#soft azriel

A childish, foolish part of you had always thought that Azriel might be the one—that he might one day be yours. That one day the Mother might finally lift the veil between you, that she might finally pull an invisible string between your souls taut and end your insufferable pining. It did not matter that you had lived centuries beside the male, that you had endured centuries of yearning for the boy you met as a mere child. It did not matter that every day that passed your soul grew a little more weary. There would always be a part of you that burned for Azriel.

It was pathetic. 

It was inevitable.

You had accepted it decades ago, maybe even longer. 

You were okay with loving him from a distance for eternity, as long as you had him. As long as there was still a possibility. A seed of hope to kindle your fantasies, to make them feel just a little real.

“Yes.”

The solid, quiet answer rang through the room, an arrow that ricocheted off the walls and the ceiling only to lodge directly in the center of your chest. It was suddenly difficult to breathe.

Rhys and Cassian were unsurprised by his answer, but their mates appeared to be suppressing their shock and confusion at the revelation. Mor looked…indifferent. Intrigued, maybe. You weren’t sure if she knew. You could not tell if her narrowed eyes gazing over the rim of her wine glass were from confusion, or disapproval—if she might know more than you.

Then her eyes cut from Azriel to you, her lips pursed in a way that made your skin prickle, and you really didn’t want to know what her thoughts were on whatever she believed was happening at this table.

The female—Soleil, was her name—hummed, her glass setting on the tablecloth with a soft thud. “Interesting,” she said, the word drawn out just enough to know she cared only for her own self-interest. Her brows raised a bit, glancing around the table pointedly as everyone else watched her with bated breath. “Where is she then?”

Azriel’s throat bobbed, and his grip tightened around his fork. And because you loved him, briefly, your heart ached for him.

Because you loved him, you noticed the nearly imperceptible twitch of his wings. You noticed the slight stagger in his breath as he looked away from Soleil. You noticed the way his body, adorned in dark leathers, blurred just a bit at the edges, and the how the planes of his face grew just a little more shadowed.

You almost stretched your leg out beneath the table, almost toed his boot with your own from where you sat across from him.

“The private lives of my court are of no concern to yours.” Rhys’s voice was sharp and finite, his words yanking you back to the present, forcing you to remember yourself.

Azriel’s shoulders relaxed, but his gaze was impassive as he looked from Soleil to his brother. Soleil’s lips were pursed, the shine of amusement in her eyes dulled. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Rhysand,” she answered, with far more gall than she should. “There are political advantages to be considered, potential alliances—”

“Azriel has a mate,” Rhys cut her off, his words scalding your chest as they slid down to your stomach. “He is spoken for—and even if he was not, the members of my court are not pawns for you to play with.”

Azriel has a mate.

He is spoken for.

A mate.

Simple facts that you had managed to leave as blurry half-truths revealed from booze loosened lips in a dark alley in Velaris for nearly two months in the back of your mind. Now they were real. Now everyone else knew too.

You stood up, your chair scraping along the hardwood floor. Everyone’s eyes cut to you, but the only ones you could focus on were the ones that left you feeling so raw and exposed you ached all over.

You could only hold his eyes for a brief moment, immediately looking down at your feet when you felt a tendril of shadow curl around your ankle. You could hardly breathe. “Excuse me,” you muttered, then fought for every ounce of dignity and composure you could muster as you walked out of the dining room, your pace quickening once you were in the hall.  

You didn’t start running until you were out the front door and the moonlight hit your cheeks and outstretched wings, and even if you heard the door open and close behind you as you took off into the sky, you didn’t look back.

~ ~ ~

“Have you met the new boy?”

You blinked owlishly at your mother, your heart racing in your chest. “Who?”

She cast a glare over her shoulder, her peeling of the potatoes over the sink growing more aggressive. “The new boy in your cohort. They say he is a shadowsinger.”

There was no new boy in your cohort. There were no boys at all in your cohort, not since they separated the girls and boys after they turned ten—and you turned ten last month. Your mother knew this.

Instead of reminding her—correcting her—you asked, “What’s a shadowsinger?”

She huffed, the peeler and potato hitting the edge of the sink. “Do you know nothing?” she snapped.

Somehow, you always made her mad. You never said the right thing.

“Pay attention tomorrow,” She told you. You nodded when she looked at you again, but you avoided her eyes. “A shadow boy would be hard to miss.”

If there was a boy made of shadows, you imagined he would be hard to miss—even if you only saw the boys in the eating hall—but there was no “shadow boy”, and there were no new faces that stuck out as you made your way to your table.

The other girls at your table were all older, and none of them were particularly nice, but at least they had let you sit with them. It was better than sitting with the girls in your age group. These girls left you alone, and they always had stories to share.

The stories were generally trivial and petty. Sometimes they talked about boys. You tried not to listen too closely during those conversations.

“Have you seen him yet?” one of the girls, Freya, asked.

Across the table, Lara furrowed her brows. “Who?”

“The new boy,” Freya answered eagerly. “I’ve heard he’s cute.”

A third girl, one you had forgotten the name of, scrunched up her face. “He talks to shadows, Freya.”

Freya waved away the comment as if it was entirely inconsequential and not the strangest thing you had heard in your life—also, she said he talked to shadows, not that he was made of them.

Lara looked even more disturbed. “He’s also eleven.”

At that, Freya looked more discouraged. “I didn’t know that,” she groaned. “I don’t know why I listen to anything that comes out of Elsie’s mouth.”

Their conversation pivoted, moving on quickly from the new boy who allegedly talked to shadows. You looked around the dining hall again, no longer looking for someone made of shadow, but anyone that seemed unfamiliar.

You knew all these faces, though, whether you wanted to or not. There were only so many children in the camp, let alone ones that were eleven. Your eyes snagged on a boy that was in your age group across the hall, his hair wild and eyes fiery as he climbed up on the table, his voice carrying throughout the entire hall.

It sounded like the beginning of a challenge—Mother only knew what for. Cassian had always been wild and a little unpredictable. He was never mean to you like some of the other boys, though, so you tried to ignore his antics. Still—if you were new and at your dining table sat Cassian, you might hide away too.

So you stood up, pocketing your apple and tossing the rest of your lunch in the bin, the girls at your table not even batting an eye as you slipped outside the dining hall. Fresh snow was falling in big flakes from the sky, a fresh layer sticking to the stone path. You weren’t supposed to be outside, but you still had ten minutes until the end of lunch, and you wanted to find this boy.

Maybe it was foolish to seek out an Illyrian boy on your own—a boy that spoke to shadows, no less—but there was a coil inside your chest rapidly growing tighter the longer you thought about him. Every step you took along the wall of the mess hall pushed a little more air out of your lungs, and you needed to find him.

A black inky tendril darted in front of your face, just barely grazing your nose as you rounded the back corner of the building. You reared back, your feet slipping from beneath you on the freshly fallen snow. You had never been the most graceful child—an embarrassment, according to your mother—so it was no surprise when you fell down into the cold, wet snow instead of regaining your balance.

There would be no hiding where you had wandered off to during lunch now.

“I’m so sorry!”

Your head snapped up to find a wide-eyed boy standing over you. His hair was dark and unkempt, the strands so long it was starting to curl around his ears. His face was flushed a light shade of red, and his eyes were a bright hazel that shined with embarrassment. He held his hand out to you, his wings twitching behind him as he waited for you to take it.

You slipped your hand into his, the skin rough and jagged in a way that made your breath hitch—then the coil that was tight in the center of your chest sprung free, and you could finally take a full breath again. You stared at him as he pulled you to your feet, his skin warm despite standing in the dreadful cold. Your skin tingled, and your entire body felt shimmery—like fresh snow beneath rays of sunlight—yet you somehow felt overwhelmingly warm where your heart beat hard in your chest.

He was very tall. Taller than most of the boys in your year—maybe even taller than Cassian, who was the tallest of them all, and very proud of that fact. Standing in front of you, you barely rose past his shoulders. 

“I’m sorry,” the boy said again, his voice much softer. He let your hand drop, then tucked his hands behind his back.

Your eyes flit down to your cold and limp hand, thinking about the way his skin looked like it had been gnawed on by a beast in the forest. You almost made a comment, almost asked one of your many questions that your mother reprimanded you for time and time again—then you saw them. Dark yet translucent tendrils of…something, creeping out from behind his back, some slithering over his shoulder like a territorial pet.

Shadows.

They were shadows.

Your ogling must have been obvious, because the boy looked down at his shoulder, then back at you, somehow even more embarrassed. “They won’t hurt you,” he promised, his voice quiet and a little desperate.

It was strange. Strange for a boy to tell you he was not a threat, strange that he cared. Strange, because most of the boys in this camp seemed to relish in doing the exact opposite. Most of them saw your separation in year ten as a reminder of who was better, stronger, smarter—and it was certainly not the females.

“You’re the new boy,” you said, voice trembling a bit from the cold.

The boy blinked.

You wiped your hands on your pants, drying them of the melted snow before tucking them beneath your arms. “They say you talk to shadows.”

His face scrunched up at that, just a little, just enough to make your lips quirk up at the side. Then his shoulders fell. “I guess,” he muttered, then took a step back.

“That seems cool,” you hurried out, stepping a little too close to him, but he didn’t move away. You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly feeling dry. It was likely the cold. “I was looking for you, actually.”

He eyed you warily, and suddenly you felt like the strange one—which, maybe you were, in his defense. You stepped back, your chest aching as his warmth vanished. You reached into your coat, pulling out the apple you had smuggled outside. You thrust it toward him, the movement awkward and hasty. The boy just stared at it.

Your face suddenly felt warm.

You shook the apple in front of him. “For you.”

He glanced between your eyes and your outstretched hand, seconds stretching between you before he finally took the apple. “Thank you?”

“Y/N,” you offered, though you weren’t sure if he was really asking. You shrugged, taking another step back. “Maybe don’t skip lunch anymore,” you said. “The girls at my table have already noticed, at least.”

He held the apple with both hands, nearly covering it. He looked down, avoiding your gaze.

You bit your lip, knowing your time was running out and he probably wanted you to leave him be, and yet— “I know Cassian is loud—like, really loud.” The boy’s eyes snapped back to you. “But he’s sort of nice? In a weird way. He won’t do anything too bad.”

He frowned. “He stole my gloves.”

You winced. “He…does that.” You scrunched up your nose, gesturing to the hall. “He’s better than the rest of them.” The wind was starting to whip at the damp legs of your pants, and you were beginning to tremble. “I should go.” You waved, regretting it immediately, then turned around.

“Azriel,” he said.

You turned on your heel, eyes wide. “What?”

He blinked once, then said, “I’m Azriel.”

You grinned, your eyes crinkling up at the edges and your mouth stretched wide. “Bye, Azriel.”

~ ~ ~

“Are we going to talk about it?”

The thud of your fist against the leather bag was answer enough.

Nesta appeared at the other side of the bag, bracing it as it started to swing. You met her eyes briefly, her gaze cold and impatient. You hit the bag again, a huff falling from her as she replanted her feet. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

She rolled her eyes. “Why must you all be so dramatic?” You hit the bag again, this time the angle off, and pain raced through your hand. “Y/N,” she said, her voice firm. You glared at her, holding your hand against your chest. “Did you know?”

You considered playing coy, acting aloof, but it would only get you so far with Nesta. You started to unwrap the leather wound around your hands, admitting softly, “Yes.”

She blinked, her shock evident. “I thought—” She shook her head. “You left so suddenly.”

“A headache overcame me.” You inspected the redness of your knuckles, your joints aching as you flexed your hand. It had been over two hours since you came up here, the sun only just now creeping up over the horizon.

“A headache,” she deadpanned.

You shrugged, walking over to your pile of things on the floor. You sat down, dropping the leathers beside you as you drank from your water.

“And Azriel—did he help you with this headache?”

Your head snapped to her. “What?”

She rolled her eyes again. “He left dinner not even a minute after you, then never returned. Do you think us so dense—”

“Azriel did not follow me,” you told her, making your confusion clear in your tone. The sound of a door opening and closing behind you as you took to the sky echoed in your mind. “Why would he?”

Nesta, for once, was at a loss for words.

Why would he not check on his friend?

