#i am hyperfixating

You’ve seen the others eat it, spooning it up casually, cheerfully. It always looked so easy.

But here, with the spoon clutched awkwardly in your hand and milk sloshing around unfamiliar grains, it feels like a performance you’ve never rehearsed.

You manage one bite. It crunches. Sweet, strange. 

You chew slowly, watching the way the milk turns faintly golden where your glow touches it. The light is faint today — more flicker than flame.

It’s an improvement.

You try again. A second spoonful. Less awkward, but not graceful. You still haven’t figured out how to be in this body. 

Not fully. 

Not comfortably.

“Didn’t peg you as a cereal kind of Star.”

The voice is soft behind you, but there’s no mistaking it. Cassian — warm and rumbling as ever, but tentative now. Gentler.

You don’t jump. But your hand stills on the spoon.

He walks into the kitchen slowly, no armor, no swagger. Just loose leathers and that heavy presence he never seems to shed. 

He nods toward the stool across from you. “Mind if I sit?”

You glance up, unsure, but you nod once. 

He eases into the seat like he’s afraid of breaking something.

“I owe you an apology,” he says without preamble. No jokes. No grin. Just truth.

You drop your gaze. Stir your cereal with the spoon. Tiny ripples break the reflection of your own face.

“At dinner… when Nesta said that thing, and we all laughed…” He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “I saw what it did to you. I felt it. And I didn’t say anything. Didn’t stop it. Didn’t check on you after. That’s on me.”

You take a slow breath. Not because you need to — not in the same way they do — but because it helps hold the storm at bay.

“I don’t understand your world,” you say, voice soft.

Cassian’s brows pull together, but he stays quiet.

Listening.

You look at the spoon in your hand, then at him. “From above, everything looked so effortless. The cities. The lights. The laughter. You. I watched it all and thought it must be… easy. Beautiful. But now that I’m here…”

You trail off, unsure how to name the jagged feeling in your chest.

“Everything is heavier,” you finish. “Sharp in places I didn’t expect.”

Cassian leans forward, bracing his forearms on the table. “It’s not just you. It is heavy down here. Messy as hell, too.” He gives a breath of a laugh, then sobers. “But that doesn’t make what we did right.”

You swirl your spoon through the cereal. It makes soft clinks against the bowl.

“You were kind,” you murmur. “Then you laughed.”

Cassian’s voice is rough. “And I hated myself for it the second I saw your face.”

Your light flickers, dim gold on the table’s edge.

“I didn’t come to excuse it,” he says. “I came to tell you that I see you. I’m trying to see you. And if you’ll let me, I’d like to help. With all this,” he gestures loosely — to the bowl, your body, the world. “Whatever you need.”

You finally look at him. Really look. 

He’s earnest in a way that startles you — all that size and strength wrapped around a heart so open, it hurts.

“What would you teach me?” you ask after a beat.

“The basics,” he says. “Moving in your body. Finding your strength. Azriel will help too.”

You don’t mean to, but your head tilts up a little at that name. Something flares softly in your chest.

Cassian notices but he doesn’t say a word.

Instead, he leans back and crosses his arms with a grin. “Though, Lucien did tell me that stars are awfully moody.”

You squint at him. Then punch his arm — not hard, not graceful, just enough.

He winces dramatically, grabbing his bicep. “Mother’s tits, I knew this day would come. You’ve already bested me.”

A sound escapes you — quiet, startled, but unmistakable.

A laugh.

Cassian goes still. Then smiles.

“That laugh,” he says softly. “We haven’t heard it yet.”

You stand just beyond the borders of the training grounds, where the grass is still wild and untouched, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine. 

Cassian has brought you here, away from prying eyes, away from the constant hum of the Court.

He watches you carefully, the way a hawk watches its prey—not to strike, but to protect.

“This place,” Cassian begins, voice low, cautious, “it’s safe. Well, safer. No one will stumble across us here.” He pauses, then adds, “For you especially.”

