared to lose you.” He’s unraveling in front of you, you can tell. And some small, cruel part of you is glad. Glad because now he knows what it feels like.

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing slightly, “You never had me to lose. Not really.”

He flinches, not in anger, but in grief. His wings droop fully now, sagging like something sacred just slipped from his grasp.

“Please, tell me what I can do,” His eyes are wide—marked by raw desperation. “I’ll do anything, just don’t shut me out.”

“Az,” you look him in the eyes for what feels like the first time tonight, the familiar nickname rolls of your tongue, the only mercy you can give him now. “I can’t do this anymore, please.” 

You take a step towards him, towards the door. He staggers back, like he’s been hit by an arrow, eyes wide. “No,” he whispers, his voice dripping with agony, “No... no, please. Not now. Please.” He’s rubbing his chest now, but you’ve walked past him, finally reaching the door.

Your hand lingers above the doorknob, hesitation seeping into your mind. Shadows swarm around your ankles, trying to hold you in place, as if they too have felt the shift in the air.

“I love you,” he breathes, voice raw. “I love you, and I was too much of a coward to say it before but gods I swear to you—I do. I didn’t let myself admit it because I thought love made you weak, and I couldn’t afford to be—but you make me want to be. You make me want everything I was afraid of.” 

You risk a look at him above your shoulder. His eyes are glistening, a rogue tear on the soft skin of his cheek. You feel the pull, your heart yearning to go to him. To touch him. But you can’t.

“I’ll stay” he pleads. “Every morning. And I’ll come through the front door, like a man who has nothing to hide. And I’ll hold your hand in public. Let everyone know you’re mine.” A step for every sentence that drops from his mouth. 

He’s behind you now, and you turn to face him, ‘One last time’, you tell yourself. His hands cradle your face softly, like he’s afraid if he holds you too tight you’ll vanish. “Azriel—”

“I’ll stop hiding,” he says, desperate now. “I’ll fight for this—for you. Just… please. Don’t walk away. Not now. Not when I finally see you.”

Gods, part of you wants to fall. Wants to believe him. Wants to collapse into the arms that were always safe, even when the heart behind them wasn’t. 

But you can’t.

Not anymore.

You turn your face away from him, you can’t stand to look at him when you know you’re going to break him. You don’t miss the way his hands tremble against your skin before he drops them back to his sides, your rejection echoing in his bones. 

“I can’t, Azriel. Not when I’ve spent so long loving someone who didn’t want me. I gave you everything I had. I broke myself apart and used the pieces to help fix the parts of you you thought were broken. I have nothing left to give. Not now. Maybe never.” Your voice is trembling, but you keep going. “Go home Azriel, please…” 

You look at the shadows one final time. The same shadows that sat in the corner of your office, watching, just in case something went wrong. The same shadows that played with your hair, that turned the pages of your books, and that pulled a blanket over you every time you fell asleep on the couch. His shadows—your quiet companions, your silent protectors. They held you when he couldn’t. When he wouldn’t.

“Please.” You whisper is a plea. No longer addressed to the man you held you only in the dark, but to his shadows, who knew you needed light.

Your front door creaks open. A clear message. A parting gift from the ones who kept you company. Azriel looks above your head, at the door, opening his mouth to say something, but whatever he sees behind you must change his mind. 

He looks back at you, his eyes heavy with words unspoken, but you only turn away, not to the door, but away. Towards your room. Your future. You don’t look back as you walk away. One foot in front of the other. You can feel his eyes on your back, watching you walk away from him, but he lets you—a small mercy. 

The salt air clung to her skin, warm and sticky, whipped through her hair by the wind curling off the sea. The boat cut across the water in long, smooth arcs, sunlight flashing bright off every rolling crest. Laughter drifted across the deck from scattered clusters of guests, mingling with the low hum of the engine.

She leaned into the arm wrapped behind her shoulders, her head finding its familiar spot against him. His chest rose steady beneath her cheek, the silver chain around his neck catching glints of gold with every shift of the sun. He was quiet—he usually was—but his silence had never been uncomfortable. If anything, it left room for her favorite game: watching people, weaving little stories out of the strangers who would soon be their neighbors in paradise.

"Back row," she murmured, tilting her chin toward the couple sitting almost directly behind them.

The woman sat close to the railing, her sunglasses tilted toward the horizon as though she'd rather be anywhere but here. The off-white fabric of her two-piece set rippled in the breeze, her skirt parting at the slit to show the length of her leg. Beside her, a man hunched forward, elbows braced on his knees, phone angled toward his lap. His shirt—crocheted and brown—hung loose against sharp shoulders, trousers pressed even for a boat ride. His thumbs moved fast, like the world might end if he looked up.

"Workaholic," she whispered, just for him. She felt the low rumble of his laugh against her temple.

"And she's been planning this trip for months," he added softly, eyes flicking from one stranger to the next. "Wanted romance. Got... spreadsheets."

She hid her smile in her hand.

At the bow, a different kind of couple stood out. He caged her in against the railing, one arm braced above her head, the other steadying the sway of the boat. Their clothes looked like they belonged in some glossy magazine—him in an open-collared shirt the color of cream, her in a rust-colored dress that flared like fire when the wind caught it. She held her phone high, snapped a picture, then turned it for him to see. Their heads bent together, lips brushing in quiet laughter only they could hear.

"Dangerous," she mused.

"How so?"

"They look like they eat people for breakfast."

His chuckle turned into a low hum of agreement.

Further down, stretched along the opposite bench, another pair leaned into each other with the kind of ease that was almost embarrassing to watch. His arm was slung low across her waist, her head tilted back to steal kisses between bursts of giggles. The green of his outfit made his hair look richer, brighter, and her pink blouse seemed to sparkle in the light. They looked like they'd just stepped out of a honeymoon ad—perfect, glowing, untouched by anything sharp.

"Young love," she teased, nudging him gently with her elbow.

"Or newly married."

She tilted her head, studying them again. Yeah, that checked out.

Her gaze slipped next to the farthest corner of the back row, where tension clung like humidity. A woman in a black sundress stared hard at the horizon, her jaw tight, arms crossed. The man beside her leaned in close, his shirt a loud splash of red against the otherwise neutral tones of the boat. He said something she couldn't hear, his hand brushing her arm. She flinched away almost imperceptibly, just enough for the air between them to stiffen.

Her lips pressed together. "Ouch."

He shifted beside her, following her line of sight. His brows drew faintly together, but he didn't say anything. He didn't need to. They'd both seen it—the cracks just waiting for the right pressure to split open.

The engine roared a little louder as the boat cut closer to shore. White spires and gleaming villas rose out of the green curve of the island ahead, a jewel sitting in the center of turquoise water. The kind of place people came to escape.

Her gaze drifted back from the others, and she found herself staring at the glittering horizon too long, the sunlight bouncing sharp against the water. It pulsed against her temples, a low throb she tried to blink away.

Azriel's thumb brushed along her bare shoulder, lazy and absentminded. "You've gone quiet," he murmured, voice pitched just for her.

"I'm always quiet," she shot back, tilting her head toward him with a small smirk.

One corner of his mouth tugged up. "No, you're nosy. It's different."

She swatted his chest, which only made his grin widen. He shifted, his arm tightening to pull her in closer, his chin dipping so the chain at his throat glinted in the sunlight.

"You know you like my stories," she muttered.

"I do," he admitted, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "But you've gone from narrating everyone's tragic love life to staring like the ocean insulted you."

Her laugh came softer this time, almost rueful. "It might be, actually. Or the sun. Or whatever's trying to drill into my skull."

That got his full attention. His posture straightened, his arm moving from behind her shoulders to cradle the back of her neck instead. "Headache?"

"Not yet. Migraine, maybe." She lifted a hand to rub at her temple, wincing. "I'm not used to this much travel."

He frowned, scanning her face like he could see the pain under her skin. "You should've told me sooner."

"It's fine, Az." She leaned into him anyway, letting his cool fingers trace the line of her jaw. "I'll survive. Just need to get off this floating death trap."

He huffed a quiet laugh, though his eyes stayed serious. "Dramatic."

"You're one to talk."

"You want me to ask the captain to speed up?" His lips twitched like he was half-serious, half-teasing.

She arched a brow. "Yes, because putting the boat at full speed will help me."

His laugh came softer this time, his thumb brushing back and forth against her skin. "You'd feel better if you had water."

"I would feel better if my skull wasn't trying to implode," she countered, though she still sat up straighter when he reached for the bottled water tucked under their bench. He unscrewed the cap, pressed it into her hands, then tipped her chin until she was looking at him again.

"Drink. Humor me."

She did, just to see the flicker of satisfaction cross his face. "Better?" he asked when she handed the bottle back.