Why would he follow you home from dinner, a female who was not his mate?

It was a back and forth you could spin in circles for an eternity if you let her, and you had no energy for her interrogations.

Your breath caught in your throat as a dark tendril gently slid down your arm, curling around your wrist as you lowered your water. Nesta watched the shadow silently, the two of you holding your breath as Azriel walked through the doorway, then froze.

He glanced at Nesta, then his eyes fell on you. “Good morning,” he said softly, hesitantly. You needed to get out of here.

You waved the shadow away, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. “Good morning,” you said back, gathering your things in your arms before standing. “I was just leaving, so I’ll leave you be.”

Azriel blinked, but he didn’t say another word, even as you felt his gaze follow you all the way to the corridor, and you were finally free of his attention.

~ ~ ~

“Hi.”

Azriel flinched so violently that he stumbled back into the tree behind him, a dusting of snow falling down around him. His head whipped to you, where you were standing sheepishly at his side.

“Sorry,” you said, but still took a step forward. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Which was true, but you also had enough sense to realize that he was lost in his own world, given he was standing still in the middle of the forest alone.

His face was flushed as his bewildered eyes sharpened into a glare. He brushed the snow from his shoulders as he stood up straight, and his shadows wiggled around his feet as if they too had been startled. “What are you doing out here?” he asked.

You raised your brows, a bit of indignation crawling up your spine. He was the one loitering on the edge of your clearing. At least, you considered it yours. No one else had ever stumbled upon you here when you managed to slip away from your mother for the evening. “What are you doing here?” you threw back.

His face somehow turned redder.  “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered.

You looked him up and down, noticing the thick flying leathers that looked slightly too small for his body. The boys always got a new set of leathers when they turned ten, but never the girls.

Azriel must have been given a poorly sized spare when he arrived in camp.

You watched the shadows slinking up his body, blurring the edges of him into darkness, as if they might engulf him to save him from your prying gaze. You took another step closer, barely a foot between you now, and Azriel eyed you warily as you stuck your palm out.

A tendril of shadow immediately broke away from his side, skittering closer to you to wrap around your wrist and weave in between your fingers. You giggled at the cool and silken touch that was unlike anything you had ever felt. They were sort of cute.

“I’m sorry,” Azriel rasped, dragging your attention back to him. “I’m getting better at controlling them.” His shadows pulsed once, as if disgruntled by that, and Azriel grimaced. “They won’t hurt you.”

He had said the same thing the first time you met him, and again when you bumped into him once on your way home. “I know,” you said simply, rather than remind him of his past assurances.

You dropped your hand, content to let the shadow brush over your skin as it pleased. “I heard Cassian talking to Rhys a few days ago,” you said, curiosity seeping from your voice. You met Azriel’s eyes again, who already looked like he was dreading whatever might follow your sentence. “They said something about flying lessons?”

Azriel looked away, and the shadow around your hand darted back to him. “They’re teaching me,” he murmured.

“Teaching you?”

Azriel looked pained. “Yes.”

“What do you mean?”

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back.

“I don’t know how.”

“To fly?” you asked, incredulity clear in your voice.

Azriel nodded slowly, the movement forced and stiff.

“Oh.”

You had your suspicions that Rhys and Cassian were talking about Azriel. The three had formed an unexpected trio since Azriel arrived a few weeks ago, though you weren’t sure they were friends. Rhys and Cassian seemed to be antagonizing Azriel at every turn, yet they seemed to close ranks around him when others tested him.

You had also heard from some girls at lunch that Azriel was apparently living with them.

Azriel rubbed at his nose, and only then did you realize that his hands were covered by black leather gloves that looked nicer than the rest of his garments. “Cassian and Rhysand don’t know how to keep their mouths shut,” he grumbled.

You winced. “Are they good teachers?” you asked, trying and probably failing to hide your skepticism. 

He gave you a dubious look. “No.”

You pursed your lips. “Well I could teach you.”

Azriel's face flushed red again, and he started shaking his head. “No—no. I don’t need anyone’s help—”

“I was coming out here to fly anyway,” you interrupted him. You shrugged when he finally met your eyes. “I always come here—or, there—” You pointed to the clearing through the trees where there was a small cliff you liked to jump from. Azriel turned to look. “To fly by myself. I wouldn’t mind a friend.”

Azriel’s head snapped toward you again. Your face warmed. “I would like that,” he said softly.

You smiled, then grabbed his hand, your chest feeling warm with excitement. “Let’s go.”

You dragged him through the trees at an awkwardly fast pace that was on the verge of becoming a run, and when you tripped over a branch sticking out of the snow, Azriel caught you before you could fall. The two of you giggled as he pulled you upright, and you kept moving toward the clearing.

The sun was bright once you were free from the canopy of the woods, a few rare beams breaking through the overcast sky and making the snow shimmer. You dragged Azriel up the hill that led to a cliff—if you could really call it that. It would certainly hurt if you fell, but you wouldn’t die. You thought.

You dropped Azriel’s hand as you neared the ledge, looking down at the snow covered ground. You turned to smile at him, but looked less than thrilled as he looked out over edge. “Please do not shove me off this ledge—”

“What?” you exclaimed. “Who said anything about shoving you off a cliff?”

He rolled his eyes. “Do you remember who my teachers are?”

You huffed. “Well we’re not doing that.” You reached for his hand again, pulling him closer so that he toed the edge with you. His muscles were tight with tension, so you gave his hand a squeeze as you smiled at him. “We’re going to jump.”

Azriel tried to jerk away, but you kept your grip firm on his hand. “How is that any different—”

You shook your joined hands. “I won’t let go, for one.”

He immediately shook his head. “I’m bigger than you. I’ll just pull you down and then we’ll both get hurt.”

“I’m stronger than I look,” you argued. “I can manage a soft landing for both of us just fine.” Maybe not soft, but you could cushion the fall if you had to probably. “But it doesn’t matter because you’re going to glide, not fall.”

His throat bobbed, but he didn’t argue. “How?”

“Spread your wings.” You did just that, your wings stretching out a little wider than necessary, but you wanted to make a point.

Azriel seemed to chew the inside of his cheek before nodding, then he took in a deep breath and stretched his wings wide behind him. His wings were larger than yours, a deeper shade of purple than your more rustic hue. They caught a ray of sunlight, and the delicate membrane shimmered. He squeezed your hand, and you had to think before you could remember what to say next.

“Good,” you said, and you leaned forward a bit, your wing brushing with his.

Azriel sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry—”

You waved him off, not minding at all if his wings brushed against yours. He was your friend. You trusted him. He wasn’t mean or loud or aggressive like the other boys in the camp. “It’s fine, Azriel.”

He nodded, and he didn’t let go of your hand.

“We’re going to jump, and we’re going to leave our wings out like this. They will catch the wind, if we fall forward a bit, and then we just glide. There is plenty of space. That’s it.”

“Okay,” he agreed, his voice slightly shaky. He nodded, then said again, “Okay, I can do that.”

You grinned, nodding excitedly. “Ready?” you asked, dragging him even closer to the edge, the toes of your boots hanging over. 

“Yes,” he whispered. 

“Now!” you yelled, and the two of you jumped, and your bodies both instinctively leveled out with the ground, the wind whipping around your face as you grew closer to the Earth.

Then your body jerked, and the wind was pushing against the membrane of your wings, and you were soaring across the clearing.

Azriel laughed beside you, a smile stretching across his face as the two of you flew over the wide expanse of the mountain clearing. “This is amazing!” he yelled.

“I told you it would be fine!”

He squeezed your hand, closing his eyes as the wind washed over his face, and it was the most joy you had seen on his face since you found him behind the mess hall weeks ago.

Unfortunately, you were paying far too much attention to the boy beside you and not to your surroundings, and the rapidly nearing tree line in your peripheral made you jerk upright, stealing any of the momentum the two of you had found.

Azriel’s eyes flew open as you flapped your wings haphazardly, trying to right the two of you unsuccessfully, and then you were just trying to soften the inevitable fall. The two of you landed in a plume of snow, tumbling over one another with the force of your fall. You eventually came to a stop, Azriel’s body covering your own.

Your body ached, and you knew it would hurt tomorrow, but you seemed to be fine otherwise. Azriel’s shoulders were shaking, his face hidden from your view, and your stomach dropped. “Azriel, I’m so sorry. Cauldron, are you okay? I should—”

Azriel was laughing. He pushed himself up, still hovering over you as he finally met your eyes. He looked fine. He looked more than fine.

He rolled off of you, laying next to you in the snow as he gave into his uncontrollable laughter. You started laughing too, even if moments ago you were terrified he was hurt or that he might hate you now.

“That was amazing,” he said around his laughter. “Thank you.”

Your laughter slowed, small chuckles still escaping from your lips as you turned to meet his sparkling eyes. “What are friends for?”

~ ~ ~

“You’re avoiding me.”

The spoon in your hand clanked against your mug, some of the tea sloshing over the side. You took in a sharp breath, then reached for a towel to wipe it up.

“It’s the middle of the night, Azriel.”

“That is not what I meant, and you know it.” He walked closer, his hip leaning against the counter only a few feet away from you. “Have I done something?” he asked, a bit quieter.

You finally looked at him, your hand still clutching the towel as you leaned on the counter. You hated the way your chest ached every time you saw him. Before, your heart had ached from feeling so overwhelmingly full—a tightness caused by feeling so much and with desperate hope to one day give it all to him. Now, your chest ached from an emptiness that had hollowed you out, your heart and soul dark and weathered and still soaked with love, but a love that now faced the agonizing reality of never being seen.

“No,” you said, quietly, after too many beats had passed. You looked down at the towel in your hand, clutching the fabric tight as you forced yourself to take just one full breath. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Azriel.”

Your breath caught in your throat when his hand grabbed yours resting on the counter, gently pulling the towel from your grasp. His thumb brushed over the back of your knuckles, the two of you staring at your hands on the counter. “Are you okay?” he asked softly.

His voice made your heart ache. The way he softened the syllables as if they might not pierce the fragile cloak of night around you. The way his questions were always gentle, genuine, and entirely sincere—spoken in tones that always made your defenses disintegrate.

“I haven’t been sleeping,” you answered quietly, finally daring to meet his eyes. You shrugged, as if that might knock the guilt of the half-truth off your shoulders. “I’m tired, that's all.”

Azriel’s grip on your hand tightened. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Because you have broken my heart. Because you have truly done nothing wrong and still I am left poorly gluing shredded pieces of myself back together that fall apart every time I’m near you.

“It’s nothing. Really, I’ll be fine.”

Azriel looks like he does not believe you. He doesn’t believe you, not a word that has come out of your mouth. You are admittedly a terrible liar—although you have mastered the art of evasion and half-truths over centuries of secret pining—and Azriel knows this. He knows you.

He’s also the Spymaster of the Night Court, of course.

He seems to take pity on you, for whatever reason. He blows a puff of air out of his nose as he looks away, slowly pulling his hand from yours to rest it on the counter. The inches between you now feel like an endless chasm.

“I am visiting my mother tomorrow,” he tells you quietly.

You frown. “Tomorrow?” you repeat. “Why didn’t you tell—”

Your words die in your throat when you meet his gaze, a pointed look staring back at you that makes a tendril of shame curl low in your stomach. You swallow hard, looking away. “She’ll enjoy that,” you say softly.

“Do you want to come with me?”

Your heart stutters. His eyes are wide and pleading, begging you for an answer you cannot fathom why he wants.

“I would like it if you came with me,” he adds softly. His shadows slowly slink out from behind him, curling around your ankles and moving up your calves.

Their touch is light and silken, leaving goosebumps in their wake. It’s meant to be a soothing touch, a comfort you had taken from them for centuries. You had never feared Azriel’s shadows, not even when they knocked you on your ass that first day you met.

Their familiar strokes now left your heart racing, a coil of panic unfurling in your chest as you thought of what he was asking, as you thought of all you stood to lose in a handful of time that was quickly slipping through your fingers.

He had found his mate.

Moments like these, intimate conversations in the dark between shared breaths, were now fleeting. Tendrils of shadows that had felt like an extra limb were no longer yours. You were a fixture in his life that was fading, your presence now blurry and confusing and ephemeral.