A coil of fear strikes you.

You turn, eyes wide. “For me? Am I… in danger?”

Cassian’s gaze hardens for a moment, but the softness returns quickly. “Rhys and Amren think so. You’re a fallen star, there is every reason to believe there may be someone out there who wishes to exploit that.”

The words sink in. 

Fallen star. 

You imagine the sky, that vast, endless canvas, watching you plummet like a comet lost to the dark. The thought aches in your chest, and something stiffens there—a careful fear, threading beneath your ribs.

“But why?” you ask, voice barely a whisper. “Why would anyone want to hurt me?”

Cassian shrugs, but you can see it in his eyes—the endless wars, the shadows creeping at the edges of their world.

It appears that he doesn’t know either. 

He has a hunch, he has something he isn’t willing to share. 

Not yet.

You swallow the unfamiliar fear, nodding. You are not like them, but you want to belong while you are here. 

To be safe and alive until you can go home. 

You shoot a silent prayer to your friends above, asking that they watch over you. 

They don’t answer.

Still. They don’t answer.

Feyre’s voice breaks through the quiet. “We’ll help you hide your glow,” she promises, stepping into the clearing with a calm grace. “Especially in public. I’ve learned how to keep mine—how to keep myself from shining too brightly when I don’t want to.”

You tilt your head to the side and she shakes hers.

“I’m not a star. I just have an ability to produce a glow especially when I’m happy… it comes from the Sun…”

You wonder what she meant. 

She could very well have come from the sky, she was ethereal.

You watch her, curious and grateful. If someone as powerful as Feyre can learn to mask her light, perhaps you can too.

Elain follows, silent and serene, her gaze drifting to Azriel, who lingers just beyond the trees, the shadowed figure carved from night itself.

Elain. Feyre’s sister. Also incredibly beautiful. 

And kind. 

Everyone says so.

Something tightens in your chest when your eyes meet Elain’s for the briefest moment. 

Not jealousy—no, not that. But a curious tug, something you don’t understand yet.

Azriel’s eyes flicker toward Elain, the faintest warmth hidden beneath his usual stillness. You catch it—like a secret language spoken in glances.

Cassian clears his throat. “Enough standing around.” He looks at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “It’s time you learned how to handle your body. Basics. Simple things—standing, moving, breathing.”

Your heart races.

“And Azriel,” he adds, nodding toward the shadows, “he’ll be here too. He’s good at teaching… quiet strength.”

Azriel steps forward, the dusk wrapping around him like a cloak. His hazel eyes meet yours, calm, steady, holding a depth you can’t yet name.

“Come,” he says, voice a low thread of sound.

Your limbs feel awkward, foreign beneath your skin. The weight of flesh and bone, the rhythm of breath—everything is new, every movement uncertain.

Azriel moves beside you, patient and unjudging.

“Slow,” he whispers.

You do as he asks, you can feel the world everywhere with each movement.  The touch of grass cool against your bare skin. 

The world holds its breath.

“Again.”

You move, hesitant but eager. Azriel’s presence is a balm, quiet and unwavering. He doesn’t correct with words, but with the subtle shift of his own body, a glance, the brush of his shadow against yours.

Something flickers—an almost imperceptible pulse beneath your skin. A warmth that isn’t quite heat, but something older, deeper.

You want to reach out, to ask. But the words catch in your throat.

Later, when Feyre and Elain drift away to the edge of the clearing, whispering hurriedly to Cassian about something.

You. 

And you find yourself alone with Azriel beneath the bending boughs.

You look up at him, the shadows pooling around his form. “Why do you hide?” you ask softly.

Azriel’s gaze drifts away for a moment, then back to you. “Shadows are safer.”

You shake your head, a faint smile curving your lips. “But shadows… are born of light.”

For a heartbeat, the air holds still between you.

His eyes darken with something almost like wonder.