"No. But I like that you tried."

He rolled his eyes, leaning in until his lips brushed the edge of her temple—the exact spot she'd been massaging. "I'll rub it out later."

Her laugh was muffled against his shirt as she tucked herself into his side again. She let the boat rock them gently forward, sunlight bouncing over the water, and thought—not for the first time—that even with the headache blooming at the back of her skull, being with him made it easier to breathe.

The water was endless, jeweled shades of turquoise and deep indigo folding and unfolding as the boat skimmed forward. Salt spray kissed her cheeks when the breeze shifted, her skirt tugging in ribbons around her legs. She'd always loved the ocean—its vastness, its mystery, the way the sun scattered diamonds across its surface. If she could have, she would've leaned over the side of the boat and trailed her fingers in the current, felt the pulse of life beneath.

Instead, she tilted her head, let her sunglasses slide down her nose, and peeked at the man sitting beside her.

Elbows balanced on his knees, phone tipped low, Rhys's eyes were locked on the glowing screen. His shirt—a soft crochet knit the color of sand-warmed wood—shifted against his shoulders as his thumbs moved, steady, relentless. Whatever storm brewed in his inbox seemed to matter more than the horizon rolling out just for them.

"Rhys," she said, letting the syllable curl warm on her tongue.

"Mhm?" His gaze didn't leave the phone.

She nudged him lightly with her shoulder. "Look up. You're missing it."

"I've seen the ocean before, darling." The corner of his mouth tugged upward, but his eyes never left the glow of the screen.

She narrowed her own behind the tinted glass of her sunglasses, then leaned back, folding her arms. "You know, some people actually pay to disconnect when they come here. Like, that's the whole point of a vacation."

That earned her a hum. Another flick of his thumb.

Rolling her eyes, she plucked the phone from his hands in one smooth motion. His head snapped up then, gaze fixing on her with slow, deliberate precision.

Her grin spread instantly. She dangled the phone between two fingers, the sea breeze tugging at her loose sleeve. "Mine now."

"Is it?" His voice was silk and challenge, low enough that only she could hear.

"Yes," she said, tucking the phone into the folds of her skirt as though she could actually hide it. "Consider it a hostage situation. You don't get it back until you've admired the beautiful water for at least—" she glanced around dramatically "—ten whole seconds."

At last, he leaned back, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not the amused tilt of his mouth. "You're insufferable."

"And yet, here you are. Married to me."

He exhaled, a short laugh escaping, then reached—not for the phone, but for her hand. His fingers threaded easily through hers, warm and certain, squeezing once.

"Ten seconds," she reminded, smirking as the boat rocked gently beneath them.

"Fine," he said, finally lifting his head to the horizon. "But only because you're a very persuasive thief."

Her laughter was still bubbling when his hand closed around hers, and before she could react, he tugged gently, drawing her across the narrow space between them. His arms slid around her waist, pulling her flush against him until she was caught in the cage of his body and the sun beating down from above.

The phone, temporarily forgotten, sat wedged between them as he bent, pressing his face into the curve of her neck. Warm breath skated over her skin, and she let her head tip back, sunglasses sliding higher as the rocking of the boat became a steady rhythm beneath them.

"There," he murmured, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "Better?"

"Much," she teased, though her fingers curled instinctively into the fabric of his knit shirt. "You could have done this ten minutes ago, you know."

"Ten minutes wasted," he admitted, lips grazing just below her ear. The confession made something stir in her chest, something lighter than she'd carried in weeks.

For a while, they just sat like that, letting the sea breeze whip against their hair, letting the sun soak into their skin until it felt like even their bones were glowing.

It was she who broke the silence, tilting her head enough to look up at him. "It's... really quiet."

He huffed a laugh, low and warm, arms tightening around her. "Too quiet?"

"Suspiciously quiet." She squinted at the horizon, like their children might come sailing across the water at any second. 

"Luke would be asking for snacks by now," he said, his lips brushing against her temple.

"Snacks? He'd want the menu." Her laugh bubbled out, light and unguarded.

Rhys smiled, the kind that crinkled faintly at the corners of his eyes. "And Xaden would be..."

"Dangling off the railing," she finished for him, rolling her eyes even as fondness warmed her voice. "Or trying to convince the crew to let him jump in."

His chest shook with quiet laughter. "And Nora..."

That name alone softened her entirely. She tipped her head back against his shoulder, eyes closed as she imagined their little girl. "She'd be charming the captain to let her drive the boat."

Rhys laughed outright this time, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "She'd have him handing over the keys to the whole ship before we hit shore."

The image sent them both into quiet giggles, their foreheads touching, the rocking boat and endless sea wrapping them in a cocoon of salt and sunlight.

She sighed, her smile lingering. "I don't know what to do with the quiet."

"You'll enjoy it," he murmured, pressing a kiss into her hair. "Just us. No little rebellions, no snack raids, no bedtime negotiations. For once, it's just... us."

Her hand slid up his chest, curling into the knit fabric. "I think I could get used to this," she admitted softly.

His arms tightened around her, as if promising the same.

At the bow, sunlight poured over them in waves, catching on the pale cream of his shirt and the rust-gold shimmer of her dress. She had her phone raised, snapping photo after photo of the horizon—the sea stretching endless and brilliant, the coastline growing sharper with every crest.

"Look at this one," she said, brushing against his chest as she held her phone up for him to see.

He leaned down, gaze flicking briefly over the screen before settling back on her face. "It looks exactly like the last one you showed me."

She gave him a mock glare, the wind tugging strands of hair into her eyes. "No, it doesn't. This one has the clouds curling differently. And see the water here? The light caught it just right."

He made a noncommittal hum, though the curve of his mouth betrayed him. Amusement, quiet and private.

Undeterred, she snapped another, fingers tapping the screen with practiced ease. She leaned into him again, thrusting the phone up toward his line of sight. "Okay, but this one's even better."

"I'll take your word for it," he murmured, one hand braced against the railing behind her, the other sliding casually along her waist to keep her steady as the boat jostled.

"You don't understand," she said, laughter bubbling in her voice. "It's not just about the view—it's about remembering the moment. About catching it."

His head tilted, eyes lingering on her far longer than the horizon. "Believe me, I'm not forgetting this moment."

Her grin faltered into something softer, warmer, before she hid it by clicking the camera again. He shook his head, but the arm around her waist tightened just a little, as if anchoring them both in place.

The sun kissed the curve of her cheek as she lowered the phone, slipping it into the folds of her dress. When she finally looked up, it wasn't at the horizon.

It was at him.

Her husband.

Amber eyes, catching flecks of gold in the light, watched her with quiet patience. His hair—short now, neat, cut just the way she liked it—gleamed like copper set aflame. She thought, not for the first time, that he had no right looking this good in cream linen, the collar of his shirt open like it was an invitation.

Eris.

Her mouth curved sly as she leaned closer, her shoulder brushing his chest. "You'll forgive me for soaking this in while I can. Serenity doesn't last long once your parents get involved."

He exhaled through his nose, half amused, half resigned. "That's cruel."

"That's true."

The corner of his mouth twitched. She was right, of course. She usually was.

But Eris leaned in, lowering his voice so only she could hear, the sea rushing beneath them like a secret. "We'll only see them at meals. Maybe a day trip, if we're unlucky. The rest of the time, it's just you and me."

She gave him a look. Dry. Disbelieving.

"Not that bad," he pressed, sliding his hand higher along her waist, thumb tracing lazy circles against her side.

Her laugh was soft, carried away by the wind. "You keep saying that as if repeating it will make it true."

"Optimism, wife." He bent close, lips brushing her ear, words almost swallowed by the rush of water. "Try it."

She rolled her eyes, but the fondness in her smile betrayed her. And though she wanted to argue, she let herself lean into the warmth of him instead, the salt air tangling between them like a promise.

The wind tugged at the hem of her dress, the rust-gold fabric catching sunlight like fire, but he was already moving—hands sliding from her waist to turn her, pivoting her away from the railing until she was facing him fully.

The world blurred behind his shoulders: white foam, endless horizon, the gleam of water. All she saw was him.

Amber eyes, molten and unreadable, narrowing slightly as his thumb brushed over her jaw. Then he bent, mouth finding hers in a kiss that was slow at first, unhurried, until the boat rocked and her balance tipped into his chest. His hand came up instantly, fingers threading into her hair, and the kiss deepened—heat layered over salt and sunlight.

She broke away with a laugh, breathless, pushing lightly at his chest. "Eris,"

"Mm," he hummed, the sound low and smug as he bent again, lips grazing her cheek. He leaned close, lips brushing the shell of her ear now, voice dropping into that wicked drawl he saved just for her.

"You're lucky we're on a crowded boat," he murmured, crude and soft all at once, "or I'd already have you bent over that railing to give the ocean a real show."

