Tune Tales

Writing is my main form of escape.

My ask box is currently open so you can escape too.

Prompt List

Here is a list of current fandoms and characters I write for:

A Court of Thrones and Roses

Rhysand

Azriel

Cassian

Eris

Fourth Wing

Xaden

Garrick

Bodhi

Dain

Ridoc

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "Who did this to you!?"

Authors Note: Lowkey this may be one of my favourite tropes...

Training in the Illyrian camps had always been brutal.

You knew that long before you decided to train.

Bruises were common. Bloody lips happened. Even Cassian had once shrugged at a dislocated shoulder like it was a mild inconvenience.

But this?

This was different.

The male across from you circled slowly, wooden training sword spinning lazily in his hand while several others watched from the sidelines. The afternoon sun beat harshly against the training ring, sweat sticking your leathers to your skin.

“You’re distracted,” the Illyrian sneered.

You tightened your grip on your blade. “I’m fine.”

He smirked.

Then he struck.

Hard.

The force of the blow rattled down your arm painfully enough to numb your fingers. Before you could fully readjust your stance, he swept your legs out from under you which you tried to clumsily recover from.

Pain exploded across your cheekbone as the hilt of his weapon clipped your face hard enough to send you finally sprawling.

The world tilted sickeningly.

You hit the dirt hard.

A few males laughed nearby.

Humiliation burned hotter than the sting of your cheek.

“Get up,” he barked.

You did.

Again and again, he came at you too aggressively for a sparring match. Every strike was meant to hurt. To embarrass. To prove something.

And when you managed to land a decent hit to his ribs—

His temper snapped.

The next shove sent you crashing directly into one of the wooden posts surrounding the ring. The male hit you hard enough that your vision blurred.

You stumbled backward as his hand grasped the front of your leathers, boots skidding across the dirt as he dragged you away forcefully into the middle of the ring, before slamming shoulder-first into the ground once again.

Something cracked painfully along your ribs.

Pain exploded across your side and a sharp gasp escaped you before you could stop it.

The training ring went quiet for half a second.

The male looked almost satisfied.

“You’re weak,” he spat.

You swallowed hard against the pain radiating through your ribs. “I said I’m fine.”

But your voice sounded strained even to your own ears.

He eventually grew bored and wandered away.

You ignored the looks from the others as you left the ring, forcing your breathing steady while your side screamed with every step. You didn’t want pity. Didn’t want a scene.

You especially didn’t want Azriel finding out.

Unfortunately for you, the universe seemed personally committed to ruining that plan.

You had barely made it beyond the training courtyard when shadows curled around your ankles.

Your heart dropped.

Azriel stepped from the shadows directly in front of you.

He took one look at your face and froze.

His eyes took everything in.

Your split lip. The darkening bruise across your cheekbone. The rip in your leathers exposing bloodied skin beneath. The way you were holding your side like breathing itself hurt.

The world seemed to go silent around him.

Even his shadows stilled.

“Who did this to you?”

The words were terrifyingly calm.

You immediately straightened despite the pain. “Az, it looks worse than it is—”

“Who.”

You had heard him interrogate enemies with more warmth than that single word.

You swallowed hard. “It was training.”

Azriel’s gaze dropped to the blood soaking through your side.

Then to the trembling hand you were unsuccessfully trying to hide behind your back.

His jaw flexed once.

“Training,” he repeated softly.

The shadows around him began writhing violently.

You stepped forward quickly before he could vanish. “I’m alright.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That does not comfort me.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last word and suddenly the anger on his face looked dangerously close to panic.

Azriel moved toward you slowly then, like he was holding himself together by sheer force. His scarred hands hovered near your waist, hesitant—as though he was afraid touching you would hurt.

“Let me see.”

You winced as he carefully moved your arm from your ribs.

Blood stained his fingers instantly.

He went utterly still.

The kind of stillness that meant something terrible was about to happen.

You knew it immediately.

“Azriel,” you said carefully.

His hazel eyes lifted to yours.

Cold. Lethal.