He was a pillar in your life that was cracking, bits and pieces crumbling as time pressed in. It was inevitable that the bond would snap for her. It was inevitable that Azriel would devote himself to his mate. It was only a matter of time.

You swallowed hard, acid burning the back of your throat. You reached clumsily for your tea, your fingers bumping harshly against the handle, sending more liquid sloshing over the sides. You cursed, grabbing for the towel again at the same time Azriel did.

His fingers covered yours, and you yanked your hand away within a second.

He blinked, a flash of hurt passing through his eyes for the briefest of moments.

You stepped back, eyes darting between the spilled tea, Azriel’s hand on the towel, and Azriel’s soft and confused eyes. You shook your head once, a motion you barely realized you were making before you choked out, “I can’t.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, batting away a shadow that had come up to stroke your cheek. “I can’t,” you said again.

“Y/N—”

Forcing yourself to meet his eyes, willing your voice not to tremble, you plastered on a forced and painful smile as you said, “I can’t go with you, I mean. I’m sorry.” You glanced once more at the spilled tea, slowly spreading across the granite countertop. “Send your mother my love.”

Azriel looked like he wanted to argue, to ask again, but you could not bear to hear another invitation. You could not bear to see misplaced disappointment on his face when you declined again.

So you walked away, your sock clad feet slipping once on the stone floor in your haste, Azriel’s arm shooting out to catch you. You sniffed once, your skin flushed and cheeks searing, moving out of his hold and disappearing down the dimly lit hallway.

Sleep evaded you the rest of the night, the image of spilled tea and drooping wings and glistening hazel irises haunting your every thought.

~ ~ ~

a/n: I will try to do a taglist for this series! let me know if you want to be added :)

You laced your hand with his. He exhaled like you’d taken a weight off his lungs. That was the first lesson: if there was a way to touch you, Azriel would find it. A palm on your back, the curl of his fingers through your belt loops as you reached for something high, a thumb pressed to the hinge of your jaw like he could unknit the day with a patient circle.

He said your name when he did it, always—like he was reminding the world who it needed to be gentle with.

⸻

In the training ring, he was worse.

You’d be hot-cheeked and stubborn, hair escaping whatever you’d tried to pin it with, stance a fraction off because tired lived in your knees that day. He’d circle you slow, all margin and intention, and when he stepped in to adjust your hand on the hilt he did it like you were glass and he was choosing where the light should go through.

“Lower,” he said, voice low enough to make your bones listen. His thumb pressed at the base of your fingers; you felt the calluses, the honesty of them. “There.”

When you refused to yield an inch, when your jaw went iron and the old anger showed its teeth, he didn’t match it. He never matched it. His hands stayed soft as instruction, even when his mouth didn’t. You ended up panting and irritated and victorious by degrees—and when you dropped the blade at last, he took your wrist and kissed the hammering pulse there in apology for every hard thing the world asked of you.

“Az,” you said, warning curling the syllable into a grin.

“What?” He blinked, too innocent. “I’m grounding my partner.”

“By kissing my wrists?”

“Effective,” he said, and you hated that he wasn’t wrong.

⸻

At the market, he threaded his fingers through yours and let his shadows trail the rest. The crowd had a way of swallowing edges; Azriel had a way of finding them again and leading you through with his hand warm and sure in yours. He could be impossible about it, possessive in the gentlest way, tugging you closer when the press grew too much, palm sliding to your waist like you were the only quiet in a noisy square.

“Do you need out?” he asked once, mouth near your ear, his breath a breeze that smelled like spice and something darker.

“No,” you said, even though you did. He didn’t argue. He just tucked you in against him, put his hand between your shoulder blades, and let the world move around you like water around a stone.

“Tell me if you change your mind,” he said.

“I will.”

“I know,” he answered, as if that knowing were the point.

⸻

After hard missions, he didn’t ask permission so much as offer it like a towel. “Please,” he’d say quietly, eyes already on your hands to check if they shook. “Let me.”

He took your gear with careful fingers. He unfastened buckles like he was undoing knots in a child’s hair. In the bath he gathered your hair away from your face and washed the wind and ash out of it, palms sure, not lingering anywhere that wasn’t welcome. If you leaned into him he made that soft sound in his throat like a man allowed to survive. If you flinched, he adjusted by inches until the water remembered how to be warm and you remembered how to let yourself lean.

“Gentle,” you breathed, and he nodded as if you’d told him a truth instead of a request.

“Always.”

Even when he was angry, even when fear made his voice go thin as wire, his hands stayed like this—quiet, reverent, repeating the promise because it helped both of you believe it.

⸻

You discovered, by accident, that Azriel made the smallest, most ruinous sounds when you put your hands on him with the same care he used on you.

It started with a storm. The shutters rattled, the Sidra threw her voice against the bank, and you found him in the library all coiled restraint and terrible patience at a table of maps. You didn’t speak. You stepped behind his chair and slid your palms over his shoulders—slow, steady, unhurried—and felt him exhale like a landing.

He tilted his head back, eyes closed, and made a breath, a rough noise that you wanted to gather and keep.

“Again,” he said, already wrecked.

You kneaded into muscle with the same focus you used on a knotty problem, thumbs pressing a line below his shoulder blades where his wings anchored. He shivered. The sound that fell out of him was quiet and honest and helpless in a way you’d never heard in a battlefield.

“Az,” you murmured, half laughter, half awe. “You make the softest sounds.”

“Do not,” he said, scandalized, “use that tone on my noises.”

You raked your nails lightly down, a cat’s affection. He made another one. You smiled into his neck. “Oh, I’m going to be unbearable.”

“Y/n,” he warned, except it wasn’t a warning. It was your name, offered up with his throat bared.

⸻

There were nights he came home with the kind of gravity in his shoulders that made you afraid to touch him at all. That’s when you learned how to offer your hands instead of your solutions.

He’d stand in the doorway of your room like a penitent. You’d open your arms like a church does, without question, and he’d come to you with every apology he couldn’t say yet written into the way his palms found your waist, your ribs, the back of your neck. You held his face the way you wished someone had taught him to hold his own.

“You’re here,” you said, as if it were the easiest truth in the world.

“I’m here,” he echoed, relief making him almost lightheaded. “Can I—”

“Yes,” you said, before he could finish. “Whatever it is, yes.”

He always asked. Please let me touch you like this. Even in the urgency that followed—breath hitched, clothes in the way, the two of you moving together with that old, inevitable draw—his hands never forgot how to be kind. If heat ran high, his palms stayed careful. If you had him on the edge of sense, his thumbs still traced soothing circles on your hipbones, guiding you both into joy, into relief, into the soft, brave work of getting free by being held.

And when you reached back for him—when you mapped him with the same reverence, learning every line of his shoulders, the warm flex of his stomach, the fall of his throat—Az lost his composure like a man grateful to be allowed to put it down.

He made quiet, helpless noises into your mouth. His breath broke when your hand spread over his ribs. His whole body answered when your palm slid between his shoulder blades and pressed him closer like you were reminding him he got to choose closeness, too.

He went feral for softness. Yours undid him most.

⸻

Once, after an argument that should have gone worse than it did, you stood in the hall, both furious and half-smiling at the stubbornness of the other. Pride was a wall you could both scale for sport, but neither of you wanted to live on the far side of it.

He looked wrecked in the low lamplight—explain-it-to-me eyes, jaw tight, careful because anger had always ended badly in the rooms of his life. He didn’t reach for you. He held his hands like you’d taught him: visible, steady, waiting.

“I’m still mad,” you said.

“I know.”

“And I still want you to touch me.”

He went very still. “Y/n.”

“Do you—” you tried again, steadier, “do you want to?”

He didn’t move for a beat; you saw the bite of restraint in his shoulders, the way he feared taking more than he was offered. And then you saw him choose trust. He stepped in and put his palm to your cheek, thumb sweeping that careful arc you’d grown addicted to, and the anger in both of you folded into something you could hold without being cut.

“Thank you,” he said, and meant it like a prayer. “For telling me how to love you.”

“Don’t thank me,” you said, mouth softening against his wrist. “Just keep doing it.”

“Gladly.”

⸻

He would reach for your hand in the most inconvenient places: mid-briefing, walking through the artists’ quarter, on a roof made of old slate while the city breathed underneath. He kept your fingers interlaced as if you were a tether he refused to misplace. Sometimes you tangled both hands and he leaned his forehead to yours in the open air like scandal lived elsewhere.

“Addicted?” you teased once, and he didn’t even pretend otherwise.

“Completely,” he said, like the word tasted good on his tongue.

⸻

On the rare mornings you woke earlier than him, you took inventory with your hands. The scar that cut the brow you’d kissed a hundred times. The soft place under his jaw that made his breathing change. The ridiculous, lovely mouth that had learned to smile first when he looked at you. He pretended to sleep and failed to hide the small exhale you never stopped falling in love with.

“You’re bad at pretending,” you whispered.

“I am trying,” he murmured, eyes still closed, smiling into the pillow.

You slid your palm down the long, warm line of his back. He made a sound so sweet your ribs ached.

“You like my hands,” you said, smug and dangerously fond.

“Worship,” he corrected, opening his eyes at last. He caught your wrist and pressed his mouth to your pulse with the single-minded focus that had made you survive a dozen kinds of nights. “Please keep touching me.”

“Bossy.”

“Begging,” he countered, and did not stop kissing your wrist until you laughed and gave him your other hand too.

⸻

It wasn’t always heat. Sometimes it was the plain, holy work of being two people in a life that didn’t apologize for being hard. The way he reached for you at the end of a crowded dinner, pinky hooking yours under the table as if he could pull you toward the quiet you both wanted. The way you tucked your hand into his sleeve on cold walks so your fingers would stay warm against his skin. The way he counted your breaths with the pads of his fingers splayed over your ribs when nightmares came hunting and left with nothing because your name, said in his wrecked, reverent voice, was a blade they didn’t recognize.

He loved you with his hands. He learned you with them, too—the little shiver you couldn’t hide when he traced the knob of your spine under your shirt, the way your breath hitched when his palm cupped the back of your neck and urged your mouth up to his. He kept a private litany of your soft sounds and the places he could earn them. It wasn’t conquest; it was devotion.

And when you gave that devotion back—when your fingers followed the arch of his wing where it met muscle, when you pressed careful kisses into the battered line of a scar he used to avoid showing—Az made those quiet, beautiful noises he’d never made for anyone else and looked at you like you were the answer he’d been afraid to write down.

“Again,” he would say, blinking hard like a man surfacing into light. “Please.”

“Always.”

He believed you. He touched you like he did.

⸻

People called him a thousand names. Shadowsinger. Spymaster. Knife. Ghost.

In your mouth, he was simpler: “Az.”

And he looked, every time. The hands that had held a hundred kinds of danger softened like they were relearning how to hold a miracle. Even when he was angry. Even when you were. Even when the world deserved to be taken by the throat.

He never took you by anything but the hand.

What you learned, between storms and markets and rooms that needed doors locked, was this: the fiercest thing he did was be gentle with you. Even when desire ran high, even when the bed asked for a little ruin—his palms stayed soft, his fingers coaxed instead of commandeered, his touch sang here, here, you’re safe, you’re wanted, stay with me. And when you turned that gentleness on him, when you ran your hands slow and sure over the body that had won a war and lost one and kept living anyway—he came apart like a man finally allowed to.

He made the softest sounds into your mouth. He whispered please without shame and thank you without pride and your name with a devotion that made you ache.

Addicted to touching you? Of course he was. He’d learned long ago that some salvations arrive in quiet, open hands.

He took them. He kept them. He kept you.

And every time he found your fingers in the dark and laced them with his, you felt the vow he didn’t have to speak, resting warm as a pulse across your knuckles:

Always, always, like this.

⸻

The inner circle wasn’t supposed to know. 

Not yet anyway. 

Azriel had kept you under wraps not that it was that difficult honestly.

Keeping the knowledge of his mate hidden.

He’d been doing it for almost 5 years now. 

It all came to a stop however, when at Ritas there you were. 

In his clothing. His jacket while absolutely the statement piece of your outfit, wreaked of him. 

He wasn’t aware you would be here. 

Drunk. With your friends, surrounded by his smell. His shadows. 