Heat shot to her cheeks even as her laugh bubbled out again, exasperated and fond. She swatted him hard in the chest. "Eris."

"What?" His grin widened, infuriating and devastating all at once. "I'm only trying to picture how much better this trip could get."

She shook her head, but her smile betrayed her. And when he dipped down to kiss her again—tender this time, softer than his words—she let him.

Her leg bounced with every gentle rock of the boat, not from seasickness but from the impossible buzz running through her. She'd already snapped half a dozen photos of the horizon, the sky, the way the sunlight hit the water, and of him. Especially him.

He laughed when she angled her phone at him again, his arm draped comfortably around her shoulders as if he'd been born into this kind of ease. "Another one? Sweetheart, you're going to run out of storage before we even dock."

She grinned, leaning into him as she clicked anyway. "First rule of honeymoons: you can never have too many photos."

He tipped his head, pretending to consider it, the olive-green of his shirt making the copper in his long hair burn even brighter. "Is that on your master list, too?"

Her cheeks warmed. "Maybe."

He chuckled, reaching to nudge the edge of the folded papers sticking out of her tote. "You've got the whole island mapped out, don't you?"

"Of course I do." She sat up straighter, eyes gleaming as she started ticking things off on her fingers. "The spa, the cliffside path to the lookout, the glass-bottom kayaks. Oh! And there's this little open-air café with swings for chairs— my Dad swears they make the best pasteries on the planet."

Lucien's brows shot up, amused. "Pasteries with swings."

She elbowed him lightly, laughing. "Don't tease. This is your first time at one of these resorts, and I want you to have fun. Real fun, not just sitting through every meal politely like you're still teaching history class."

His smirk softened, the teasing dropping into something gentler. "Sweetheart, I could be stuck in the broom closet the entire week and I'd still be having fun—with you."

She rolled her eyes, though her heart flipped anyway. "That's sappy, Lucien."

"Maybe," he said, leaning down to press a kiss to her temple. "But still true."

Her bouncing leg finally stilled as she melted into him, his warmth steady at her side, the hum of the boat vibrating beneath them. For once, she wasn't juggling work or errands or the quiet tug of family obligations. It was just them—married, finally, with a whole week of laughter and pie and sun-streaked adventures ahead.

She shifted against him, curling sideways so she could catch the sunlight bouncing off the water. The sea spray glittered in her hair, and Lucien thought—not for the first time—that nothing had ever looked so perfect.

"Mr. Michaelsen," she said suddenly, drawing the words out with mock formality as she tipped her chin toward him.

He arched a brow, lips twitching. "Yes, Mrs. Michaelsen?"

The title sent a delicious shiver down her spine. She grinned, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his jaw. "Still not over how good that sounds."

"Good?" He smirked, catching her hand before she could pull away, pressing his lips to her knuckles. "Try great. You've doomed yourself, you know. I'm going to insist on it everywhere."

"Oh no," she teased, her smile curling wicked. "Don't threaten me with a good time."

That earned her a low laugh, warm and unrestrained. Before she could say anything else, he dipped his head and caught her mouth in a kiss—gentle at first, then hungrier when she leaned fully into him. She pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, "Careful. We're in public."

Lucien only smirked, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "Let them watch. I just married the most gorgeous woman alive. I deserve bragging rights."

Her laugh rang out, bright as the ocean around them. She curled back into his side, cheeks pink but heart swelling. "I can't wait to rub this in Vassa's face," she admitted, her voice gleeful. "She was so smug about that Paris trip last spring. Wait until she hears about this."

Lucien chuckled, resting his chin atop her head. "She'll survive. Barely."

"She's going to be so jealous."

"Of course she will." He kissed her hair, voice quiet but sure. "How could she not be? We're disgusting."

That sent her into another fit of giggles, and he stole the sound straight from her lips with another kiss, slow and deliberate this time.

She was still laughing when the sharp scrape of a bench against the deck cut through the sound of the wind. The bubble around them popped in an instant, her smile faltering as she glanced over Lucien's shoulder.

At the very back of the boat, voices rose—low at first, then sharper, jagged edges carried easily by the salt-heavy air. The woman in the black sundress stood abruptly, her chair rocking back with the force of it. Her sunglasses caught the sunlight as she spun, skirts swaying, and strode toward the front of the boat with her arms crossed tight against her chest.

The man she left behind raked a hand through his hair, muttering something that got swallowed by the wind. Exasperation clung to every line of him, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a heavy breath.

Lucien's arm tightened around her, his lips brushing her temple as if to tether her back into their shared warmth. "Well," he murmured dryly, "that didn't look good."

She bit back a laugh, though her chest still hummed with the remnants of their kiss. "Guess not everyone's on a honeymoon."

His chuckle was low, wry. She settled against him again, letting the breeze smooth away the interruption, though her eyes followed the woman in black until she disappeared toward the bow. A tiny flicker of unease stirred beneath her ribs, but Lucien's arm was steady around her, his lips finding her hair once more, and she chose to sink back into their bubble—for now.

She gripped the railing so tightly her knuckles ached, the metal warm under her palms from hours of sun. The ocean spread out in endless, glittering ribbons, the horizon sharp enough to cut—but it did nothing to soften the knot twisting tight in her chest.

Wind teased at the hem of her black sundress, pulled strands of hair across her face, but she didn't bother tucking them back. Let it all stay messy. It fit her mood.

Behind her, the laughter of other passengers rose and fell like background music, too bright, too easy. She tried to tune it out. Tried to focus on the water, on the rhythm of the waves slapping against the boat's hull. Anything but the way her pulse still hammered from the words she hadn't meant to throw like knives.

This was supposed to be an escape. At least, that's how he'd pitched it—paradise, no stress, a chance to "reset." Already she regretted it. The moment her suitcase had thudded onto the dock this morning, something in her chest had whispered that this was a mistake.

Now, with the sun glaring down and the wind tangling in her hair, she almost laughed at herself for ever believing it could be anything else.

A shadow cut across the glare of the sea, and she realized someone had come up beside her.

"Hey," the woman said softly, her voice carrying that polished ease of someone who looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine. Rust-colored silk fluttered around her legs, catching sunlight like fire. "You okay?"

For a beat, she almost ignored it. Almost kept her eyes fixed on the horizon, knuckles tight on the railing. But something in the other woman's tone—gentle, but steady—slid under her defenses.

"I'm fine," she said quickly, sharper than she'd intended.

The woman's brows rose just slightly behind oversized sunglasses, though her smile didn't slip. "Alright," she murmured, hands lifted like she meant no harm. "Just checking."

A beat passed—waves slapping the hull, the cry of gulls overhead.

She sighed, hating herself for the sting still burning her words. "Sorry. I didn't mean—"

"It's fine." The woman's mouth curved, gracious but distant, like she'd already learned how to let barbs roll right off. "Enjoy the view."

With that, she turned back toward the bow, her copper-haired husband already waiting with a half-smirk like he'd known exactly what his wife was doing. And she was alone again, the ocean stretching endless before her, her chest still tight with the ache she couldn't name out loud.

The island loomed closer, sunlight spilling over pale spires of glass and stone that rose above a curtain of jungle green. Villas glittered along the shore like jewels scattered carelessly across the sand, each one too perfect, too untouched.

Her grip on the railing tightened again as the boat slowed, its engine humming lower, the waves breaking soft against the dock.

They were waiting for them.

A line of staff stood perfectly spaced along the wooden planks, every one of them in crisp linen uniforms, faces set in identical smiles. And as the boat nosed closer, as ropes were tossed and caught, they lifted their arms in eerie unison—hands waving, slow and cheerful, like rehearsed choreography.

All with the same hand.

Her stomach dipped. Creepy. Too polished, too symmetrical. Like a scene from a movie she'd never wanted to star in.

What the actual fuck had he dragged her into?

The boat lurched as it hit the dock, the sudden shift making her stumble against the railing. She caught herself, breath sharp, but didn't turn to look back at him—not yet. The sound of his footsteps came closer anyway, heavy and steady, ready to close the distance whether she wanted him to or not.

The boat lurched again as the crew tied off the ropes, the staff onshore still waving in their eerie, too-perfect rhythm.

She let out a slow breath through her nose, wishing for anything but this moment, when his shadow fell over her shoulder.

"Hey," he said softly, her purse dangling from his hand. He held it out like an offering, like maybe if he carried her things she'd forget how heavy everything else was.

"Thanks." She took it quickly, tucking the strap against her side without meeting his eyes.

For a second, the silence pressed between them, filled only by the call of gulls and the shouts of crewmen readying the dock. Then he cleared his throat.