“Who,” he repeated quietly, “hurt you?”

You hesitated for half a second too long, your eyes instinctively flickering over to the male in question.

That was all he needed.

His shadows surged violently around him as understanding settled across his face.

You grabbed his wrist immediately. “Please don’t kill him.”

His gaze snapped back to yours, and somehow that terrified you more because his expression remained perfectly calm.

“I need you to go inside.”

You blinked. “What?”

Rhysand’s mother’s old house sat just beyond the camp, warm light glowing faintly through the windows.

"Go inside."

"Not unless you come with me."

He didn't say anything for a moment, but eventually he nodded his head sharply.

You heaved a sigh of relief, as much as your ribs allowed you anyway.

Azriel guided you towards the house carefully, one hand firm against your back while shadows circled restlessly around both of you.

“Azriel, I'm fine—”

“You’re hurt. You can barely stand.”

That shut you up because unfortunately he was correct.

Pain stabbed sharply through your ribs with every breath now, your head spinning unpleasantly from whatever damage had been done to your face.

Azriel opened the door and guided you inside with startling gentleness compared to the fury radiating from him.

The moment the door shut behind you in your room, he turned toward the small wash basin, grabbing a cloth to press carefully against the blood at your side.

His hands shook, so slightly that anyone else may have missed it.

But not you.

That scared you more than the injuries.

“Azriel…”

His eyes flicked upward.

You softened immediately at the sheer rage and fear warring there.

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

Something painful crossed his face.

“No,” he said quietly. “You aren’t.”

He cleaned the blood from your cheek with impossible care, but every new bruise he uncovered only darkened his expression further.

When he touched your ribs, you inhaled sharply.

Azriel closed his eyes.

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

Then he stood.

You immediately grabbed his hand. “Don’t.”

His fingers curled tightly around yours for one brief second.

“You know I can’t let this go.”

“He was just a bit rough, that’s all—”

“He enjoyed it.”

Silence.

Because again—he was right.

Azriel crouched in front of you then, both hands cupping your face carefully despite the blood still staining your skin.

“You are not supposed to look like this after training,” he said softly.

The fury in his voice made tears sting unexpectedly behind your eyes.

You leaned into his touch instantly. “Please don’t kill him.”

A shadow of dark amusement crossed his face.

“I’m going to try not to kill him.”

“Azriel.”

His thumb brushed gently beneath your swollen cheekbone.

“I’m simply going to remind him,” he said softly, “that if he ever touches you like that again, training or not, they’ll never find enough of him left to bury.”

You stared at him.

He stared calmly back.

Oh, he meant business.

“Azriel—”

He leaned forward, kissing your forehead tenderly before you could continue arguing.

“Stay here.”

And before you could stop him, darkness swallowed him whole.

You groaned softly, dropping your head back against the chair. “Mother save that male.”

It was nearly an hour before shadows finally stirred near the fireplace again.

Azriel stepped from them silently.

Your head snapped up from where you’d been anxiously waiting wrapped in blankets.

He looked entirely uninjured.

Calm.

Too calm.

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Did you kill him?”

Azriel paused mid-step like he genuinely needed to consider the question.

“No.”

Suspicion flooded you instantly. “Azriel.”

His mouth twitched faintly.

“I didn't kill him.”

“I don't believe you.”

A soft huff of laughter escaped him then as he crossed the room toward you.

The tension in your chest eased immediately despite yourself.

He was alive. He was safe. Most importantly, he was here.

Azriel crouched beside your chair, hands settling carefully around your waist as though checking you were still real.

“I merely reminded that filth,” he said mildly, “that training with you does not grant him permission to brutalise you.”

You squinted. “Define reminded.”

A pause.

“He will struggle to sit comfortably for a few days.”

“Azriel.”

“And perhaps his hand is broken.”

You stared at him in shock.

Azriel looked entirely unrepentant.

“He shouldn’t have touched you.”

The possessive fury beneath the quiet words made your stomach flip.

You sighed tiredly. “You’re terrifying.”

His expression softened instantly. “Not to you though, right?"