It was Mor who noticed you first. 

Pointing out the shadows that you danced with and laughed with on the dance floor. 

Cassian and Rhys narrowed their eyes in suspicion, maybe he could pass it off as being tipsy. He wasn’t and they all knew that. 

You spotting him wasn’t part of his plan either, yet here you were walking towards him without a care in the world. 

Sitting down next to him, while his friends gave him looks that screamed that this would be a whole conversation for later. 

“I love your jacket!” 

It was Mor who baited you into talking first. 

The love in your eyes, the admiration, spoke before you could. 

“My mate.” The two words were all the confirmation that anyone needed. 

Feyra pried further asking how long you and your mate had been together, how you met. 

You don’t hesitate.

Not even for a second.

Lean into him like it’s instinct.

Like it’s home.

“Five years.”

Silence.

Not the comfortable kind.

Cassian chokes on his drink.

Rhys goes still.

Feyre’s eyes flicker just once to Azriel.

Then back to you.

“Five?” she repeats, softer now. Not accusing.

Just… processing.

You nod, like it’s obvious.

Like this isn’t a bomb you just dropped into the middle of their table.

“Just about,” you hum, adjusting the sleeve of the jacket. His jacket like you’ve worn it a hundred times.

Because you have.

Azriel hasn’t said a word.

Not one.

But his shadows……

They’ve lost whatever restraint they had left.

Curled around your wrists.

Your shoulders.

Your waist.

Possessive.

Familiar.

Mor leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes bright with something dangerously close to delight.

“And he didn’t tell us?”

Your brows pinch.

Confusion.

Real confusion.

“You didn’t tell them?”

You turn to him fully now.

Finally.

And there it is

That crack in his composure.

Small.

But devastating.

Azriel exhales.

Slow.

Measured.

Like he’s choosing every piece of this moment carefully.

“No,” he says quietly.

Rhys lets out a sharp breath half laugh, half disbelief.

“You hid your mate from us for five years?”

Azriel’s jaw ticks.

“It wasn’t your business.”

The words land flat.

Controlled.

But you feel it.

The tension threading through him.

Through the bond.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him.

Not upset.

Not really.

Just… curious.

“You said it was safer.”

And that…..

That shifts the room.

Feyre straightens.

Cassian’s humor drops.

Rhys’s eyes sharpen.

“Safer?” he echoes.

Azriel finally looks at you.

Really looks.

Like he’s weighing whether he regrets this.

Whether he regrets you being here.

He doesn’t.

You can feel that much.

Clear as day.

“I did,” he admits.

Your fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his shirt.

Grounding.

Familiar.

“Still is?”

Soft.

But it cuts.

Because now it matters.

Now there are witnesses.

Azriel’s shadows tighten around you.

Like a warning.

Like a promise.

“No,” he says.

And this time

There’s no hesitation.

The night continues with the group of friends giving rapid fire questions, rapid looks between the shadowsinger and you. 

When you finally seem to be getting tired, Azerial offers to walk you home. 

Taking the offer you wave goodbye to the group of warriors. 

The shadows circling your waist, and your legs being the last piece of confirmation that the group needed. Not that there was any doubt in the group about your confession. 

The night air is crisp against your face, the liquor finally waning out of your system some. 

Leaning into the spymaster for balance while walking, you break the silence. 

“I didn’t know you would be there tonight, I know you didn’t want them to know, I wasn’t…… I wasn’t thinking.” 

Azerial pulls you in tighter.

“They would have figured it out eventually.” 

You nod. Understanding that the male that holds you is quiet. 

“A thought for a thought?” 

The question gives Azerial pause. He laughs a bit. Pausing in the street just in front of the bridge. The place that you met. The place that the bond snapped five years ago. 

“Cassian is never going to let me live this down. Mor won’t either.” 

The words hung in the air. Azerial looks at you expectantly. Sucking in a breath you give him a thought of your own. 

“I wasn’t thinking, I know I said that already but…….” 

Your eyes drift up to the sky and then to the male in front of you. 

“It would be nice to be yours. Openly, in public. Finally be able to walk to the bakery in the morning with my hand in yours.” 

The words get softer as you speak. 

Azeral thinks for a moment letting the confession sink in. The weight of what you didn’t say sinking in. 

“I’m not ashamed of you, my love. Never. Not in this life or the next. I just……” 

His words die out, the whole emotions bit being something that the two of you have been working on. 

“I didn’t…. I don’t want you to become a target. There's nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you safe. No one that I wouldn’t wipe off the map to ensure your next breath.” 

You laugh causing his brows to fur in confusion. 

“Well…… I don’t think that you have to worry about your friends.” 

Azerial huffs out a small laugh. 

“I don’t.” 

He cups your cheek, smiling a bit. 

“Mor is going to drag you dress shopping now. Cassian will probably try to get you to spar. I don’t even want to think of the chaos that you and Feyra will get into.” 

You close your eyes leaning into his palm.

“That doesn’t sound that bad.” 

Azeral laughs, “Just you wait, it doesn’t sound bad now, but they can be…… a lot.” 

You don’t pull away.

Not from his hand.

Not from the warmth of him.

Even as the night settles around you, quiet and still. 

Different than before.

Azriel watches you.

Really watches you.

Like he’s seeing something he’s been avoiding, something he’s been denying himself.

“They’re going to want to meet you properly,” he says after a moment.

You open your eyes.

There’s no fear there.

Just curiosity.

“Okay.”

That word again.

Simple.

Steady.

Unshaken.

His brows pull together slightly.

“You keep saying that like it doesn’t change anything.”

You tilt your head.

“It doesn’t.” You smile a little, waiting a second before continuing, “It just means I don’t have to pretend anymore.”

That hits deeper than anything you said before.

Because you never complained.

Never pushed.

Never asked for more than what he gave.

Now, now you’re standing here, asking for something so small it shouldn’t feel this big.

His fingers flex slightly against your cheek.

“You should have said something.” He says the words quietly, sounding almost regretful.

You turn and kiss his palm, before looking back up at him. “You weren’t ready to hear it.”

No accusation.

Just the truth.

Azriel exhales slowly.

Like something in his chest just shifted out of place. Not out of place, settling. 

His forehead presses to yours again.

“If I had told them,” he murmurs, “this would have happened sooner.”

You hum lightly.

“Yeah.”

“And you would have been pulled into everything.”

“The horror,” you tease softly.

He huffs a quiet breath against your skin.

His other hand finds your hip, his shadows dance at your feet, and his wings curl just slightly around you. 

“You don’t understand what being tied to me means,” he says.

There’s no ego in it.

No arrogance.

Just… fact.

You don’t argue.

Don’t brush it off.

You just look at him.

“I understand enough, and I chose you anyway.” 

That lands.

Hard.

Because that’s the piece he never gave you.

The full picture.

The danger.

The weight.

You chose him without it.

Azriel goes still. Not with tension but with something quieter, heavier than before. Pulling away to look at you properly, his hand still on your cheek. 

“You didn’t choose,” he says slowly. “The bond….”

“I did.”

You cut him off, the interruption gentle but firm. 

“I stayed,” you continue.

“I didn’t run.”

Your hand comes up.

Resting over his where it still cups your face.

“I didn’t hide from you…… I waited,” you finish.

Soft.

But unshakable.

The truth of it settles between you.

Five years.

Of choosing him.

Every day.

Azriel’s breath leaves him slowly.

Like he’s just realizing the full weight of that.

Of you.

His thumb brushes your cheek again.

More deliberate this time.

More… certain.

“I’m done hiding you.”

It’s not loud.

Not dramatic.

But it means everything.

You search his face.

Just to be sure.

“Even when Cassian won’t shut up?”

A ghost of a smile, playing on your lips. 

“Especially then.”

“Even when Mor starts planning things I didn’t agree to?”

“She already has.”

You laugh softly.

“Even when Rhys starts asking scary High Lord questions?”

His expression shifts.

Just slightly.

More serious.

“He will.”

You shrug slightly “I’ll survive.”

Azriel studies you for a long moment.

Like he’s committing this version of you to memory.

The one who isn’t hidden.

Isn’t tucked away in quiet corners and late nights.

The one who stands beside him, openly and unafraid. 

His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck.

Gentle.

But grounding.

“Come on,” he murmurs.

“Let’s get you home.”

You smile.

But you don’t move right away. Staying in the moment just a second longer before stepping back and turning to stand besides him. 

As the two of you start to walk you brush your hand to his, a silent question in the gesture. 

Azriel stills.

For half a heartbeat. Until you feel his hand tightens around yours. 

Azriel groaned as he tightened the fur that hung around his body. The black dire wolf pelt keeping out more of the wind than he cared to admit. His eyes squinting as he looked around, looking for any markers he could find. For the first time since he was a teen, he was stuck in the icy mountain he once called home. There was no way they could all continue like this. Flying had no longer been an option due to the wind; it would be a death wish to even attempt to use his numb wings.

He was quite sure if he spread them, they would drop icicles or break like one.

They had lost the chimera's a long time ago, the snow making it hard to catch up since they were so attuned to this type of weather. (Unlike them, he thought.)

The snow continued to whisk around them as they all stood there, Cassian's wings flexing as the wind the membrane he tried so hard to keep warm. He groaned as a shiver fought through his body. Snow falling off of his hood as he kept ahold of the fabric. "There's no way we can even get to Rosehall like this, let alone any of the camps!" Azriel watched as Cassian spoke, a frown tugging at his lips as he thought.

"That's even if they had room to house us. The camps are becoming overpopulated, not enough resources." As Azriel spoke his breath came out in a foggy cloud, his hands shoved under the pelt he wore.

Rhysand shuffled, trying to shield his eyes as he turned, looking for anything.

Cassian squinted, this now blue lips pressed into a thin line as he began to trudge up and bat snow off of something oddly sign-like. Crouching to wipe off the white. Azriels eyes locked into some lights in the distance, the storm clearing up for a little before a large rush of wind hit them. Cassian let out a grunt as he fell over, face now shoved into the snow before he got up and yelled in frustration.

"Stupid Illyria! Stupid snow, stupid mountain!" Cassian kicked the sign, his breath coming out in quick fog now that he shivered even more. The wet snow soaking into his hair and dripping down into his coat and onto his leathers. "Where even it there a village that's willing to take us in! Not y'know, Gut us!?" Cassian rubbed his arms. Watching as Azriel rolled his eyes.

"I see lights." Azriel piped up, feet already up and moving to make his way toward what seemed to be a village, his bottom lip shivering as the other two picked up the pace behind him.

Azriel side eyed the sign, some old language carved into the rotten wood. The small egg burnt into it made him sigh. He knew exactly where they were now.

"Do we know where we are!?" Rhysand eventually caught up, only a couple of steps behind the shadowsinger. A hand hovering over his face as he spoke. Azriel's wings flinched slightly, as if nervous by the question. A small grumble left the taller male, face grim as he kept approaching.

He truly didn't want it to come to this, but what would happen to the three of them if they didn't find shelter now? Surely the snow would get to them within the next hour, and it wasn't like the caves on Illyria were empty. Monsters lurked in nearly every dark corner. Going to one of them purposefully would be just as bad as stripping in the snow.

"It's a small village called 'HearthDale'. I didn't realize it was this close." Rhysand raised a brow, huffing carefully as the snow crunched below him.

"The DragonBorne village? I thought we wanted to live, Azriel."

Rhys and Cassian side eyed one another as Azriel failed to respond; a small shrug was all Cassian could offer as he sped up the pace. Laughing gently when they approached a small porch. The wood creaking under their boots as they made their way up. Azriel knocked a couple of times. His wings stretching out now that some of the wind was gone. "Y/n? We need some assistance out here!" Cassian blinked, his body stiffening instinctively when a couple of large crashes rang through the inside of the house. Followed by some curse words in some old dead language.

Rhysand grabbed the handle of his knife. Expecting some resistance from whoever lived here. Soon enough, the door opened. A woman wearing what they could only call leathers opened the cabins door. Her bright orange eyes peering at all of them.

Rhysand had never actually seen a DragonBorne up close, but now that he did? He understood exactly why the war camps avoided them.