"Look," he started, voice low, careful. "About before—"

"Don't." The word left her lips sharper than she meant, cutting him off. She still didn't look at him, eyes fixed on the resort ahead. Gleaming glass. Palm trees swaying. Staff frozen in those identical smiles.

He fell quiet, the weight of his unspoken apology hanging in the air between them. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him rake a hand through his hair, frustration written in the tense line of his jaw.

She shifted her bag higher onto her shoulder, exhaling through clenched teeth. "I just want to get to the room, Cassian. Unpack. Breathe."

His mouth opened like he wanted to say something—anything—but the captain was already ushering guests off, the dock swaying beneath the first eager feet.

She didn't wait for his answer. Adjusting her sunglasses, she moved forward with the others, heels clicking against the deck. The sooner she got to their villa, the sooner she could shut the door and put some distance between herself and the too-bright smiles, the too-perfect welcome... and him.

The line of guests thinned as they stepped off the boat, heels clicking against the dock. Heat rolled up from the planks, the air thick with salt and the faint, sugary scent of frangipani flowers drifting from somewhere deeper on the island.

"Welcome, welcome!" A young man in a pale linen suit approached, smile so wide it looked painted on. His dark hair gleamed under the sun, not a strand out of place. The leather folder tucked beneath his arm seemed too pristine, untouched by the humidity clinging to everyone else.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hackert," he greeted smoothly, dipping his head just enough to feel rehearsed. His voice carried the same cheery lilt as the rest of the staff who'd waved them in unison, eerie in its perfection. "I'm Lei, and I'll be guiding you to your villa today. It's such an honor to have you with us."

Cassian's Y/N blinked, her stomach tightening at the sound of the name. Hackert. Not hers. His.

Beside her, Cassian's hand twitched at his side, as if he wanted to reach for her. She kept her gaze fixed on Lei instead, nodding once. "Thank you," she said, her voice flat, already heavy with exhaustion.

Lei's smile didn't falter. If anything, it grew. "Your bags will be brought directly to your room. If you'll follow me, I'll take you through the main grounds."

And just like that, he turned with the precision of someone who had done this a thousand times, his hand sweeping in a grand, practiced gesture toward the gleaming path ahead.

She adjusted her sunglasses, forcing her expression neutral, and stepped after him without waiting for Cassian to catch up.

The dock boards thrummed underfoot as another staff member stepped forward from the neat line. She was older than the others, her black hair streaked tastefully with silver, pulled into a smooth twist at the back of her head. Her linen uniform was crisp despite the heat, her smile poised, serene.

"Mr. and Mrs. Knight," she greeted, her voice rich and even, accented by years of practiced charm. She dipped her head in a gesture that landed somewhere between a bow and a nod. "Welcome to Solstice Resort. I'm Kiele, and I'll be your concierge during your stay. It is our greatest pleasure to host you."

Y/N returned the smile easily, though she felt Rhys's hand tighten at the small of her back—polite reflex more than intimacy. Sunglasses shading her eyes, she let her gaze sweep the path ahead: palm-lined stone, blossoms spilling from carved urns, villas gleaming in the sun. Perfect. Almost too perfect.

"Thank you," she said brightly, meaning it. If nothing else, the place was beautiful.

Kiele's hands folded lightly over her leather folder, her voice smooth as glass. "Your villa has been fully prepared—private rooftop pool, ocean views, a selection of local wines as requested. Your luggage is already waiting inside."

"Efficient," Rhys murmured, sunglasses tipping slightly as he studied the woman.

Kiele's smile didn't shift. "We do our best to anticipate every need, sir." Then, with a graceful sweep of her arm, "If you'll allow me, I'll escort you there now. Dinner service begins at seven, and we have already reserved you a table on the ocean terrace."

Y/N leaned into Rhys just slightly, whispering, "See? This is what a vacation should feel like."

For a fleeting second, his lips curved—something softer breaking through the smooth facade he wore for the rest of the world.

The path wound up from the dock in a gentle curve, flanked by palm trees swaying in the salt breeze. White stone glowed underfoot, polished to a sheen that caught the afternoon light. To either side, bright bursts of bougainvillea tumbled down carved walls, their pink and orange blossoms spilling like confetti. Somewhere in the distance, the soft trickle of a fountain mingled with the cry of gulls overhead.

Kiele walked ahead of them with smooth, measured steps, speaking in that same rich, practiced tone. "The resort was designed to mirror the balance of ocean and jungle," she explained. "We believe in harmony—luxury alongside nature. As our honored guests, you'll have access to all private amenities, including the rooftop infinity pool, couples' spa packages, and guided sailing excursions."

Rhys's brows ticked up behind his sunglasses, the corner of his mouth twitching as he leaned closer to Y/N. "Remind me again—how much did this set us back?"

She elbowed him lightly, lips curving. "Don't ruin it."

"I'm not ruining it," he said innocently, his hand brushing against hers as if by accident. "I'm just calculating how many hours of meetings it'll take to make this worth it."

Her laugh slipped out before she could stop it, echoing lightly along the path. She shook her head, tugging him closer until his arm slid easily around her waist. "For once, can you just... not think about work? Pretend it's just us?"

"Just us," he repeated, his voice lower now, warmer, and for a fleeting moment, she believed it.

Ahead, Kiele gestured with a sweep of her arm, drawing their attention to a set of gleaming glass doors framed by climbing vines. Beyond them rose a villa unlike anything Y/N had ever seen: sharp angles softened by natural stone, sunlight catching in wide panes of glass, a glittering blue rooftop pool peeking just above the structure.

"Your villa," Kiele announced with serene pride. "Prepared exactly to your preferences."

Y/N's breath caught. Even with her expectations, even with all her planning and the glossy photos she'd memorized from the website, the reality of it shimmered—lavish, private, everything she'd imagined when she thought of this trip being their chance.

She turned to Rhys, her sunglasses slipping lower on her nose so he could see the brightness in her eyes. "See? Worth it."

His gaze lingered on her for a long beat before flicking back to the villa, lips curving in a rare, quiet smile. "Maybe."

And for a moment, walking up those polished steps, she let herself believe this could be the start of something golden.

The glass doors swung inward on a hush of cool air, carrying with it the faintest scent of citrus and salt.

The villa was pristine—white stone floors polished to a mirror, glass walls stretching toward the horizon, sleek furniture in pale neutrals arranged with the precision of an art gallery. A spiral staircase wound upward toward the rooftop infinity pool, where sunlight spilled in silver shards across the glass railing. Everything gleamed. Everything whispered wealth.

Y/N stopped just inside the threshold, her breath catching at the sheer scale of it. "Oh my gods..." she whispered, a smile breaking wide across her face. Without a second thought, she dropped her purse onto the glossy black entrance table, the soft thud echoing in the open space.

Already she was moving, drawn like a tide. Her sandals clicked against the stone as she passed the dining table set with champagne flutes, the sprawling living room with its white leather couches and oversized artwork. She trailed her fingers along the smooth surface of a counter, peered into the glossy, untouched kitchen. Everything was so impossibly clean, so impossibly perfect.

Behind her, voices floated low from the doorway—Kiele's rich, practiced tones and Rhys's smooth baritone, sharpened with intent.

"And the wifi?" he was asking, polite but pointed. "Reliable reception? Secure networks?"

Kiele answered, calm and assured, but Y/N's smile faltered just slightly. Of course.

Still, she pressed forward, refusing to let the moment dim.

The bedroom waited at the far end of the villa. When she pushed the door open, her gasp caught high in her throat.

One entire wall was glass—floor to ceiling, horizon to horizon—nothing between her and the endless stretch of turquoise water. The bed was a low platform draped in crisp white linens, positioned perfectly to face the sea. Sunlight spilled across the room in golden waves, glittering on the polished floor, setting the ocean ablaze beyond the windows.

"Rhys!" she called, her voice bright with awe. "You have to see this!"

She heard the low murmur of his conversation pause, the shuffle of footsteps on stone.

The sound of his footsteps drew closer until he appeared in the doorway, framed by sunlight and glass. For once, the phone was nowhere in sight—just him, tall and elegant, his shirt rumpled faintly from the boat ride.

"Not bad," he murmured, following her gaze to the endless sweep of blue outside.

"Not bad?" She laughed, sweeping an arm toward the windows. "Rhys, it's perfect. It's like sleeping inside the horizon."

His smile tilted, wry and fond, as he stepped behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. The warmth of him pressed against her back, steady and familiar. For a moment, she let her head fall against his shoulder, the two of them drinking in the view together, the world narrowing to glass and light and ocean.

When he bent to kiss her, it was sweet—unhurried, soft, the kind of kiss that made the rest of the villa disappear. Her fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him closer, wanting to stretch the moment until it was endless.

But he pulled back first.