You smiled gently at him, brushing some stray hairs tenderly from his forehead. "Of course not."

The rest of the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

His hands slid carefully up your arms, pulling you gently into his lap despite your quiet protest about your ribs.

Azriel ignored you completely.

He tucked your head beneath his chin, wings curling protectively around both of you while his shadows settled at last.

Safe.

You felt his lips brush softly against your hair.

“No one hurts you,” he murmured quietly, “and walks away unchanged.”

Taglist:

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "Don't say things like that unless you mean them."

Authors Note: Thank you so much! I am just as obsessed with this man <3

It had always been uncomplicated with Garrick.

At least, that’s what the two of you pretended.

No promises. No labels.

Just him showing up at your door late at night with that lazy grin that always made your stomach flip, and you letting him in every single time.

It was easier that way.

Because Garrick had already graduated.

Because you still had another year at Basgiath.

Because riders died all the time, and getting attached to someone too deeply felt dangerously stupid.

And several other reasons you told yourself after the third time.

So instead, you settled into this strange in-between.

Friends who touched each other too much.

Who kissed like they had something to prove.

Who kept finding excuses to come back.

And now, with whispers of unrest spreading through Navarre and tension hanging thick through the college halls, everything feels sharper somehow.

The incoming threat of the attack hangs heavy in the air, tangled up with the choking stench of fear. Riders, healers and infantry cadets move through the halls with sharp, chaotic energy.

Like everyone suddenly understands how fragile everything really is and that tomorrow might not be guaranteed.

You’re standing on one of the outer balconies overlooking Basgiath when you hear footsteps behind you.

You don’t even have to turn around.

“You’re hiding.”

Garrick’s voice slides over your skin warm and familiar.

You lean against the stone railing. “Maybe I just wanted five minutes where nobody’s panicking.”

He hums softly in agreement before stepping beside you.

For a while, neither of you speak.

The wind catches his dark hair, and you glance at him from the corner of your eye.

He looks stressed, worried and tired, more tired than you’ve ever seen him.

Something twists painfully in your chest.

“You okay?” you ask quietly.

His eyes flick toward you.

“Now I am.”

You roll your eyes a little, but your pulse betrays you.

Because that look in his eyes—

Gods.

It’s too intense. Too serious.

Before you can think better of it, you step closer and fix the crooked collar of his jacket, brushing your fingers over the worn leather.

“You should try and get some sleep before it starts,” you murmur.

His hand catches your wrist gently before you can pull away.

The touch is careful, almost hesitant, which is so unlike Garrick that it immediately makes your stomach tighten.

“What?” you whisper.

He stares at you for a long moment, jaw tense like he’s fighting with himself.

Then quietly—

“I’m in love with you.”

Your breath catches.

The world seems to stop around you.

No sounds. No wind.

Nothing except the way he’s looking at you like he’s finally saying something he’s been holding back for far too long.

You let out a soft disbelieving laugh, mostly because your heart is suddenly trying to beat its way out of your chest.

“Garrick…”

“I mean it.”

“You don’t have to say that because everything’s about to go to shit.”

His brows pull together immediately. “That’s what you think this is?”

“I think,” you say carefully, trying and failing to keep your voice steady, “that people say reckless things before battles.”

His grip on your wrist tightens slightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you there.

“I’ve been in love with you for months.”

Your throat goes dry.

“You’re serious?”

He actually looks offended.

“Completely and utterly gone.”

You shake your head faintly, overwhelmed. “Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”

The words come out smaller than you intended.

More vulnerable.

Because the truth is, Garrick has always had this terrifying ability to make you want things you promised yourself not to want.

Something in his expression softens instantly.

Then he steps closer.

Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him.

Close enough that your breathing tangles together as you raise your head to meet his eye as he towers over you.

“I mean it,” he says again, quieter this time. “I mean every fucking word.”

Your heart stutters violently.

"I just kept telling myself not to say it because the timing’s shit and you deserve more than whatever this has been. But every time I've had to walk away from you, it's almost killed me."

His forehead rests lightly against yours.