The woman had to have been a bit taller than them, her dark almost golden wings flaring out a bit as she regained balance. Tattoos sliding up her neck and down her arms. Sharp teeth and blackish colored skin on her hands.

She looked horrifying.

"Azriel?" The woman blinked a couple times before grabbing the shadowsinger and dragging him in, grumbling almost the same as he did. "Take off those leathers! You all will get hypothermia!" Her hair was wet, almost like she too had just gotten out of the storm. Cassian and Rhysand hesitantly began to strip of their jackets as she left the room, returning with some folded clothes. "Trudging through Illyria this time of year, the lot of you ought to be daft!" The woman practically shoved the clothes into Azriel's hands. Glaring daggers at him.

"Are you daft, Shadowsinger?" She raised a brow, crossing her arms expectingly.

Azriel looked at the clothes. Mumbling carefully. "No, we are not daft." She only glared harsher at him, letting out a hum before Azriel finally broke.

"Yes, we are daft." She nodded, her eyes rolling as she put their boots and jackets away in a closet. "I cannot believe you all forgot just how horrible the weather is this season. Not only are beasts in their mating seasons, but the storms are worsening quickly. You are daft!" She scowled at all of them before walking into the living room and leaving them to change.

Cassian finally relaxed, carefully rubbing his wings in hope he could feel them one more, completely dumbfounded by the woman's confidence. Scolding the night court officials like they were below her? Who does something like that. He gently nudged Azriel's shoulder with his own. Looking down at the undressed Illyrian.

"Who's the hothead? She knows you right?" Azriel just let out a hum, jumping up a bit to get the sweatpants on. his hands already moving to tie the strings.

"Well- it's a bit hard to explain but awhile back I had to do some diplomacy between the camps and here, her father is the Falkor-" He looked over at his brothers. Blinking a couple of times as they tilted their heads at him.

"- the village leader? their lord?" Rhysand's mouth formed an oh before he nodded. Pulling the shirt over his head carefully and pushing his wings through the slits on the back, flexing them carefully as the membranes finally warmed up.

"So, you two know each other well enough to scold?" Rhysand fixed his shirt as he spoke, the loose fabric already warming him,

Azriel looked into the other room, zipping up the jacket that was given him and shoving his hands into the pockets. Sighing softly as he too found warmth. (Unlike Cassian, who was still shivering and rubbing his arms and hands like a child.) "Sort of, they don't pick people based off of knowing them for long... their dragons pick and choose who comes into their life." Rhysand finally fully turned towards Azriel.

"Dragons...?"

As if on cue a little runt of a dragon peaked through the doorway, its black wings shifting as it walked to the middle of the opening and screeched. Sitting there like a protector of the home. Azriel chuckled. Leaning down and letting the dragon sniff him.

"Hello Aragon, cranky, aren't you?" The little dragon let out a noise that resembled a growl, flapping its wings and walking up to Azriel's pants before climbing up to his shoulders quickly. Resting on his frame now. Cassian watched in bewilderment- that was a dragon. An actual, real life, dragon. The myth they told in Illyria to scare the children into training.

'If you don't do your morning trainings then a dragon will come and scoop your frail little body up!' He took a step back, him and Rhysand now standing shoulder to shoulder.

“You are hurt.” You say and approach him tenderly. “I am not here to hurt you, quite the opposite actually.” You tell him with a small hesitant smile. You clear your throat and remove the hood covering your face cool rain drops now sprinkling down it, “I am a traveling healer. Please let me help you.” 

“You don’t even know who I am?” He lets out with a huff of air. 

“That’s kind of how this works, sir.” You smile at him and finally reach him. You touch his side with a glow of your hand and he flinches back, his shadows wrapping around your wrists tightly. You raise your hands in awe looking at them, “It is my magic, it shouldn’t hurt too much it might just feel warm.” He looks uncertain and eventually nods his head. You place your hand back over his bloody side and he winces slightly in response, you whisper sorry but continue. 

After a few moments pass, you pull your hand back and let out a breath, “There. Good as new, solider.” 

He grins at you and clears his throat, “Thank you.” He waits a moment before continuing, eyebrows pinching, “This is dangerous what you do. Walking into alleys? That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.” 

You pull your hood back over your head, “Yes well, someone has to do it. Plus, with my magic, I have a pretty good intuition.” You wink and then walk out of the alley, shadows trailing after you. 

Later that year, on a mission in the Day Court, Azriel was wandering through a town during sunset when he overheard music. He paused for a moment looking for the source, he turned his head upward to see you sitting on a roof playing the guitar and humming a song. 

He disappeared into the shadows to only reappear behind you. Your strumming stops and you glance at him coyly over your shoulder. 

If you are surprised you don’t show it, and that for some reason eases Azriel’s nerves. 

“Hello, soldier.”  Is all you say to him and then go back to strumming a soft tune. 

“What makes you think I am a soldier?” He asks you and decides to sit next to you, legs dangling off the roof. 

“Hmm, for starters the outfit and weapons.” You respond with eyebrows raised. Your fingers just lightly pluck at the strings of your instrument while the shadows inspect it.

“Can I ask you for your name or is that too dangerous to know?” You ask him. 

“Azriel.” He tells you with a shake of his head his shadows resting on his shoulders, you give him your name in response. 

“I think soldier has more of a ring to it though,” you say to him, he nudges you with his shoulder and then you go back to playing and humming. 

You wake up with bleary eyes and a gasp. The first thing you see is a wooden ceiling and then the smell of herbs and oils. Your head turns to see an old friend sitting next to your bed, asleep mouth slightly open and face pressed against the wall. 

You let out a snort and that seems to wake him up. You cover your mouth laughing when he realizes you are awake. 

“Are you okay?” He asks you with a voice rough with sleep. You have a wide grin when you nod your head yes. 

“Thank you for saving me, Azriel.” You tell him softly. His eyes soften and he reaches for your hand, “Wi- could you tell me what happened?” He asks quietly. 

You explain what you could remember which was some thieves approached your small campground and wanted everything you had. When you refused to give them your healers bag that is when you ran and they chased you. 

“I had never been to Illyria before, I did not know you were from here.” You tell him.

He shakes his head, shadows twirling around him angrily. “I am sorry your first impression was shit.” You let out a sharp laugh at his crude language. 

“It is okay. Unfortunately, I have had much worse,” you say and lay back down on the pillow. You feel much better but there is still a lingering ache in your head. Azriel gets up, you assume to get the healer. You grab his wrist. 

“Please, stay,” you whisper almost afraid he might say no to you. Which he never has before. 

“Tell me about your life recently.” You ask, more like demand him.

“Hmm, my brothers are mated and happy.” He tells you. You turn your head on your pillow to look at him and notice his eyes look sad. “What’s wrong?” You whisper. 

He glances at you and shakes his head. “Nothing, just thinking about something one of my brothers said to me.”  You take note that he seems upset about whatever he is thinking about. 

“What did he say?” You ask semi-harshly and flush a little when you notice you sound overly invested. 

“Just that I need to back off Elain and find someone at a pleasure house.” You balk and snort out a laugh, having no idea who Elain is, you ask. 

“Ahh, the famous cursebreaker and her sisters. Okay, okay.” You nod seemingly deep in thought. “But she has a mate?” He winces. 

“Yeah, I said something stupid to warrant that reaction. But now they think I am head over heels in love with her.” Azriel says with a grumble, looking down at his hands in exasperation. 

“Well are you?” You ask bluntly.

“I thought I was but I think it is jealousy. My brothers are happy and mated to two of the sisters, in my brain it made sense for me to be mated to the third.” You wince but nod understandingly. 

“Yeah that it pretty stupid.” He glares at you deadpanned and you grin back.

“All I am saying is, if you force it or look for it in everyone you meet it’ll never happen.” You say tiredly dozing off back to sleep. 

Azriel looks at you warmly and brushes your hair off your forehead, when he knows you are deep in sleep he leaves to go to the dreaded family dinner, now feeling lighter than before. 

Elain startled, blinking at her reflection. "Sorry, sorry. Just thinking about a flower order."

Nesta’s eyes narrowed, but thankfully, she let it go. "Yes, flowers often make one blush," she said dryly. "Listen, I have to go. I'll be at your place in thirty." The call ended, and the soft silence of her room returned. Elain exhaled slowly, gathering the loose tendrils of hair framing her face, pinning them with a delicate gold clip.

Her hair had always been darker than her sisters’, richer in hue, threaded with strands of warm gold when the sun caught it just right. Her face, rounder and softer than Nesta’s sharp elegance or Feyre’s delicate beauty, was scattered with faint freckles she no longer tried to hide. She had always been the quiet one. The sweet one. The one who stayed in the background, smiling, accommodating, never quite fitting the sharp edges of the world her sisters seemed to stride through so easily.

She looked in the mirror one more time, slipping on a pair of delicate heels, adjusting the fall of her cobalt dress. The soft gold light from the setting sun brushed across her skin, casting everything in a warm, forgiving glow. The doorbell rang precisely as she pinned the last curl in place, of course, Nesta, punctual as ever.

They were headed to one of the bars Feyre’s new boyfriend owned, a rooftop place called Lunaris. A name that sounded like a dream, or a spell. Elain had always thought the bar looked beautiful when she glimpsed photos online, but it also seemed like the kind of place for people much cooler than she was. The kind of place where the beautiful, untouchable people drank cocktails that looked like they belonged in a painting. Apparently, Feyre’s new boyfriend—Rhysand, was his name—was that kind of man. The sort who owned restaurants and buildings and seemed to know everyone. That was about all Elain knew. That, and he had two brothers, adopted, Feyre had mentioned, both of whom she had been hinting Elain and Nesta might fall for. One, Feyre had said, was quiet. Observant. Brooding in a corner, unnervingly good at shooting sports, and about as talkative as a stone wall. Dark and mysterious were the words she’d used, her eyes gleaming with mischief. The other was his opposite. Loud, funny, a fighter who taught boxing classes when he wasn’t bouncing between various adventures. Boisterous and playful, she’d said fondly. "So, how soon until Feyre insists we date the brothers?" Elain asked lightly as they approached the sleek interior elevator, the muffled sound of laughter and music drifting down from the rooftop above.

"Absolutely the fuck not," Nesta said flatly, pressing the button with a perfectly manicured finger. "I do not have time for dating. Feyre is just being ridiculous. Listen, I have CrossFit in the morning, so I’m leaving at 8PM sharp. Got it?"

Elain laughed under her breath. "Yes, yes. 8PM, not a second later. I’ll meet you at the entrance."

The elevator dinged, a soft chime that sounded almost too elegant for its purpose, and the doors slid open, spilling them into another world.

The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming flowers and something rich and expensive, perfume, wine, the slow, luxurious spin of twilight captured in scent. Golden light cascaded across the rooftop, the last breath of the sun kissing the velvet of the evening. Overhead, soft glow orbs floated like trapped stars, and fairy lights draped in long, swooping arcs above their heads. Standing lamps shaped like crescent moons lined the walkways, casting silver pools of light across the dark flooring.

In the center, a sprawling black marble bar gleamed, veins of silver running through it like frozen lightning. Beneath the marble, a faint glow shimmered, like swirling, stardust caught in glass. Deep blue velvet couches were tucked into corners, crescent-shaped booths offering intimacy, while little tables that looked like dark pools of glass scattered the floor like stepping stones across a midnight river.

But what caught Elain’s attention first were the flowers.

Moonflowers, white roses, night-blooming jasmine, tucked into elegant planters along the edges, spilling scent into the air, softening the sharp beauty of the space with something living, something gentle. She drifted toward them without thinking, the pull of it instinctual, her fingers itching to reach out and touch the velvety petals. A shriek of joy snapped her attention back.

"You made it!" Feyre cried, launching herself at them and pulling both sisters into fierce hugs.

Nesta allowed it, her face composed and imperious in a fitted black pencil dress and towering Louboutins, not a hair or speck of lint out of place. Feyre, on the other hand, was glowing. Wearing a slinky black dress with high slits that revealed strong, tanned legs, she looked happier than Elain had ever seen her. Bright, alive in a way that no amount of fine clothes or fancy spaces could fake.

"Feyre, darling, these must be your sisters," a smooth, velvet-lined voice said.