"Darling," he said quietly, brushing a hand over her arm, "I just need to wrap up a few things. Emails, calls. Then I'm yours. Completely."

Her smile faltered. "Now?"

"Just an hour," he promised, tilting her chin so she met his eyes. "An hour, tops. I swear."

She clung tighter, pressing her face into his chest like she could anchor him here with her. "Rhys, we just got here. Can't it wait?"

His arms squeezed once more, gentle but firm, before he carefully, deliberately peeled her off.

"An hour," he repeated, kissing her temple. "Then nothing else exists but you."

And with that, he slipped away, the quiet click of the door echoing in his wake.

Y/N stood there alone, the glass wall blazing with light before her, the ocean stretching endless and indifferent.

Y/N stopped dead at the threshold, her breath catching in her throat.

"No way," she whispered, her eyes wide. She stepped inside, sandals clicking softly against the cool stone. Every wall opened to the ocean, the room filled with light and air, the horizon stretched endlessly beyond the balcony. Her fingers skimmed over sleek furniture, the crisp linens, the wide doors already open to the salt breeze. "Az, this—this isn't real."

He leaned casually against the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching her with quiet amusement. The navy of his shirt caught shadows even in the sun, the silver chain at his throat flashing when he tilted his head.

"How the hell did you find this place?" she demanded, spinning back toward him. "This is—this is insane. Do you know how much this probably costs?!"

The laugh slipped out of him low and warm, shaking his shoulders. "You like it then?"

"Like it?" She stared at him, exasperation colliding with wonder. "Azriel, I feel like I've walked into some celebrity honeymoon hideout. You—" She broke off, narrowing her eyes. "Okay. Spill. How did you afford this?"

He pushed off the doorframe at last, crossing the room in steady strides until he was close enough that she had to tilt her chin to look up at him. "Trade secret," he said simply, eyes gleaming.

"Trade—" She scoffed, throwing her hands up. "No. Absolutely not. You don't just casually find paradise like this. Normal people don't even get to look at pictures of places like this."

His lips twitched, fighting back a smile as he reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "You deserve more than normal."

Her heart stuttered, the protest dying on her tongue.

And then she laughed, sudden and bright, swatting lightly at his chest. "You're such a romantic."

His chuckle joined hers, soft and affectionate, his hand lingering on her waist as he pulled her gently toward the balcony. "Come on," he murmured. "View's even better outside."

She let him lead her, still half-shaking her head, but her grin betrayed her.

The balcony doors opened wide to the sea, and the sound of waves rushing against the cliffside filled the air, a steady heartbeat of water and wind. She stepped outside, the salt breeze tangling her hair, sunlight flashing in broken shards across the plunge pool at her feet. Beyond the railing, the ocean stretched endless, blue upon blue, horizon blurring into sky.

Her throat tightened unexpectedly. It was too much—the view, the silence, the sheer perfection of it after weeks that had been anything but.

She pressed her palms flat to the smooth stone railing, forcing a breath in deep, then another. Her eyes burned, and she laughed under it, shaky, almost embarrassed. "Gods," she muttered. "I think I might actually cry."

Azriel didn't tease. He didn't ask why. He just stepped behind her, arms sliding around her waist, steady and sure, chin lowering to rest against her hair.

"Work," he said quietly, as if naming it out loud gave her permission to break.

Her hands curled tighter against the railing. "It's been—" She shook her head, voice catching. "One bad call after another. I can't—" She swallowed, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I can't stop seeing their faces sometimes, Az. The families. The—"

He pressed a kiss to her temple, silencing the tremor in her voice.

"I know," he murmured. And she believed him. Because he did know. He always saw her—the long nights, the cracked edges she tried to hide, the way she gave so much of herself away until there was nothing left.

Her laugh came wet this time, half a sob, as she leaned back into him. "You shouldn't have done this. It's too much."

"Not enough," he countered gently, tightening his hold. "You needed a break. And I..." His jaw brushed her hair as he exhaled. "I've been gone too much lately, and I hated every second of it. I wanted to make it up to you."

Her eyes slipped shut, tears threatening but not falling, her chest aching at the raw honesty in his voice.

"I don't need all this to forgive you," she whispered.

"I know." His lips brushed the corner of her jaw. "That's why you deserve it."

The words cracked something open inside her, soft and fragile. She turned in his arms then, pressing her face into his chest, and let herself breathe—really breathe—for the first time in weeks.

Her chest still ached, though for the first time it wasn't from the weight of grief. She tilted her head back, blinking against the sting in her eyes, and whispered, "Thank you. For all of this. For... thinking of me."

His hazel-flecked gaze softened, and before she could second-guess herself, she leaned in. Their lips met, salt and warmth and the quiet hum of waves beneath them. The kiss deepened quickly, the kind that could unravel her in seconds, his hands steady at her waist, hers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

But before heat could fully catch, a voice stumbled into the moment.

"I'm—ah—terribly sorry to interrupt."

They broke apart, breathless, and turned to see their guide lingering uncertainly by the open doors. Ambar couldn't have been more than her mid-twenties, dark hair pulled into a neat braid, linen uniform crisp despite the humidity. Her polite smile wavered at the edges, as though she'd walked in on something she hadn't meant to.

"Your bags have just been delivered," Ambar explained, clasping her hands before her. "Would you like the staff to begin unpacking for you?"

"Yes," Azriel started, but Y/N cut across him fast, the word slipping out sharp as instinct.

"No. Absolutely not."

Ambar blinked, clearly startled. Azriel's brows rose.

"It's not a big deal," he said slowly, turning toward her with that calm, reasonable tone he always used when she was being stubborn. "They do it for everyone—"

"I'll unpack myself," she insisted, firm. "Thank you."

Ambar dipped her head, professional mask sliding quickly back into place. "Of course. Please don't hesitate if you need anything else."

She slipped back inside, leaving the sound of her footsteps fading against polished stone.

Azriel turned back to Y/N, eyes narrowing slightly. "That was... quick."

"Mm." She leaned into the railing again, smirk tugging at her mouth. "Because you're not allowed to see what's in my bag."

His head tilted, interest sharpening like a blade. "What exactly are you hiding?"

Her smirk only widened as she pushed off the railing, brushing close enough that her shoulder grazed his. "A surprise," she murmured, gaze flashing wicked as she looked up at him. "For later."

For the first time all day, Azriel's composure cracked—the slow curl of a smile spreading across his face, heat sparking unmistakably in his eyes.

"Well," he said softly, voice low enough to stir her skin. "Now I can't wait."

The double doors opened with a soft groan, spilling warm light across marble floors veined in gold. The space was sprawling, all dark carved wood and heavy fabrics, as though the designers had wanted to impress old money instead of new. Ornate chandeliers gleamed overhead, their crystals throwing fractured sparks across the gilded trim that edged every wall.

Y/N's gaze swept the room once, cool and unreadable, before she drifted further in. It was beautiful, yes—but familiar. Another gilded cage dressed as paradise.

Rafael, their guide, trailed behind the luggage porters with the polished enthusiasm of someone new to the trade. Young, sharp-jawed, his white linen uniform clung a little too perfectly to his frame. He carried a slim folder tucked under his arm, his practiced smile barely faltering even under the weight of Eris's sharp amber stare.

"You'll find the villa fully equipped for your needs," Rafael explained, his voice smooth but tinged with nerves. "We have arranged for a private butler to assist with meals or errands should you prefer discretion. The bar has been stocked with your preferred wines and liquors. Spa appointments and dining reservations have already been secured under your name, sir."

Eris made a low sound of approval, moving toward the glossy wood cabinets on the far wall. They opened to reveal a glittering array of bottles, crystal glasses catching the light. Without waiting for the staff to finish their work, he began selecting a deep amber spirit, the weight of the bottle familiar in his hand.

"And here—" Rafael gestured toward an arched doorway at the far end of the suite, polished wood inlaid with gold. "This connects directly to the adjoining suite. It has been prepared for your parents' arrival. The doors can, of course, be locked from either side for privacy, but during family meals or group activities, the proximity is... convenient."

Y/N's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, though her polite smile didn't falter. She trailed a hand along the back of the velvet settee, her voice smooth as silk. "Convenient," she echoed, as if tasting the word.

Rafael either didn't notice or chose not to. He flipped his folder open, running through more: private terrace, courtyard access, carriage to ferry them to the beach or dining pavilion if preferred. Each detail was delivered with cheerful precision, while the staff behind him busied themselves with suitcases, folding clothing into drawers and closets.

Eris poured two generous measures of whiskey, the clink of crystal filling the heavy silence. He carried one glass to her without needing to ask, the amber liquid burning like fire as he pressed it into her hand. 