"And I'll be damned if I don't tell you now, right before thing's are about to go to shit. I may never get another chance—"

Garrick's suddenly voice catches and he takes a deep breath and stops and watches your face to gauge your reaction.

“You’re an asshole for doing this to me,” you whisper weakly.

A grin tugs at his mouth. “Doing what?”

“Making me fall in love with you back.”

A soft laugh escapes him, but there’s something emotional underneath it.

“Let me make up for it then.”

Then his hand slides up to cup your jaw.

And when he kisses you—

Gods.

There’s nothing casual about it.

Nothing teasing or half-hearted like all the stolen kisses before this.

This kiss feels devastatingly deliberate.

Like he’s trying to pour every unspoken feeling into it.

His mouth moves against yours slowly at first, almost careful, before the restraint breaks completely when he feels you kiss him back. He kisses you deeper, more desperate, one hand sliding around your waist to pull you flush against him.

You make a small sound against his mouth, fingers gripping the front of his jacket.

He kisses you like he means it, like he’s been wanting to do this properly for a very long time.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing harder.

Your forehead falls against his.

“You picked a hell of a time to tell me,” you murmur.

His thumb brushes softly across your cheek.

“The possibility of losing you tends to put things into perspective.”

Emotion swells painfully in your chest.

So instead of saying anything, you kiss him again.

And this time, when Garrick smiles against your mouth, you realise neither of you are pretending anymore.

Taglist:

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "Don't shut me out."

Authors Note: Ugh I love this scenario especially with our favourite Wingleader! There's nothing than a soft and comforting shadow daddy. Hopefully I did it justice and gave you exactly what you wanted <3

The first night, Xaden thinks you just need space.

The second night he starts to worry.

By the third, he’s ready to start a fight.

Because you haven’t slept properly since the challenge with the flier.

The challenge where tensions between the riders and the fliers finally spilled over, exploded in a violent confrontation and one particularly boisterous flier tried to fight dirty against you.

You haven’t eaten more than a few bites.

You've barely spoken.

And worst of all, you won’t let him near you.

Not physically. Not emotionally.

Every time he reaches for you, you pull away like his touch burns.

Every time he asks if you’re alright, you say the same thing in that empty, distant voice:

“I’m fine.”

Lie.

He knows it. You know it, but neither of you acknowledge it.

Tonight, he finds you sitting on the floor beside the bed in your shared room in Aretia, knees drawn to your chest, staring blankly at the wall.

You don’t even notice he’s entered at first and that alone terrifies him. He's so used to your eyes automatically finding his and lighting up at the simple sight of him.

His jaw tightens slightly.

“Did you eat today?”

Nothing.

The shadows around his feet stir restlessly as he closes the door behind him.

“Sweetheart.”

Your expression flickers at the nickname.

Barely, but enough for him to see.

Slowly, carefully, he crouches a few feet in front of you—not too close. Not pushing.

Not yet.

“You can keep pretending you’re okay,” he says quietly, “but I know you.”

Your throat bobs once before you look away and that hurts him more than yelling would’ve.

Because you’ve never looked at him like this before.

Like you’re hiding. Like you’re ashamed.

Xaden exhales slowly through his nose, forcing patience into himself.

“Talk to me.”

Silence.

The fire crackles softly behind him.

Outside, distant voices echo through Aretia, but inside this room it feels like the world has stopped breathing.

Finally, after several moments, quietly—

“I can still see his face.”

The words are so soft he almost misses them.

Something inside him immediately aches.

You swallow hard, eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

“I close my eyes and I see him hitting the ground.” Your voice shakes slightly now. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

“You were defending yourself.”

“I killed him.”

The crack in your voice nearly destroys him.

You finally look at him then, and the devastation in your expression hits like a physical blow.

“He looked scared,” you whisper. “Right at the end, he looked scared and I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Xaden’s chest tightens painfully.

You curl tighter into yourself, fingers trembling slightly where they grip your sleeves.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this.”

Xaden moves before he even consciously decides to.

Slowly. Carefully.