Elain turned—and froze. The man standing beside Feyre was... magnificent. Dark, perfectly tousled black hair, striking violet eyes framed by thick lashes, golden-brown skin dusted with ink at the edges of his rolled-up sleeves. He was impeccably dressed, every line and detail of him sharp and deliberate, but that wasn’t what made her stare.

It was the way he looked at Feyre. Like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing. Like she was the sun itself.

Nesta, composed even in the face of male beauty, stepped forward, extending her hand in greeting. "Nesta," she said crisply. "And this is Elain."

But instead of shaking Nesta's hand, Rhysand took it, bowing slightly to press a kiss to her knuckles. And then, turning to Elain, he did the same, his mouth brushing lightly against her skin, a gesture so old-fashioned and charming she couldn't help but laugh.

Nesta’s expression was priceless, caught somewhere between scandalized and furious.

"Well, I don't think anyone has ever silenced Nesta before. You have my utmost respect, Rhysand," Elain said with a soft smile, amusement dancing in her voice. Feyre beamed, radiant with happiness.

"Please, call me Rhys," he replied easily, flashing a grin of perfect, dazzling white teeth.

But Elain barely heard him. Because out of the corner of her eye, she saw them—two men approaching, cutting through the golden light like a vision pulled straight from a fever dream.

One was massive. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair in loose waves brushing his shoulders, tattoos winding down strong arms. His smile was easy, cocky, the kind that could disarm a room before he even spoke.

The other— Elain’s heart stumbled.

Golden-brown skin kissed by the sun, black hair just mussed enough to look careless, hazel eyes like a storm trapped in sunlight. Lean and powerful, with a quiet grace that made the space around him feel heavier, sharper, like the air had thickened just because he was standing there.

And those hands. Gods.

She hadn't noticed them before, scarred and weathered, the marks crawling up from his wrists, swirling into the intricate ink on his forearms, like the tattoos were trying to mask the damage, to weave beauty over pain. She wondered—unbidden, unwanted—what kind of fire had touched him. What kind of life had left scars like that. And why anyone would want to cover up something so real, so fiercely human.

"Perfect timing," Rhys was saying, grinning like he knew exactly what he was doing. "Elain, Nesta, I'd love for you to meet my brothers. Azriel and Cassian."

Brothers. Three of the most devastatingly handsome men she had ever seen, standing together like something conjured out of a too-wild dream. And one of them was him. The man who had passed her shop with shadows in his gaze and the weight of the world in his silence. The man she had caught herself thinking about far more than she cared to admit.

It was getting hot. Too hot. She really, really needed a drink.

"Well, Feyre wasn't lying when she said her sisters were beautiful," the larger one, Cassian, said with an easy smirk, arms crossing over his broad chest. Gods, he was massive. All three of them were built like warriors, but Cassian had a roughness to him, a raw strength that made him seem almost too large for the world around him. Azriel, by contrast, was all sleek edges and quiet lethality, power hidden beneath stillness.

"A compliment? How original," Nesta drawled, crossing her arms, her tone sharp enough to cut through marble.

Lord save them all.

Cassian’s grin only widened, and Feyre groaned softly, clearly anticipating the inevitable clash. Rhysand laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "Now, now," Rhys said smoothly. "Try not to bite his head off so quickly. He does have feelings somewhere behind all that muscle."

"Let me grab us some drinks," Elain cut in, smiling a little too brightly, trying to shatter the tension vibrating between Nesta and Cassian. And, if she was being honest, trying to avoid the way Azriel’s gaze seemed locked onto her, like she was a riddle he was trying to solve.

"Nesta, the usual?" she asked, already stepping back toward the bar. Nesta gave a short nod, her attention still pinned somewhere between irritation and fascination.

And then...

"I'll come with you," a deep voice rumbled behind her, steady and low, a voice like rich soil, like old stone warmed by sun, like something essential and ancient thrumming through the bones of the earth.

For a moment, the whole world seemed to still. Elain swore she could feel every beat of her heart, could hear the soft brush of the wind curling around the rooftop, the distant laughter blurring into nothing.

She forced herself to nod, praying he couldn't see the sudden flush heating her cheeks, and turned toward the bar, feeling him fall into step beside her, silent, sure, inevitable.

🗡️🖤🦇 Azriel stilled the moment he saw her. She was bathed by the soft glow of the sunset, the twinkling cafe lights, the soft breeze teasing at the long curls of her golden-brown hair. Her dress, cobalt blue, deep and rich like a sliver of twilight sky, hugged her waist before flaring at her hips, soft and effortless, as if she belonged in that perfect sliver between dream and waking.

The florist.

The woman he had seen outside her little shop, dress dusted with soil, hair pinned back with a single flower tucked behind her ear.

The next day he had walked that street deliberately, a ghost of hope curling in his chest.

The third day he had changed his entire goddamn route just to catch a glimpse of her, even if it meant making excuses to himself.

He knew he was being ridiculous. She was literally made of golden light, someone who grew and nurtured. He had a dark past and scarred hands and hated getting close to people. But here she was. Elain. The woman who had wrecked him with a single glance. And she was even more breathtaking up close. Her skin luminous in the fading light, her eyes catching every shard of it and reflecting it back like polished amber.  Then her gaze dropped to his hands. He fought the instinct to shove his hands deeper into his pockets, to hide the old, twisting scars that even his tattoos couldn't quite erase. Fuck. She would probably immediately lose interest. Not that she would be interested in him.

No, this woman was too stunning to want him. Instead, her gaze softened. Not pity. Not revulsion. And when she turned to head toward the bar, when she announced she would get drinks with a bright, sweet smile that cracked something open inside him, Something reckless took over.

"I'll come with you," he heard himself say, his voice lower than he intended, roughened by the thousand things he didn't know how to say yet.

He saw her cheeks color, the way she tucked a stray curl behind her ear with nervous fingers. And gods, if that wasn't the final nail in the coffin. He was done for.

As they walked toward the bar, Azriel noticed again just how small she was next to him, even in heels, the top of her head barely brushed his shoulder. Without meaning to, he adjusted his stride, drawing just a little closer, protective instinct threading itself into every step.

At the bar, he caught her scent— Jasmine and honey and something softer, something hers—and it nearly undid him. He had faced down men with guns and knives doing Rhys bidding, had walked into fires both literal and metaphorical, and nothing—nothing—had ever made his pulse stutter the way her scent did. Standing there, all in black as usual, he felt like a shadow beside her, this luminous creature in his favorite shade of blue. Not that he would ever wear blue. No, black was safer. Black was armor.

Still, he couldn't stop himself from noticing how other men at the bar glanced her way, subtle but interested. A pang of something fierce, something territorial, flared low in his chest. Without thinking, he shifted closer, resting a hand lightly at the small of her back as they walked up to the bar. His hand barely sweeping the bare skin of her exposed back. Soft freckles dusted her shoulders, and he tried to memorize each one. Like a constellation guiding him home.

The moment his hand touched her— Soft, warm— Elain looked up at him and smiled. It was small, a flicker of something shy and brilliant, and Azriel snatched his hand back like he’d been burned, setting it firmly on the bar where it belonged.

He flexed his fingers once, feeling the ghost of her warmth lingering on his skin. Gods. He needed to get it together.

Elain leaned in slightly, conspiratorial, her voice low and amused. "How long before those two kill each other?" she said, tilting her head toward the seating area where Nesta and Cassian sat, rigidly, pointedly, as far apart as the space would allow. Feyre and Rhys lounged nearby, heads close, lost in their own orbit. Azriel glanced at the scene, biting back a smirk. Nesta and Cassian were already glaring at each other like it was a competitive sport.

But he barely registered them. Because Elain was close enough now that he could see the faint dusting of freckles across her nose, the way the fading light caught in the gold strands of her hair, the little nervous twist of her fingers around her clutch.

There were two empty chairs left. Or one... small sofa. Maybe, if he were lucky, if the gods were merciful and the universe didn’t hate him, Mor and Amren would show up and take the chairs, and Elain would sit next to him.

Gods. What was he, fifteen?

"It seems Cassian might have met his match," he said, voice low, amused. "If that's the case, then I'll say he'll gladly let her kill him, and enjoy every minute of it. I give them fifteen minutes before they start yelling. Thirty before they're making out."

Elain laughed, a soft, bright sound that Azriel felt like a goddamn punch straight to the ribs. He tucked that laugh away in some secret place inside him, already knowing he'd want to hear it again.

"I say six minutes before a fight," Elain replied, mischief glinting in her warm brown eyes.

Azriel couldn't help but grin. "Shall we put a wager on it?" he asked before he could stop himself, wondering what the hell was making him talk so much, wanting—needing—to keep her attention on him just a little longer.

"Oh, absolutely," Elain said with a wink that almost knocked him off his feet. "Let’s say... I win, you have to come to my shop and help me make a bouquet."

She knew. Acknowledging, finally, that they'd seen each other before, those lingering glances through the window not just figments of his tired mind.

Good. Because he sure as hell hadn't been brave enough to say anything first.

"And if I win..." he said, pausing, thinking harder than he had all night, "you get to pick my next tattoo."

Elain's face lit up, a slow, delighted grin spreading across her features. "Oh, well now I kind of hope you win," she said with a soft laugh. "I can imagine a lovely flower matching quite well with your current ink."

Azriel swallowed, hard. Her laugh—bright and airy, like wind chimes stirred by a spring breeze—wrapped around him, warm and golden. Gods, he would bottle that sound if he could. Carry it with him always.

He opened his mouth to say something else—to make her laugh again, if he could—but the bartender appeared, derailing his entire thought process. The bartender, who had the gall to let his gaze linger far too long on Elain. Azriel felt something sharp and territorial rise in him. He bit it down.

"I'll take a whiskey sour, and a French 75," Elain said, then turned to him, her voice dipping slightly in explanation. "Nesta only drinks French 75s or gin and tonics. And right now, I think she needs something to sweeten her mood."

Whiskey sour. His favorite drink. Of course it was.

Azriel smiled faintly and added, "I'll also have a whiskey sour. Can you do both of ours with the Pappy Van Winkle Rhys keeps in the back?" He kept his tone casual, even though he knew exactly what he was doing, pulling out the heavy artillery to impress her, to make her eyes light up the way they just had.

It worked.

Elain gasped softly. "Oh my gods, I definitely can't afford that!" she said, laughing.

Azriel leaned an elbow on the bar, turning slightly toward her.

"First, you're not paying for anything as long as I'm around," he said, letting his voice drop into something a little rougher, a little more serious. "Second, it's Rhys's reserve stash. And as his brother, I get to enjoy it whenever I want."

And he'd give her anything she wanted. Even if she asked him to carry her to that goddamn sofa and sit beside her all night rubbing her feet, he'd do it without a second thought.

"Hmm..." Elain mused, tilting her head slightly, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "Well, I've always wanted to try it..."

Azriel very nearly forgot how to breathe.

Would it be inappropriate to kiss someone he'd just met?

Probably.

He forced himself to look away. "So, how long have you owned the shop?" he asked, grasping for steady ground.

"Oh!" Elain said, her face brightening, "I opened it a few months ago. Do you work close by? You know... since we've seen each other before."

He felt the corner of his mouth lift. "Yeah," he said. "I own the tattoo shop down the block. Umbral Ink."

"Ah," she said, her eyes sparking with recognition, "the one that's all black on the outside."

Azriel chuckled lowly. "That's the one. I promise it's not all black inside. Well... some of it is. But a few of our artists do softer work too."

"And what about you?" she asked, leaning her elbows lightly on the bar, chin tilted toward him. "What’s your style?"

Azriel smiled a little, more to himself. "Fine line work," he said. "Mixed with movement. I sketch straight onto the skin, so the tattoo becomes part of the person, not just stuck on them. You know Feyre's new piece?"

She nodded.

"I did that one."

Elain's eyes widened. "You did that?" she breathed, wonder coloring her voice. "You're the tattoo artist she said was booked months in advance? My goodness, she didn’t stop talking about how lucky she was you opened up a spot for her."

Azriel fought the urge to duck his head. Instead, he just nodded once, quiet.

"It's really beautiful," Elain said, her voice softening. "I never imagined Feyre getting tattoos... but when I saw it, it just made sense. Like it had always been part of her."