Rafael cleared his throat once the last suitcase was tucked neatly away, shifting his weight as though reluctant to leave. His fingers fussed with the edges of his folder, that same eager smile still plastered in place.

"If there is anything else you might require," he said, his tone bright but edged with nerves, "I'd be more than happy to fetch it now. Extra pillows, perhaps? More towels for the pool terrace? Or—ah—would you like me to call ahead to the kitchens?"

Y/N lifted her glass, letting the amber catch the light as she took a measured sip. She said nothing, but when her eyes slid to Eris's, the message was clear as sunlight on steel.

Eris caught it instantly. His lips curved, soft and almost indulgent, though the heat in his amber eyes said otherwise. He let the silence stretch just long enough for Rafael to squirm, then finally inclined his head.

"That will be all," he said smoothly, his voice carrying the quiet finality of command. "We'll call if we need you."

Rafael's smile twitched, relief and nerves warring as he dipped his head in a bow. "Of course, sir. Madam."

When he finally retreated with the rest of the staff, the heavy doors closing behind him, the villa exhaled into silence.

 Y/N let out a low, humorless laugh and sank deeper into the velvet settee. Her glass tilted in her hand, the amber catching the chandelier light like fire in a cage.

"Well," she said dryly, "that was charming. And here I was, thinking the honeymoon phase might last at least a day before it got spoiled."

Eris lounged opposite her, long legs sprawled, crystal glass balanced easily in his hand. His mask had already slipped, amusement glinting sharp and wry in his amber eyes.

"Give it a few hours," he murmured. "Maybe we'll at least make it to dinner before the circus starts."

Her gaze flicked toward the arched doorway that connected their suite to the one beyond, golden trim gleaming in the afternoon light. She lifted her glass in a mock salute. "So thoughtful of them to keep us within arm's reach."

He studied her for a long moment, the weight of his gaze softening, though his mouth still carried the shadow of a smirk. "You're angry."

"I'm tired," she corrected, then tipped back the last of her drink. "Anger will come later—after your mother asks about children again, or your father looks me in the eye while wishing you'd married anyone else."

Eris swirled the amber in his glass, watching the slow eddies catch the light. "You have every right."

Her brow arched. "Do I?"

He sighed, leaning his head back against the chair. "I didn't exactly invite them."

"You didn't exactly not invite them either," she reminded, though her tone was laced with weary humor rather than real venom. "You let it slip over dinner. And Ana pounced."

That drew a groan from him, muffled against the back of his hand. "In my defense, I thought the wine had her too distracted to catch it."

"She's your mother, Eris." Y/N set her empty glass aside and met his gaze with a knowing look. "She doesn't miss anything."

His smile turned crooked, the kind that always betrayed the fire simmering beneath his calm. "You'd know. You don't miss much either."

She snorted, shaking her head as she stood, her silk dress pooling like liquid sunlight in the golden glow of the suite. "Well, I missed the part where our private vacation turned into family intrusion"

Eris's eyes followed her every move, burning and fond all at once. He raised his glass again, voice smooth and edged with quiet steel. "Then we'll just have to make our own fun, won't we?"

Y/N crossed the space with unhurried grace, her empty glass abandoned on the side table. The silk of her dress whispered against her skin as she reached him, the golden fabric catching every flicker of light like a flame.

Without a word, she eased into his lap, straddling him with the easy familiarity of years together. Her skirts pooled around them, gold spilling over carved wood and velvet, wrapping them in their own cocoon of heat and color.

Eris didn't move, didn't flinch, only tilted his glass aside so it wouldn't spill as she settled. His amber eyes caught hers, sharp but softened, always softened, when it came to her.

Her nails skimmed into his hair, slow and deliberate, combing through the short red strands cut just the way she liked. He tipped his head back into the touch, a hum of approval rumbling low in his chest, the tension of staff and parents and gilded cages fading in the span of a breath.

"You're brooding," he murmured finally, his voice quiet, the sharpness dulled by the intimacy of her fingers threading through his hair.

"Am I?" she asked, lips quirking faintly, though the steel hadn't fully left her eyes.

"You are." His hand skimmed up her thigh beneath the folds of silk, warm and sure, before settling at her waist. "Jetlag, seawater, family ghosts—it all clings. What you need," he said, tone deepening with deliberate mischief, "is a long shower. Wash it off. Start fresh."

Her brows arched, amused. "A shower, hmm?"

"Hot water, steam." His grin curved slow, dangerous, his gaze burning like banked embers. "I hear it does wonders for one's mood."

She laughed then, low and genuine, dipping down to brush her lips against his in a kiss that lingered just long enough to promise more. When she pulled back, her fingers still in his hair, her voice softened.

"You always have an angle."

His smirk sharpened. "Always."

And when she kissed him again, this time deeper, he let her—let her lead, let her take, as if reminding her that in here, away from the weight of gold-trimmed doors and judging eyes, this was still theirs.

Her nails lingered in his hair, tracing lightly against his scalp, before she finally parted from him and sighed—the sound more surrender than defeat.

"Fine," she said, tilting her head as though weighing her own words. "I'll clean up. Try to be in a good mood by the time your parents show up."

His smirk deepened, satisfaction flickering across his face like a flame catching tinder.

"But," she added, leaning in until her lips brushed his ear, her voice soft and edged with steel, "you're joining me."

Amber eyes flared, fire sparking alive in their depths. His grip at her waist tightened, glass set aside with careless ease as his focus narrowed entirely to her.

"I was counting on it," he murmured, his voice a low purr.

She laughed under her breath, sliding gracefully off his lap and tugging him toward the suite's grand bathroom, silk pooling like molten gold at her ankles. He followed without resistance, a wolfish smile curling his mouth as the carved doors shut behind them.

The door swung open, and golden light spilled across the polished wood floors, filling the bungalow with the glow of late afternoon. A gentle breeze drifted through wide open windows, carrying the briny kiss of the sea and the rustle of palm fronds swaying outside.

Lucien stopped in the doorway, eyes wide, his hand still resting on the strap of their bag. "You're kidding," he breathed, voice edged with disbelief.

But there was no joke. The thatched roof stretched high overhead, the walls lined with woven reeds and pale wood that gleamed like honey. A hammock hung in the corner, swaying lazily in the draft, and through the glass doors at the far end, the private deck opened onto white sand steps from the water. String lights twined along the railing, already glowing softly as if to promise magic after dark.

Y/N pressed a hand over her mouth, laughter bubbling up. "I told you," she said, nudging him inside. "Perks of having a dad who works for the resort."

He finally stepped forward, turning in a slow circle to take it all in, as if any second someone would come barging in and tell him this wasn't theirs. "This... gods, this can't be ours."

"It's ours," she promised, squeezing his hand.

Their guide, Sabina, moved gracefully into the space behind them, her linen uniform perfectly pressed, her smile warm and practiced. "Your bungalow has been fully prepared. A selection of wines and desserts have been placed in the cooler, and your private deck is serviced twice daily. You'll find menus for spa treatments on the bedside table, and the main lounge offers rotating dining options every evening. If you'd like to book activities, simply dial reception and we'll arrange it."

Lucien looked almost dazed as Sabina spoke, and Y/N had to bite back another laugh at the expression on his face.

Sabina's smile didn't falter as she dipped her head politely. "It is an honor to host you, Mr. and Mrs. Michaelsen. I'll leave you to settle in—your luggage will arrive shortly."

And with that, she slipped back through the door, leaving them alone in the golden hush of their new sanctuary.

Lucien turned back to Y/N, eyes shining, that grin of his breaking wide across his face. "We're actually staying here," he said, as if saying it out loud might make it real.

Y/N just laughed, tugging him toward the deck. "Wait until you see the view."

The sliding glass door gave way with a soft hush, and they stepped out into paradise.

The deck stretched wide over the sand, wood warm beneath their feet. A pair of hammocks swayed lazily in the salty breeze, strung between carved posts. Lanterns and string lights crisscrossed above, already beginning to glow golden as the sun dipped lower. Just beyond the steps, the ocean stretched wide and endless, rolling in with a rhythm that felt like a lullaby.

Y/N leaned against the railing, breath catching as she took it all in. "Lucien," she whispered, "look at this."

He didn't look at the view—he looked at her. At the way her hair caught the light, at the joy sparking in her eyes. He smiled, then leaned in to brush a kiss against her shoulder, his voice soft and teasing. "I am."

She laughed, smacking his chest lightly, though she caught his mouth in a kiss a moment later. It lingered, soft at first, then deepening with the giddy urgency of honeymoon heat. His hands settled easily on her waist, pulling her closer, her fingers curling in his shirt.

When they broke apart, she was breathless and grinning. "We're going to end up locked on this deck all week if you keep that up."

"Would that be such a bad thing?" he asked, grinning right back, forehead pressed to hers.