He kneels directly in front of you now.

“You don’t get to carry this alone.”

Immediately, your expression shutters again. Your instinct to retreat and bury the guilt that's been threatening to choke you for days now.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I said—”

“I know what you said.” His voice sharpens slightly—not angry, but firm enough to stop you. “And I’m telling you I don’t believe you.”

Your eyes sting instantly at the sudden intensity in his voice.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you admit shakily. “You’ve all killed people before. The marked ones, the riders—everyone just keeps moving and I—” your breathing catches painfully “—I can’t stop thinking about him.”

Xaden’s face softens so immediately it almost undoes you completely.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

The gentleness in his voice is worse than pity.

You look away again quickly before he can see the tears gathering.

Too late.

“Look at me.”

You shake your head.

“Please.”

That’s what gets you.

Not command. Not pressure. But pleading.

Please.

Reluctantly, you lift your gaze.

His expression nearly breaks your heart.

There’s no judgment there.

No disappointment. Only concern. Only love.

“You think there’s something wrong with you because you’re devastated after taking a life?” he asks quietly.

You blink hard. “I shouldn’t feel this weak.”

His brows draw together immediately. “Weak?”

“You all handle it.”

“No,” he says firmly. “We survive it.”

That lands hard enough to make you still.

Xaden shifts closer carefully, slow enough to give you time to pull away.

You don’t.

“I need you to listen to me,” he says softly. “The fact that this hurts means you’re still you. It means you still care. Do you understand how rare that is here?”

A tear finally slips down your cheek.

“I can’t stop seeing it.”

“I know.”

Another tear follows.

“I can’t sleep.”

“I know.”

“I feel sick all the time.”

“I know.”

His voice never changes, never hardens. It just stays steady and warm and heartbreakingly patient.

And somehow that makes the tears worse.

“I didn’t want to kill him,” you whisper brokenly.

Xaden’s expression crumples slightly at the words.

“I know you didn’t.”

The sob that escapes you then sounds almost startled, like you’d been fighting it for days and your body finally gave up.

Immediately, Xaden closes the remaining distance between you.

One hand slides gently to the back of your neck while the other pulls you into his chest carefully, giving you every opportunity to resist.

You don’t.

You fold into him so suddenly it almost knocks the breath from him.

“There you go,” he murmurs softly into your hair.

And that nearly destroys you completely.

Because you didn’t realise how exhausted you were from holding yourself together until he said it.

Your hands clutch tightly at his shirt while the sobs finally come properly, harsh and uneven against his chest.

Xaden just holds you through all of it.

No judgment. No lectures.

Just steady warmth and grounding pressure and his hand smoothing repeatedly through your hair.

“You don’t have to shut me out,” he says quietly after a while.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“I didn’t know how to talk about it.”

“You don’t have to do it perfectly.”

Another shaky breath leaves you.

“I thought if I said it out loud it would become real.”

Xaden’s arms tighten around you slightly.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “it was already real. You don’t have to survive it alone on top of that.”

You cry harder at that, because that’s exactly what you’ve been trying to do.

Carry it alone. Punish yourself alone. Mourn alone.

Xaden presses a kiss gently into your hairline.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

You don’t answer, which is answer enough.

His jaw tightens faintly. “Okay.”

You sniff weakly. “…Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything.”

“That tone says otherwise.”

Despite everything, you feel the faintest shift in his chest like he’s suppressing a relieved laugh because you’re finally talking properly.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

Before you can protest, he carefully shifts, lifting you up from the floor entirely.

You let out a tiny startled sound. “Xaden—”

“Nope.”

“I can walk.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then put me down.”

“No.”

Normally you’d argue harder, but tonight you just bury your face into his neck instead.

His expression softens instantly.

He carries you to the bed, settling you carefully against the pillows before pulling the blankets over you.

“You’re going to eat something,” he says.

“I’m not hungry.”

“That’s unfortunate for you because I already asked someone to bring food.”

You blink at him. “You did?”

“I’ve been worried for three days,” he says flatly. “Of course I did.”