You feel it again — the pull. The quiet promise of stars, the beginning of something you can’t yet name.

In the silence, your fingers twitch, reaching for a touch that lingers just out of reach.

The world shifts, and everything feels new again.

Azriel’s footsteps are soft on the moss beneath the trees, a sound so familiar it feels like a heartbeat in the quiet air. 

You follow him, unsure of the rhythm your new body should keep, each movement awkward but purposeful.

He doesn’t rush you. He never rushes.

Instead, his presence folds around you like the dusk itself—steady, protective, silent.

Cassian had said this was just the beginning. The basics.

But it feels like something more.

You try to steady your breath, to feel the ground beneath your feet, the pulse of life in your limbs.

Azriel steps beside you, his shadow merging with yours in the fading light.

“Focus on flow,” he says, voice low, almost a murmur.

You watch him as he moves, how every step, every gesture, is smooth and sure—like water winding around stones.

You try to follow, but your limbs betray you — heavy, clumsy, bound by things you never used to need.

Once, you danced through nebulae with nothing but will and wonder. There was no weight. No ache. No breath to catch.

But now…

Now, even standing still feels like sinking.

A small smile tugs at your lips when you nearly lose your balance but catch yourself.

Azriel’s eyes flick to you, and for a moment, the usual distance cracks.

You wonder if he knows — what it is to wake in a body not built by you. To move through a world where every sense is too much and not enough.

You don’t ask. But something in his silence feels like an answer.

There is something there. A silent encouragement.

A quiet approval that reaches deeper than words.

You want to ask what it means—that look, that feeling that bubbles up in your chest whenever he’s near.

But the words dissolve before they find you.

Instead, you let your body listen.

The slow, careful language of movement.

Feyre had promised to teach you how to hide the faint glow that clings to your skin, like a secret thread of starlight.

But here, with Azriel, you realize that the glow is more than light.

It is something that pulses beneath the surface.

Something waiting.

Elain calls for him. And he goes to her.

Without a second thought.

He goes, leaves you to practice.

Leaves you to absorb and adapt. 

You glance toward the trees where Elain and Feyre had disappeared, and your gaze catches a quiet scene—Elain laughing softly with Azriel, her hand brushing his arm in a way that feels familiar, intimate.

He doesn’t pull away.

That’s what does it.

That small, devastating detail. The way he leans slightly toward her, the faintest smile playing on his lips. 

It’s the first hint of smile you have seen from him.

And it’s for her.

A hollow opens in your chest. Not jealousy—just loneliness wearing a borrowed shape.

The ache distracts you. Your step falters, the ground suddenly uneven.

You look away quickly, cheeks warming.

And then you stumble, your focus slipping.

Your body sprawled in the moss with a soft thud. 

The shadows reach you first, curling around your limbs like worried hands.

Then he’s there—too fast, too close—kneeling beside you, his breath uneven though his face stays calm.

Scarred fingers skim your skin, checking for injury, but his touch lingers an extra heartbeat longer than it should.

The world narrows until it is just the two of you.

Something stirs, a whisper beneath your ribs.

Invisible but impossible to ignore.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself in the quiet strength that surrounds him.

Azriel’s voice is barely more than a breath.

“Are you alright?”

You meet his eyes.

“I’m not sure. I should have not lost my focus.”

“You were focused,” he says, after a moment. “Until something pulled you away.”

He is still holding on to you.

“The body,” he says finally, “is a language. You must learn its words, its rhythm.”

You nod slowly, feeling the truth in it.

But part of you wonders if anyone will ever learn to read yours.

And if he already has.

AN: So, I am still sick and still able to churn out this story. Better to do it as it flows, I think! I've also been enjoying this new writing style, I am so used to writing in third person but the flow is just happening, I hope it's enjoyable to read!

Just to highlight, there will be some Elain/Azriel jealousy, references to some elements of that whole thing. However, this isn't an anti Elain story!