She kissed him once more, quick and playful, before pulling away. "As tempting as that is... I should call my dad. Let him know we made it."

Lucien groaned dramatically, flopping against the railing as though mortally wounded. "Already competing with your father for your attention. Typical."

Her laugh rang out bright as she dug her phone from her bag. "You love him."

"Unfortunately," he muttered, but the fondness in his voice betrayed him.

She rolled her eyes, thumbing through her contacts until she found the familiar number. As the line began to ring, she waved toward the rest of the bungalow. "Go explore. Check the bathroom—I heard something about a rain shower the size of a waterfall."

Lucien leaned in for one last quick kiss before obeying, his hand brushing along her back as he passed inside. "Don't be long, Mrs. Michaelsen," he murmured, the title rolling warm and delighted off his tongue.

Y/N's smile lingered even as she pressed the phone to her ear, listening for the familiar click of her father's voice.

Lucien ducked back inside, leaving the sound of the waves and Y/N's laughter carrying faintly through the open door. Her voice softened as she greeted her father, warm and familiar, and he found himself slowing his steps just to listen to the faint murmur of it.

He drifted through the space, fingers grazing over every surface as if he had to prove to himself it was real. The bungalow was intimate but exquisite—high thatched roof overhead, pale wood polished to a soft glow, woven rugs laid across the floors. The air smelled faintly of citrus and salt, fresh linens and sun-warmed reeds.

A door opened onto the bathroom, and Lucien's breath caught. The shower was walled in glass, a wide slab of stone beneath a rainfall fixture that looked like it could drown him in bliss. A freestanding tub sat nearby, polished to a sheen, with a view straight out to the ocean. It was decadent. Indulgent. The kind of thing he never thought he'd touch, let alone share with someone who laughed like the whole world was still worth loving.

From the deck, Y/N's voice drifted faintly:

"Yes, Dad, I know. I'll text you the second we land back home. No, Lucien hasn't let me out of his sight—he's being good."

Her laugh carried through the bungalow, light and fond.

Lucien smiled despite himself, shaking his head as he trailed back toward the bedroom. He let his hand skim over the smooth sheets, the carefully folded blanket at the foot of the bed. Everything gleamed here—perfect, untouched.

He should've felt out of place. He usually did, when faced with wealth this polished. Not so long ago, this level of luxury would've made him ache with reminders of what he'd lost when his father had cast him out. His old family name had once bought him chandeliers and carriages, private tutors and estates. Until it hadn't. Until he was nothing.

But with Y/N?

It never felt like she was flaunting it. She carried this world like it weighed nothing, her kindness smoothing every sharp edge of privilege. She treated everyone—the staff, the strangers they passed on the dock, him—with the same warmth. Easy, grounded, generous.

Her voice reached him again, warm and teasing: "Tell Mom I'll bring her back a souvenir. Yes, a nice one, not just a postcard."

Lucien's chest tightened, the sight of their bags stacked neatly at the foot of the bed suddenly pulling him back to the present. This wasn't just a trip. This was the start of their forever. And for the first time in years, surrounded by wealth that wasn't his but now theirs, he didn't feel like an imposter. He felt home.

"Lucien!"

Her voice carried from the deck, light but insistent. He stepped out of the bedroom to find her leaning against the railing, phone pressed to her ear, her grin flashing as she held it out toward him.

"My dad wants to talk to you."

Lucien chuckled, wiping his palms subtly on his shorts before taking the phone. Even after all these years, there was still that familiar prickle of nerves when her father's voice came down the line.

"Sir," Lucien greeted, steady and polite.

"Lucien." Her father's tone was clipped, but not unkind. "Everything good with the bungalow? You two being treated well?"

Lucien's gaze flicked around the space — the glowing lights, the soft hum of waves, Y/N's laughter still lingering in the air. "Yes, sir. It's beautiful here. They've taken care of everything."

"Good. That's what I like to hear." A pause, then the steel slipped back into her father's voice, the kind Lucien had grown used to over the years. "But listen—keep an eye out, will you? Your girl's too nice. If something's amiss, she won't say a damn word. That's on you to speak up."

Lucien's chest tightened, but his voice came easy, calm, certain. "Always."

There was a grunt on the other end. Approval, in its own way.

It wasn't lost on him how far they'd come. The first time he'd shaken this man's hand, he'd been told in no uncertain terms that no one—no matter how good, no matter how serious—would ever be enough for his daughter. And Lucien had believed him. For months, he'd carried those words like a bruise, proof of what he already feared.

But years had worn the edges down. Y/N's father had watched him stay, watched him show up, watched him put her first. And little by little, the man had started to see him not as an intruder, but as family.

"I will," Lucien promised, gripping the phone tighter. "She's safe with me."

Another pause, then a quiet huff of breath, softer this time. "I know."

The line shifted, the sounds of Y/N's mother chiming faintly in the background. Her father cleared his throat. "Put my daughter back on. And you two—enjoy yourselves. You deserve it."

Lucien handed the phone back to Y/N, her curious smile waiting as she pressed it to her ear. He just shook his head, that wide grin breaking over his face again. Y/N laughed suddenly, rolling her eyes as she pressed the phone tighter to her ear. "Dad, no—don't put Mom on—"

Y/N groaned, dropping her forehead into her palm, though her smile betrayed her. "Hi, Mom."

From the doorway, Lucien chuckled, watching the way her shoulders slumped with fond exasperation. He leaned in, brushing a kiss across her cheek.

"Good luck," he murmured, his breath warm against her skin.

She swatted at him without looking up, mouthing traitor as he laughed under his breath.

Lucien only grinned, already knowing how this would go: twenty minutes of her mom recounting every detail of her week, followed by a reminder to apply sunscreen, a story about a neighbor's cat, and probably an impromptu suggestion list for souvenirs.

Which meant he had time.

"Tell her I say hi," he said lightly, catching her eye just long enough to wink before slipping back into the bungalow.

She stuck her tongue out at his retreating back, her voice softening as she returned to the phone. "No, Mom, I haven't even unpacked yet. We literally just got here—"

The glass doors slid open with a practiced flourish, and Marta beamed as she stepped inside. "Welcome to your villa, Mr. and Mrs. Hackert," she said brightly, her blonde braid swinging as she gestured toward the wide, sunlit space.

The interior gleamed — pale stone floors that flowed seamlessly into the patio, bold splashes of color from oversized modern art on the walls, a couch big enough for a dozen people, and sliding doors that opened directly onto the resort's main pool. Through the glass, the shimmer of turquoise water caught the light, echoing with the distant sounds of laughter, splashes, and music.

It was loud. It was flashy. It was perfect for showing off.

Cassian trailed after Marta, nodding intently as she rattled off details. "Your bar has been stocked with a variety of cocktails, the main pool is open twenty-four hours, and we have live entertainment each night on the patio. If you'd like to book excursions—jet skis, snorkeling tours, zip-lining through the jungle canopy—we'd be happy to arrange that at reception."

"Sounds amazing," Cassian said, his grin quick and eager, trying to absorb every word.

Y/N had already drifted away, her sandals soft against the polished floor as she wandered further into the villa. Her fingertips brushed the back of a chair, the edge of a counter, but there was no awe in her eyes. She peeked into the bathroom, her movements quiet, almost restless, as though she were searching for something that wasn't here.

"Of course, room service is available at all hours, and we've reserved you a private cabana by the pool," Marta went on, her voice chirping cheerfully. "Your bags will be brought in shortly, but if there's anything else you need, simply call reception and—"

"Babe, did you hear that?" Cassian called over his shoulder, his grin turning toward Y/N. "Private cabana. We're set."

She hummed a vague acknowledgement from the other room, not bothering to step back into view.

Cassian's smile faltered, just for a heartbeat. Then he turned back to Marta, nodding quickly. "That's great. Really great. Thanks."

Marta's smile didn't slip an inch, though her eyes flickered briefly toward where Y/N had vanished. She closed her folder neatly, dipping her head. "We hope you enjoy your stay."

And with that, she slipped out, leaving the villa in sudden silence.

The silence stretched, broken only by the faint rush of water from the pool outside and the muffled music echoing from the patio beyond. Cassian shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking on his heels once before pushing off toward the bedroom.

"Hey," he called, voice careful but light. "Come here a second—I want to show you something."

Y/N turned reluctantly from where she'd been staring out one of the glass walls, her expression unreadable behind her sunglasses. Still, she followed, her steps unhurried as he led her into the villa's bedroom.

The moment she crossed the threshold, her breath caught.

The space was subtle but unmistakable: her favorite flowers arranged in vases by the bed, their delicate scent softening the air. A scattering of rose petals dusted the white duvet in a deliberate pattern, not gaudy, but thoughtful. A small tray sat on the dresser, holding her preferred bottle of wine and two crystal glasses, a card tucked beside it with her name written in his looping scrawl.