Your chest aches painfully at the quiet honesty of it.

He sits beside you then, one hand still resting against your leg like he’s reassuring himself you’re really there.

“You’re going to sleep tonight too.”

“I don’t want to dream.”

Something flickers across his face then.

Understanding.

Without a word, he shifts further into the bed beside you and opens an arm toward you automatically.

An invitation.

You hesitate for only a second before moving into him.

Immediately, his arm wraps tightly around you, pulling you fully against his chest.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs softly into your hair.

And for the first time since the challenge you finally believe you might survive this too.

Because you know you have Xaden by your side.

Taglist:

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "I didn't ask you to come" and "I'm not leaving you".

The first thing Xaden noticed when he lands in the clearing is that something feels wrong.

Too quiet. Too still.

The shadows at his feet stir uneasily as he slides from Sgaeyl’s back, scanning the tree line automatically for the small group of fliers he was scheduled to meet for the first time.

Everything looks normal.

And that’s exactly why his instincts sharpen.

Then—

The air suddenly shifts, the sounds of flapping wings and a familiar dragon lands behind him.

Xaden closes his eyes, slowly, like he’s asking the gods for strength.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

You hop down from your dragon looking entirely too pleased with yourself.

“Hi.”

His stare could level buildings.

“You followed me?”

You shrug casually, already walking toward him. “Technically I tracked you.”

“That is not better.”

“It’s a little better.”

“It’s significantly worse.”

Xaden lowers his voice as you stop in front of him, conscious of who could be listening. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Backing you up.”

“I didn’t ask you to come.”

“No,” you agree easily. “You snuck out alone in the middle of the night like a suspicious little criminal instead.”

His jaw tightens. “Because this mission was supposed to stay quiet.”

“And it still is.”

“You could’ve gotten hurt.”

“And you couldn’t?”

“That’s different.”

You snort immediately. “Right. Of course. Because you’re apparently immortal now.”

His eyes narrow.

Yours narrow right back.

Gods, he’s furious.

Not cold furious either—the dangerous kind. The kind fuelled entirely by fear and protectiveness whenever you're in danger.

You soften slightly.

“Xaden,” you say quieter this time, “I’m here now.”

“That’s the problem.”

But despite the words, his gaze sweeps over you automatically, checking for injuries, checking that you’re really alright. And when he finds none some tiny fraction of tension leaves his shoulders.

Barely noticeable, but you catch it.

The standoff lasts exactly three seconds before a twig snaps within the trees and a small group of fliers begin edging into the clearing.

Too late to send you away now.

The drop itself goes smoothly.

Almost suspiciously smoothly considering you were effectively committing treason and working with your enemies.

The crates get transferred quickly, routes confirmed, information exchanged. Xaden remains guarded the entire time, all sharp focus and controlled authority, but every so often his gaze flicks toward you anyway.

Making sure you’re still there. Making sure you’re safe.

At one point, when negotiations stall briefly, one of the younger fliers edges closer to you and murmurs quietly:

“He always this terrifying?”

You glance toward Xaden, who’s currently staring down another flier you vaguely overheard him calling Syrena, hard enough that anyone else would have bolted in the other direction already.

“…Pretty much.”

“And you followed him here willingly?”

“Questionable decision-making is kind of my thing.”

The flier snorts.

Across the clearing, Xaden notices, and somehow looks annoyed about that too.

By the time everything’s finished and the fliers depart, the tension has mostly faded from the night air.

Mostly.

Xaden is still sulking.

You walk beside him toward your dragons, fighting a smile.

“You know,” you say casually, “for someone who survived the mission completely unharmed, you’re being incredibly dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic.”

“You’ve spoken approximately seven words to me in the last hour.”

“That was intentional.”

“There it is.”

He shoots you a flat look.

You grin, which does not help his mood. “You cannot seriously still be angry.”

“I absolutely can.”

“But nothing even went wrong.”

“That’s not the point.”

You sigh dramatically. “Gods, you sound so serious.”

“I’m going to leave you here if you don't stop.”

