#something warm

The townhouse kitchen is warm.

Not just from the stove but from you.

There’s something playing faintly in the background. Not loud enough to focus on, just enough to give you a rhythm to move to.

And you do.

You always do.

Bare feet against the floor, hips swaying as you stir something that definitely requires more attention than you’re giving it.

You spin once.

Just because you can.

The wooden spoon stays in your hand.

“Careful,” a small voice says from the doorway.

You glance over your shoulder.

Nyx.

Watching you like you’ve just performed a full theatrical production.

“You’re supposed to be supervising,” he adds, very serious.

You grin.

“I am supervising.”

You gesture to the pot.

“This is me supervising dinner.”

He considers that.

Then walks in anyway.

Because of course he does.

He climbs up onto one of the chairs, kneeling on it so he can see what you’re doing.

“What can I do?” he asks.

And it’s so earnest, so him, that you don’t even hesitate.

You hand him a small bowl.

“Stir this,” you say.

“It’s very important.”

He takes it like you’ve just knighted him.

Both hands on the spoon.

Very focused.

Very determined.

You turn back to your own pot, humming now, the melody slipping out without thought.

A Day Court tune.

Soft and bright.

Something you picked up and never quite let go of.

Nyx hums with you.

Off key.

Completely confident.

And then he starts swaying.

Just a little at first.

Then more.

Then he’s fully committed, attempting something that looks vaguely like dancing and mostly like he’s trying not to fall over.

You laugh.

You can’t help it.

“Is that dancing?” you ask.

“It is,” he says, indignant. “You’re doing it wrong.”

“Oh, am I?”

He nods.

Very serious again.

“You’re supposed to do it like this.”

He holds out his hand.

And there it is.

That tiny, dramatic invitation.

You don’t even question it.

You grab the small symphonia sitting on the counter, something glittering and golden from the Day Court, and give it a little shake.

Music swells.

Too grand for a kitchen.

Too dramatic for what’s about to happen.

Perfect.

Nyx beams.

You take his hand.

And the two of you attempt a waltz.

It is objectively terrible.

Your steps don’t match.

He keeps stepping on your foot.

You nearly spin him straight into the counter.

You’re still stirring the pot with your free hand half the time.

But you’re laughing.

He’s laughing.

And the symphonia keeps playing like you’re in the middle of some grand ballroom instead of a cluttered kitchen with dinner half-finished.

You spin him.

He squeals.

You catch him before he can tip backward.

And somewhere in the doorway, the Inner Circle has gathered.

No one says a word.

Because they can’t.

Cassian’s trying not to laugh.

Mor’s already gone soft, hand over her mouth.

Even Rhys is quiet, just watching.

And Azriel,

Azriel is ruined.

Completely.

Leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, shadows still for once, just watching you.

The way you move.

The way you laugh.

The way you don’t even realize you’ve turned his entire world into something warm.

You spin Nyx again.

Barely save the food from burning.

“Multitasking,” you mutter.

“Very advanced skill.”

Nyx giggles.

Then suddenly, he stops.

Looks past you.

Eyes lighting up.

“Mom!” he calls.

Feyre steps forward, smiling softly.

Nyx immediately reaches for her.

“You have to dance with me.”

And just like that, you’re released.

Nyx is swept away into another set of arms, already trying to teach Feyre his very questionable version of a waltz.

The kitchen feels quieter.

But not empty.

Never empty.

You turn back to the stove, stirring again, breath still a little uneven from laughing.

You don’t even hear him move.

Not at first.

Just feel warmth at your back.

Arms sliding around your waist.

Solid and steady.

Azriel.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t need to.

Just rests his chin lightly against your shoulder, pulling you closer without interrupting what you’re doing.

You keep stirring.

Because of course you do.

“Careful,” you murmur, echoing Nyx.

“There’s a dangerous amount of chaos happening in this kitchen.”

His breath brushes your neck.

Soft.

“I noticed.”

His arms tighten just slightly.

Like he’s grounding himself.

Or maybe grounding you.

“You’re going to burn dinner,” he adds quietly.

You hum.

“Probably.”

Neither of you moves.

Not away.

Not yet.

The music still drifts through the room.

Nyx’s laughter carries from the other side of it.

And Azriel just stays.

Holding you like this moment is something he wants to memorize.

Like it’s something rare.

Something fragile.

Something his.

You lean back into him just a little.

Still stirring.

Still smiling.

And for a second, everything feels… right.

He doesn’t let go right away.

You’re still stirring.

Trying to focus.

Trying to pretend you don’t feel the way his arms are wrapped around you.

“Are you going to help,” you murmur, “or just supervise?”

“I’m helping.”

But he doesn’t move his arms.

Not yet.

Instead, his shadows do.

They slip off him slowly.

Not rushed.

Not sharp like they are in battle.

Soft.

Curious.

One brushes past your wrist.

Another reaches toward the counter.

You don’t even look.

“Salt.”

It’s there instantly.

Set beside your hand like it’s always belonged there.

You huff a quiet laugh.

“Show off.”

Behind you, you feel him shift.

Just enough to press a little closer.

Not possessive.

Just… there.

“You’re the one who asked for help,” he murmurs.

Now he actually moves.

One hand stays at your waist.

The other reaches past you, grabbing something before you ask for it.

He’s watching.

Paying attention.

Learning your rhythm.

You glance at him over your shoulder.

Suspicious.

“You’ve done this before.”

“Not like this.”

The shadows keep moving.

Grabbing herbs.

Sliding bowls closer.

Tugging open a drawer before you reach for it.

At one point, one brushes your fingers and lingers there.

Like it’s testing the warmth of you.

You don’t pull away.

You never do.

“You’re distracting them,” you murmur.

“They like you,” he says.

You smile a little at that.

Still stirring.

Still pretending your heart didn’t just do something stupid.

Behind you, his head dips slightly.

Not quite resting on you.

But close.

“You’re burning it,” he adds quietly.

You glance down.

You are.

“…we’re fine.”

His breath ghosts against your neck.

A hint of amusement.

“We are.”

And he doesn’t step away.

Not when the food is done.

Not when the noise in the other room swells again.

He stays there.

Helping.

Quiet.

Steady.

Like this, like you, is something he’s decided he’s allowed to have.