Cassian watched her face closely, searching for something—anything—in her reaction. He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. "I, uh... I wanted to do something for you. I know we haven't really celebrated properly in a while, and... well. You deserve better than a belated 'happy birthday' at home between meetings."

Y/N stepped closer to the flowers, fingertips grazing a soft petal. Her throat worked, but she didn't say anything right away.

Cassian's grin wavered, though he forced it back into place, trying for brightness. "So? What do you think?"

For a moment, the silence in the room was heavy with the soft perfume of flowers. Y/N traced the edge of a vase with her fingertip, her expression carefully schooled.

"It's... nice," she said at last, her voice quiet. "Really nice. Thank you."

Cassian's chest loosened, just a little, at the words. A thread of hope tugged at his heart. He stepped closer, hand brushing the small of her back as he leaned in, searching for the warmth he used to find so easily.

But she shifted out of reach, smooth and deliberate.

The rejection wasn't cruel, but it was enough. He froze, hand falling uselessly to his side.

Her gaze stayed on the flowers, anywhere but him. "I should call my mom. Let her know we got here safe." She swallowed, her voice softening further. "And check in on Amelia."

The name of their daughter hit the air like a bell, sweet and shattering. Cassian nodded once, his throat tight. "Yeah. Of course."

Y/N was already reaching for her phone, thumb scrolling to the familiar number. Cassian stood there, surrounded by the scent of roses and wine he'd chosen for her, watching as the wall between them stretched just a little further.

"Hi, Mom," Y/N said softly, sinking onto the edge of the bed. Her fingers tightened around the phone, her eyes darting toward the flowers and petals still scattered across the duvet.

"Sweetheart! Oh, I'm so glad you called," her mom's voice crackled through the line, bright and familiar. "How was the flight? And the boat? I saw pictures of those boats online—they look like something out of a movie."

Y/N smiled faintly, even if it didn't quite reach her eyes. "It went smooth. Little turbulence, but nothing bad. The boat ride was fine, too." She paused, tucking her legs beneath her. "And you? How's Amelia?"

"She's doing just fine," her mom said warmly, though Y/N caught the way her voice gentled, the way it always did when she knew Y/N was listening too closely. "Her breathing sounds better today. I gave her the nebulizer treatment a few hours ago, and she settled right down after."

Relief washed through Y/N, her shoulders slumping. "Good," she whispered, eyes stinging. "Gods, that's good. I hate being away from her when she's not one hundred percent."

"I know," her mom soothed. "But she's okay. She's napping now. You just focus on enjoying yourself a little, hm? She's in good hands."

Y/N nodded, even though her mom couldn't see it. Her gaze drifted toward the closed bathroom door, faintly hearing the shuffle of Cassian moving around. Her chest tightened.

As if reading her thoughts, her mom hesitated before speaking again. "And how's it going with Cassian?"

Y/N's stomach flipped. She lay back across the bed, staring up at the ceiling, the phone pressed tight to her ear. "We... got here," she said simply.

"Mm." The sound on the other end was careful, cautious. "And how are you doing?"

Y/N shut her eyes, her throat going tight. Her free hand twisted in the sheets, fingers brushing the cool petals Cassian had scattered there.

"I'm fine," she said at last, voice thinner than she meant. "Really. I'm fine."

Her mom was quiet for a moment, then sighed softly, like she wanted to push but knew better. "All right, sweetheart. If you say so."

The silence stretched a little too long, the faint hum of static filling in what Y/N couldn't bring herself to say.

Finally, her mom's voice came, soft but steady. "I wish you'd open up to me more, sweetheart."

Y/N shut her eyes tighter, pressing her knuckles against her forehead. "There's nothing to open up about."

"Mhm." Her mom's tone carried that familiar mix of patience and disbelief only mothers could manage. "I won't press. I know you'll tell me when you're ready. I just..." Her sigh crackled down the line, weary but warm. "I'm proud of you. That you're still trying. That you haven't given up, even when it would be easier to walk away."

Y/N's throat tightened. She turned onto her side, curling into the duvet as her gaze drifted to the petals still scattered across the bedspread. "It's hard," she admitted, voice so quiet it almost wasn't there. "Harder than I thought it would be."

"I know." Her mom's voice thickened, but she kept it even. "Marriage isn't easy, honey. Love isn't easy. But you've always been strong. Stronger than you give yourself credit for."

Tears pricked her eyes, hot and stinging. She blinked them back quickly, forcing a shaky laugh. "I don't feel very strong right now."

"That's when you're strongest," her mom said firmly. "When you're hurting and you still keep going."

Y/N pressed the phone tighter against her cheek, letting the words sink in even if she wasn't sure she believed them.

"Thanks, Mom," she whispered, her voice raw around the edges.

There was a pause, then the sound of her mother's smile reached her, warm and steady. "Always. Now—do me a favor, and try to have a little fun out there, all right? Amelia will be just fine. And so will you."

Y/N let out a long, slow breath. "I'll try."

Her mom's chuckle carried gently through the line. "Good girl. And don't forget—I expect lots of pictures. I want to see this fancy resort for myself."

Y/N smiled despite the heaviness in her chest, brushing a petal from the duvet with her free hand. "You'll get sick of them by the end of the week."

"Never," her mom said firmly. "And later tonight, once Amelia's up from her nap, I'll try to FaceTime. That way you and Cass can see her for yourselves."

The thought sent another sharp tug through Y/N's chest—pain and longing and love all tangled together. She blinked hard, forcing the wobble out of her voice. "I'd like that. A lot."

"Good. Now go, enjoy yourself a little. We'll be fine here."

"I love you, Mom."

"Love you more."

The line clicked softly, leaving the villa quiet except for the faint music drifting in from the pool outside.

Y/N lowered the phone slowly, setting it on the nightstand. Her gaze lingered on the flowers Cassian had arranged, the petals scattered like an unspoken plea across the bed. She let out a breath, slow and unsteady, then pushed herself up, steeling for whatever came next.

The glass door slid open, and Y/N stepped out, her phone tucked in her hand. He straightened instinctively, scanning her face for clues.

"She's okay," Y/N said before he could ask, her voice softer now. She moved toward the railing, not quite toward him. "Mom said her breathing sounded better today. They gave her a nebulizer treatment this afternoon."

Cassian exhaled, the tension in his shoulders loosening. "Thank the gods." His gaze dipped briefly to the ground, then back to her. "And she's comfortable? No fever?"

Y/N shook her head, strands of hair slipping from her bun in the breeze. "No fever. Mom said she settled right down and took a nap after. She'll FaceTime later—once Amelia wakes up. So we can... see her."

Cassian's chest tightened. "Good," he said roughly. "That's good."

Y/N didn't sit. She leaned against the railing instead, fingers curling around the edge, her phone still clutched in one hand like a lifeline. Her gaze was far off, fixed on the way the water glittered beneath the sun, though Cassian only looked at her.

Cassian leaned back in his chair, watching her lean into the railing like she was bracing herself against the whole damn world. He let the silence stretch for a moment, then cleared his throat.

"Come sit with me," he said gently, nodding to the empty chair across from him. "Just for a bit. No staff, no noise. Just us."

She glanced over her shoulder, sunglasses hiding her eyes but not the faint tension in her jaw. For a heartbeat, he thought she'd ignore him. Then she sighed, pushing off the railing and lowering herself into the chair opposite his.

He waited until she settled before speaking, his voice low, careful. "I know it hasn't been easy for you."

Her gaze flicked to him, sharp, but he pressed on, steady. "Between... everything with me. Amelia being born. The postpartum stuff. All the therapy appointments. And work being a bitch on top of all that." He spread his hands, frustration tightening his mouth. "You've been carrying so much. And I don't think I've said it enough, but... I see you. I know how hard it's been."

Her throat worked, her fingers twisting the strap of her phone.

Cassian leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. "I just want you to have some peace here. Even if it's only for a week. You deserve that much."

For a moment, her expression softened—just slightly, a flicker in the set of her mouth. But the weight of everything between them hung there still, unspoken. Y/N only sat there, phone twisting absently in her hands. His words hung heavy between them, almost daring her to let them sink in.

But then she exhaled slowly, the faintest shake of her head, and leaned back in the chair. "The view's nice," she said, her tone carefully casual as she tipped her chin toward the pool glittering just beyond the patio. "Not exactly private, but... still pretty."

Cassian blinked, thrown by the sharp pivot. He'd expected—what? Gratitude? A crack in the wall? Instead, she smoothed the air flat, leaving no seam for him to reach through.

"Yeah," he said after a pause, his voice quieter, rougher. "It is."