He stilled. She had no idea what she had just said. No idea how closely that mirrored everything he believed about his work. How he poured meaning into every line, every curve, every shadow. Not just art, but stories written into skin. Memory. Identity. They were art. Paintings etched into the body. Stories, memories, meaning woven into flesh. It was one of the reasons he’d connected with Feyre so quickly when they met. Both artists, both understanding the quiet way creation could speak louder than any words. It was why he’d stayed late one night to do her arm tattoo, sketching directly onto her skin while Rhys sat nearby, offering ideas for the design.

Was it insane that Rhys had helped design a tattoo for a girl he had just met? Absolutely. But Rhys never did anything half-assed. When he found something, or someone, worth his time, he threw himself in completely. Azriel had seen it from the start. And honestly, if Rhysand proposed to Feyre tonight, it wouldn’t even surprise him. From the moment Rhys had met her, she had been all he could talk about.

Azriel was happy for him. He was. But somewhere deep inside, a sharp ache pulsed. A hollow space he'd long stopped acknowledging, the part of him that had convinced himself long ago that he wasn’t meant for that kind of love.

He didn't date seriously. He didn’t open up.

There had been a girl, once, Rhys cousin Mor, long ago, but she'd never been interested in men, and Azriel had taken that as a sign. That he was better off this way. Casual. Fleeting. Unattached. Safer. Because every time a woman had gotten too close, she'd wanted to fix him. Wanted to peel him open like some locked chest, to dig into the parts of him he'd fought so damn hard to bury. And Azriel... Azriel didn’t know how to survive being seen. So he had made it easy. Sex without strings. Touch without trust. Affection without attachment. Even now, at almost thirty-one, he kept to what he knew best. He barely opened up to his friends. The idea of letting someone else inside? It was laughable. Terrifying. The bartender brought over their drinks faster than Azriel would have liked, setting them down with a practiced clink of glass on marble. Azriel bit back a scowl. Couldn’t the guy see he was trying to spend more time standing here, breathing the same air as the fucking ray of sunshine beside him? But before he could think of something, anything, to keep her lingering longer, he heard it:

"Oh, and an illiterate baboon like yourself would know better!" Nesta’s voice, sharp and unmistakable, rang out from across the rooftop.

Elain leaned in without thinking, glancing at the watch strapped to his wrist, her hair brushing lightly against his arm. Azriel swore under his breath, nearly knocked off balance by the sheer sweetness of her scent.

She sighed, a mock-dramatic little puff of air that stirred the hair at his wrist. "Six minutes," she said, straightening with a victorious grin. "I'm afraid you owe me a bouquet."

She winked—winked—grabbed her drinks, and sauntered off, the soft sway of her dress hypnotic under the sunset light.

Azriel just stood there for a second, blinking, like some idiot teenager watching his first crush walk away. He barely managed to gather himself before she turned back, laughing under her breath.

"Come on," she called, voice low and musical, "we have to chaperone. Knowing Feyre, she’ll be trying to fuck Rhys in a bathroom by the time the sun sets. And trust me, you do not want to see Nesta drunk and pissed."

Azriel shook his head slowly, a reluctant, stunned smile tugging at his mouth.

Gods. He was already following her before he even realized he’d moved. 🌸🎀💕🌷

Elain hadn’t even had a single sip of her whiskey yet, but she was already feeling all kinds of giddy, like her blood had been infused with golden light, her nerves dancing just beneath the surface of her skin. She had spent, what, six minutes beside Azriel? Six minutes of soft-spoken words, quiet smirks, and the occasional brush of his arm against hers that had made her heart flutter wildly in her chest like a caged bird.

And gods, she swore he had blushed. Not deeply. But just enough for her to see a flicker of warmth creep up his neck, a subtle tightening at his jaw, the kind of reaction she never expected to inspire in a man like him.

Calm yourself, Elain.

He was Rhys’s brother. Off-limits. Probably. And definitely the kind of man who dated women with sleeves of tattoos and bold, angular beauty, women with names like Raven or Lux, who smoked clove cigarettes and could ride a motorcycle in heels.

Not someone like her. Not a flower shop owner with soft curls and freckled cheeks who wore pastels more often than leather and cried at commercials featuring lost dogs.

Still... When they returned to the seating area, and she saw the way the chairs were spaced—two separate armchairs for Nesta and Cassian, one sofa left vacant—she chose without thinking.

She sank into the velvet sofa, angled just enough away from Nesta that she could intervene if a flying French 75 glass became a threat, and before she could second guess herself, she looked up at Azriel and motioned for him to join her.

The sofa was a little too small for someone like him, broad across the chest, tall enough that his legs took up most of the space with just one stretch. But he sat down beside her anyway, quiet and composed, and gods—gods—he smelled like cedar and mist and something darker beneath it.

Elain had the sudden, irrational urge to lean in just a little closer. To bottle that scent like perfume and wear it behind her ears.

"Nesta, your French 75," she said, passing the delicate glass into her sister’s hand like it was a peace offering.

Nesta, stone-faced and unimpressed, threw it back like a shot.

"Thank you," she said, crisp and curt, though her tone lacked true bite.

Cassian chuckled as he stood, rolling his eyes like it was all a game he’d already won. "I'll get you another one."

Elain watched Nesta cross her arms in a slow, deliberate movement, the tension in her shoulders flaring. "Nesta, really," Elain said gently, keeping her tone even, measured. "Please try and be civil. I bet he isn’t that bad."

"He’s a brooding animal with no manners."

Across from them, Feyre laughed, lounging with her legs draped over Rhys’s lap, the two of them practically tangled together like vines grown too close to ever separate again.

"He has excellent manners, actually," Feyre said with a grin. "He just enjoys riling you up more."

Elain could already see it, Feyre and Rhys disappearing into some dark hallway before dessert. The way they looked at each other was electric, consuming. Honestly, it was only a matter of time.

Wanting, needing, to redirect the conversation before things devolved into another argument, Elain lifted her drink and turned slightly toward the table, her voice soft but clear.

"I love the choice of flowers," she said, hoping the shift in subject would help. "The night-blooming jasmine is a lovely touch," Elain said, her voice soft but steady as she looked toward the planter nearest the awning, where the pale blossoms opened in the dimming light, delicate and fragrant. She could feel Azriel shift slightly beside her, and she swore, just barely, his head tilted, as if noting her words.

"You might want to consider brugmansia," she added, glancing at Rhys with a polite smile. "They bloom at dusk and can be hung from above. Large, trumpet-shaped blooms that would drape over the awning and catch the breeze. They glow in the right light. Quietly dramatic."

Rhys's eyes lit up with interest, a spark she recognized as the look of a man who was always seeking to enhance his kingdom.

"You know, I didn't even consider that," he said thoughtfully. "Feyre did tell me you owned a flower shop. Perhaps you could help me add some to the space?"

Elain blinked, a little caught off guard by the directness of the offer. "Oh, well, I wouldn’t want to take over your vision..." she said carefully, brushing a loose curl behind her ear.

"Not at all, Elain," Rhys replied smoothly, his attention flicking toward Feyre, who was practically glowing beside him. "I would love for you to visit all of my places—bars, restaurants, lounges—and see how you could transform them with flowers."

He looked at Feyre then like she was the sun and stars wrapped into one being. Elain felt warmth rise in her chest, soft and strange, not quite envy, not quite longing....just... wonder.

Cassian reappeared a moment later, mercifully delivering another drink to Nesta, who, thank the gods, actually sipped it instead of tossing it back. The sharp edge in her posture began to ease, her shoulders lowering, her jaw unclenching just slightly.

From there, the conversation stayed lighter. Small stories, quick jabs, laughter around the circle. Even Nesta cracked a smile when Cassian made some joke about Feyre and Rhys getting a room.

And Elain, well Elain surprised herself by how much she enjoyed the whiskey. Warm and rich, with a bite that curled beneath her tongue but didn’t burn.

What surprised her more was when, as she finished her glass, Azriel quietly stood and returned a moment later, not just with a fresh whiskey sour, but also an iced water tucked beside it with a lemon wedge balanced on the rim. He didn’t say anything. Just set it down in front of her and resumed his place beside her on the couch like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Elain’s heart fluttered like petals caught on the wind.

Azriel was so unlike his brothers. Cassian was all volume and charm and sharp wit, and Rhysand commanded every room he stepped into with a sort of effortless elegance.

But Azriel... Azriel was stillness. A quiet, anchoring presence that made her feel... seen, without ever demanding attention. He was a listener, like her. Content to sit in the silence between words. To observe, to consider, to understand before speaking.

Elain found herself relaxing more beside him than she had expected. her shoulders eased, her back resting gently against the velvet cushion. The alcohol settled in her limbs like warm sunlight, and she let herself smile into the conversation, humming softly in agreement here and there, watching the glowing lights overhead flicker like stars caught in motion.

And then— His arm moved.

Slowly. Casually. Like it was nothing at all. Azriel’s arm lifted and draped across the back of the sofa, not quite touching her, but there, just behind her shoulders, his fingers grazing the cushion by her shoulder blade.

Elain’s breath hitched. She didn’t dare look at him. Didn’t move an inch. But her skin buzzed with awareness, warmth rising to her cheeks in a way she could not begin to hide.

She looked across the space and caught Feyre watching her. Feyre grinned. And winked.

Elain quickly looked away, her blush deepening, flustered in that way she always was when someone caught her feeling something she didn’t know how to explain.

It wasn’t like he was touching her. It was probably just more comfortable that way for him. He was tall, after all, and the sofa was narrow. It didn’t mean anything.

Still... She could feel the warmth of him, even without contact. Could feel the nearness of him like it had weight. And for the first time in a very long while, Elain didn’t feel the urge to shrink or fade. She didn’t feel too soft or too delicate. She felt... present. 🗡️🖤🦇

Apparently, he’d grown a second set of balls tonight. That was the only explanation for the fact that not only had he put his arm behind Elain on the sofa, casually, like it wasn’t killing him to be that close, but when a loose curl blew into his hand, he’d twirled it around his fingers. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Thank the gods no one noticed.

Feyre and Rhys were half a breath away from fucking each other on the couch across the room, Nesta was finishing her third drink and starting to lose her sharp edges, and Cassian, six beers deep, was in that dangerous place where his charm turned into sincerity. So when Rhys finally pulled Feyre off the couch with a murmured “Let’s get out of here”, Azriel figured the distraction would buy him some reprieve.

No such luck. Because as soon as the elevator doors closed behind them, Nesta looked at her phone, tapped the screen, and announced with that unbothered authority of hers, “Elain, it’s 8:15. It’s time to go.”

“Nah, come on, Nesta, the night’s young,” Cassian said, his voice louder than necessary, already halfway into a pout. “You’ve been here for, what, two hours?”

And gods, he looked genuinely upset. Azriel didn’t know what it was with these Archeron sisters, but somehow the three of them had the power to make normally unshakable men like himself, Cassian, and Rhys act like fools. Entranced. Spellbound. Like they were each carrying some kind of ancient magic woven into their skin.

“I have CrossFit at 6AM,” Nesta said stiffly. “I never miss it. Elain, let’s go.” She rose from her chair, gathering the steel back around her like a cloak.

But then Elain said, quiet and certain, “I think I’ll stay a bit longer.”

Azriel blinked. Something hot and electric lit behind his ribs.

“Elain… are you sure?” Nesta asked, and her posture shifted, arms folding across her chest, protective, bracing. “I don’t want you walking home alone.”

“I’ll be fine, Ness. Really. You forget—I walk home from the shop all the time.”

Azriel watched the way her voice softened at the nickname, the way Nesta’s jaw tightened but didn’t argue. “A fact which you know I hate,” Nesta said, cool and lawyer-precise. “You should never walk alone at night.”

“I’ll walk her home,” Azriel said. He agreed, an angel of light shouldn't be out anywhere at night, even in a safe area like this. She was light and warmth and impossible softness, and the idea of her alone on a dark street made something in his chest go cold.

Nesta turned to him slowly, narrowing her eyes, sizing him up like she was trying to decide whether to trust him with her most precious thing. Apparently, he passed.

She gave one curt nod. “Fine. Elain, text me as soon as you're home.” And without another word, she spun on her heel and walked to the elevator.

Elain sighed beside him. “I promise she’s one of the kindest people you’ll ever meet. She’s just… wary. About trusting new people.”

Azriel nodded, following her gaze as Cassian stood and, without a word, trailed after Nesta. Longing was written all over him like ink.

“I’ll be right back,” Cassian muttered.

“Well, he’s a brave man, I’ll give him that,” Elain said with a little laugh.

And gods, he would have done anything to keep her laughing like that. The wind chose that exact moment to sweep across the rooftop, curling her hair around her neck, fluttering the hem of her dress. She shivered.

That was it. That was all it took.

“You’re cold,” Azriel said, quietly, certainly. Not a question. A fact.

He stood, gently nodding his head toward a more sheltered area of the rooftop. “Come on. I’ll keep you out of the wind.”

She didn’t hesitate. Just stood, trusting him, and followed. They walked side by side beneath strings of fairy lights that blurred gold and blue, passing laughing couples and clinking glasses, the hum of the rooftop wrapping around them like a low, melodic current. And yet, it all faded the moment they stepped into the alcove, a little sheltered corner half-hidden by tall planters and low glass walls, softened by the warmth of the lights and the faint perfume of flowers.

The city spread below them in a wash of color and movement, but here, in this tiny world carved out of steel and velvet, it was quiet. There were two chairs nestled close together, separated only by a low table, and Azriel sat without thinking, grateful for the narrow space that brought her close. Grateful for the excuse to stay near without question.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye,  at the way her lips parted ever so slightly, hear cheeks pink from her slight chill, and thought, this is dangerous. Because if she kept looking at him like that—like he was someone worth looking at, someone safe—he wasn’t going to make it out of this night unscathed.

“So,” she said, her voice light, head tilting to the side in that way he was already starting to memorize, already starting to expect, like some secret little ritual between them, “how does someone like you get into tattooing?”

Azriel leaned back, arms folding slowly across his chest. He could have shrugged. Could have given her the same clipped version he gave everyone else, the sanitized, surface-level summary. But something about her presence, the way she looked at him like he wasn’t a riddle to be solved but a story she actually wanted to hear… it made him want to tell the truth.

"I went to school for engineering," he said, voice low, steady. "I liked pulling things apart. Figuring out how they worked. It made sense, back then. But tattoos," he continued, glancing down at the ink coiled around his forearm, "were always part of my life. In my culture, as an Illyerian, you start getting them at sixteen. It’s a rite of passage. A reminder of who we are, where we came from. I started drawing, then apprenticing. And one day I realized... I felt more alive putting ink to skin than I ever did staring at blueprints."

A short, humorless laugh slipped past his lips, and he looked away. "So I quit. Opened my own shop."

Simple words. But the leap he’d taken, the fear, the free-fall of choosing something unknown, something uncertain, still lived somewhere deep inside him. When he looked back at her, her smile had softened, her eyes shimmering under the rooftop lights, warm and bright like candleflame.

"That’s brave," she said quietly, her voice almost breathless. "Choosing yourself like that."

And for a moment, the entire world collapsed into the space between them. Her gaze touched something in him that felt almost too tender to bear....like she wasn’t just looking at him, but into him. Past the ink and the shadows. Past the control. She saw him. It scared the shit out of him.

"How about you?" he asked, desperate to pull some of the attention away, to breathe.

"I opened my shop end of last year," she said, fingers curling slightly around her drink. "I've always loved to garden. But, like you, I went to school for something totally different—music. Classical performance. I play piano."

Piano. Of course she did.

"But my fiancé....ex-fiancé....at the time said it wasn't practical, so I switched to communications. Whatever that means," she added with a self-deprecating laugh. A laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Not that it really matters, he ended the engagement anyway. Guess I wasn't exactly the right fit for forever."

Azriel stared at her, the woman who somehow lit up the entire space around her without even trying. Everything about her shimmered quietly: the curve of her mouth when she smiled, the warmth in her eyes, the way her laugh carried the weight of summer and made the air feel golden. Her eyes caught the rooftop light like late afternoon sun falling across wildflower fields... soft and wild and full of color.

He didn’t understand how someone could look at Elain and see anything other than extraordinary. The very idea....the fact that someone had once made her doubt her own worth, had told her that her dream wasn’t real, wasn’t worthy, that she wasn’t worthy... it was so absurd it bordered on obscene. It was offensive. Infuriating. And it made him want to punch something. No, someone.

Whoever that man was, whoever had taken her hand, made her believe in a future, and then walked away because she didn’t fit into his neat, controlled version of the world, he could get hit by a bus and Azriel wouldn’t feel an ounce of remorse. Because Elain wasn’t made to be trimmed down to someone else’s standards. She wasn’t meant to be made small, to be denied. She was born to grow things, to create beauty, to take what was empty and fill it with life. And the thought that someone had looked at her and chosen to walk away… It twisted something in his gut, something old and wounded and entirely too raw.

All he could see now was her at a piano. Bathed in soft light, her fingers delicate but certain as they moved across the keys. He could see the way her brow would furrow just slightly in concentration, how her body would move with the music, like the melody lived inside her bones. He imagined her completely lost to it, eyes closed, letting sound become her language, her offering. And he imagined himself in the shadows, sitting in the farthest corner of the room, saying nothing at all, just listening. Reverent. Still. Watching her do what she was born to do. Witnessing it like it was something sacred. And gods...he would do it forever if she let him.

"He’s an idiot."

Elain blinked, startled. Her eyes found his, wide and uncertain.

Azriel didn’t look away. "Anyone who could leave you doesn’t deserve the air you breathe."

It came out sharp. Too sharp. But he meant it. Meant every syllable, every breath behind it. She stared at him, like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with the space that had cracked open between them. Azriel sat back slowly, dragging in a breath that felt like it scraped through his lungs.

He didn’t want to scare her. Didn’t want to ruin this. So he softened his voice.

"Their loss," he said quietly. "Trust me." 🌸🎀💕🌷

Their conversation continued, but Elain couldn’t stop replaying the words he’d said—“Anyone who could leave you doesn’t deserve the air you breathe.” He hadn’t said it like a compliment, hadn’t said it to impress her. He said it like a fact, unshakable and true, something carved in stone and offered to her like a gift she hadn’t known she needed. The way his voice had dipped, steady and rough, like he meant every syllable, it was terrifying, the way a single sentence could unwind so much of her.

Because for so long, she had believed it was her fault. That Graysen left because she was too soft, too quiet, too full of delicate dreams and impractical hopes. That she wasn’t clever enough, or sharp enough, or glamorous enough to be someone a man like him would proudly stand beside. She had blamed herself, the way she always did. Just like she had blamed herself when their parents died, carrying a guilt that therapy and time had never fully soothed—if only I had done more. If only I had noticed sooner. If only I had been enough.

That shame had become a second skin, quiet and invisible, but always there. So when Graysen walked away, she had told herself it made sense. That it was simply the universe confirming what she’d already feared, that heartache was what she was made for.

But Azriel... Azriel had looked at her with those steady, unreadable eyes, and somehow, his gaze had felt like anything but judgment. His eyes dragged over her not like he was undressing her, but like he was trying to memorize her. Every glance had been soft and careful, reverent in a way that left her unmoored.

She wasn’t sure, entirely, if she was still living in the real world. Hours had passed—maybe two, maybe three—and she hadn’t noticed. The noise and motion of the rooftop bar faded into blur, the rest of the world lost somewhere far outside the bubble of their little corner. Time had thinned around them, stretched until it barely seemed to exist at all. There was only him. Only her. Only this space between them that felt like it could go on forever.

It wasn’t until her phone vibrated violently on the table, followed by the shrill, familiar sound of Nesta’s name flashing across the screen, that she remembered anything else. She blinked, startled back into the present, and murmured a soft apology to Azriel as she reached for the phone. “Where are you?!” came Nesta’s sharp voice the moment she picked up. “You should have been home hours ago. I’ve been up worried sick. I’ve texted you dozens of times.”

Elain winced, glancing at the screen. And sure enough, a flurry of missed texts and calls waited for her.

“I’m fine, I promise. I’m still at the bar. With Azriel,” she said, glancing up at him as she spoke his name for the first time aloud. It tasted warm on her tongue, like something she should have said long ago.

A beat of silence. Then: “The bar? At 12:30AM? With him?! Elain, what on earth is happening? Please don’t tell me you’re falling for the brother. Absolutely not happening. Go home. Now.”

Elain flushed, cheeks burning. “I know. I know I never stay out late....I’ll be home soon, I promise.”

“If you are not home by one, I’m coming to get you. Send me your location right now. Do not go home with him. Do not sleep with him.” And then Nesta hung up.

Elain slowly lowered the phone, her face hot with embarrassment. She could feel the weight of Azriel’s gaze.

“Is everything okay?” he asked gently, concern flickering across his features.

“It’s fine. Nesta got worried. I didn’t hear my phone... I normally go to bed early,” she said, smoothing the fabric of her dress, trying to compose herself, even as she felt the sharp sting of reality prick at the fragile magic of the night. “I’m a bit of... well, a bit of a homebody.”

There. She said it. And now he knew. Now he knew she wasn’t glamorous, wasn’t wild or untamed. Just a girl who loved flowers and quiet nights and books in bed. Just a girl he would never want.

But then he smiled. And said, simply: “I’m the same, actually.”

She blinked, startled. “Wait....no. I don’t believe you. You seem like the kind of guy who’s out all night.”

Azriel let out a soft, almost sheepish laugh. “I do love staying up late. But mostly because I can’t sleep. Or I’m up reading.”

Elain stared at him. And she swore—swore—a faint blush crept up his cheekbones, barely there in the low light. “Well,” she said, slowly rising from her seat, smoothing her skirt as she stood, “it appears the two of us are out past our bedtime.”

And for a fleeting moment, just before he stood too, she caught a flicker in his expression, like sadness. A quiet flicker of something raw and reluctant, as if he too didn’t want the night to end.

He didn’t say it. He didn’t need to. He stood, and followed her out. The air had cooled, brushing softly against her bare arms, the breeze gentle and clean. But Elain barely felt it. Her skin still hummed from where his words had landed, from the way he’d looked at her. From the simple, impossible truth of how much she didn’t want this night to end either.

------

Azriel walked beside her, a quiet, steady presence at her side. Not too close to crowd her, but close enough that if she tilted her hand even slightly, she might brush his knuckles with her own. The city glowed around them, blurred gold and blue, the buzz of distant music, the occasional hiss of a car passing by. But somehow it all felt muted, background noise to the quiet hum growing between them.

He didn’t say much. Neither did she.

But it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. It was the kind that settled into your bones, warm and grounding, like a secret only the two of them knew. Every once in a while, she'd glance up at him, at the way the streetlights caught the sharp lines of his jaw, the dark fall of his hair, the steady focus in his eyes like he was memorizing every street they passed.

She should have felt nervous. Walking alone at night with a man she barely knew. But with Azriel, it wasn't fear she felt. It was...safe. Safe and steady, like the world could tilt off its axis and he would simply shift his stance and keep walking. They reached her building too soon.

Elain paused at the bottom of the steps, suddenly reluctant to break whatever fragile, golden thread had spun between them.

Azriel shifted, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, as if he was trying to keep them to himself. The soft lamplight caught the silver thread stitched into his black shirt, like little constellations hidden in the dark.

She opened her mouth, words balancing on the tip of her tongue.

You could come up for a minute. Would you like some tea? I don't want this night to end yet.

But the words tangled somewhere between her ribs and her throat. Azriel watched her with that steady, unreadable gaze. He shifted, just slightly, closer. He looked at her mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough to make the breath catch in her chest.

And then, slowly, carefully, Azriel lifted one hand from his pocket. Not to touch her. Just to trail his fingers lightly over the cold iron railing beside her, a ghost of a movement.

"Goodnight, Elain," he said, voice rough and quiet and meant only for her.

Something about the way he said her name made her shiver.

She nodded, the words still caught in her throat, and climbed the steps, feeling his gaze on her back the whole way. When she reached the door, she looked over her shoulder. But he was already gone.

Still, the night seemed to hum with his absence, like a chord struck and left vibrating in the dark.

@elriel-month