“No, you won’t.”

Xaden only huffs, knowing you were correct.

You laugh outright at that, bumping lightly into his arm as you reach your dragons.

He catches your wrist immediately before you can pull away.

The movement is automatic.

Possessive. Protective.

His expression shifts slightly then, some of the frustration finally cracking enough for something more honest to slip through.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he says quieter this time.

“But?”

He narrows his eyes instantly. “There is no but.”

“There’s absolutely a but.”

“There is not.”

You just wait, because you know him, know the exact look he gets when he’s losing an argument internally.

And there it is.

A tiny exhale. A reluctant glance away.

“…It was useful having you here, I guess.”

Victory.

Your grin spreads immediately. “Useful?”

“Don’t make it worse.”

“You liked having backup.”

“I tolerated having backup.”

“You were comforted by my presence.”

“I was stressed by your presence.”

“But secretly reassured.”

He groans softly. “Gods, you’re insufferable.”

You beam at him. “And yet?”

His gaze flicks back to yours, warm now despite himself. Hopelessly fond underneath all the irritation.

“…And yet,” he mutters reluctantly, “I was glad you were here.”

The words hit you right in the chest, because Xaden doesn’t admit things like that easily.

Your expression softens immediately.

“See,” you tease gently, “that wasn’t so hard.”

“It was horrible actually.”

You laugh quietly, stepping closer.

His hand is still wrapped around your wrist, but his other hand rises to sit comfortably on your waist.

“You know,” you murmur, “you don’t always have to do things alone.”

His jaw tightens faintly at that. “I know.”

“You act like backup is a personal insult.”

“Because usually it is.”

You roll your eyes affectionately. “You’re impossible.”

“So are you.”

A beat passes.

Then, predictably his expression hardens again.

“You’re still not doing this again.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.”

“You cannot stop me.”

“I can try.”

“You literally just admitted you were glad I came.”

“I’m allowed to be glad and furious simultaneously.”

“That seems unhealthy.”

“That sounds like a problem for future me.”

You snort.

He steps closer then, lowering his voice. “Next time I bring Garrick. Or Bodhi.”

“Oh, so they’re allowed but I’m not?”

“Yes.”

“That’s sexist.”

“It's protective boyfriend instinct.”

You laugh again, but his hand tightens slightly around yours before you can step away completely.

The humour in his expression fades just enough for something more vulnerable to show through.

“I don't like it when you put yourself in more danger than necessary,” he admits quietly.

There it is. The real reason.

Not anger. Never really anger, but fear.

Your chest softens immediately.

You step fully into his space this time, reaching up to smooth your hand along his jaw.

“I’m okay.”

“You might not have been if things had gone wrong.”

“But I was and things didn't go wrong.”

His eyes close briefly at your touch, tension flickering across his face again.

“I’m not leaving you,” you say softly. "Not to face danger on your own."

His gaze snaps back to yours instantly.

Something fierce flashes there. Something emotional enough that it almost catches him off guard.

Then he exhales quietly through his nose and leans his forehead briefly against yours.

“…That’s exactly the problem,” he mutters.

He presses a kiss to your forehead before reluctantly letting you go to mount your dragon.

And despite all the sulking and glaring and angry boyfriend lectures—

Xaden sleeps better at night knowing you're always beside him.

Taglist:

I love the prompt list and was wondering if you could write something for Cassian with 5. “You remembered?”. Keep up the amazing work!! <3

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "You remembered".

Authors Note: Thank you so much! Cassian is such a loveable teddy bear, so I really enjoyed writing this one. Hope you also enjoy!

The House is quiet when you return.

Too quiet.

You pause just inside the doorway, brows knitting slightly as you slip your boots off.

“Cassian?” you call.

No answer.

Which is suspicious. Very suspicious for the 6'5 Illyrian.

You step further inside carefully.

The lights are low.

Soft music drifts faintly from somewhere deeper in the house, and there’s a smell in the air—something sweet, rich, familiar.

Your confusion only deepens.

“Cassian?”

Still nothing.

Then—

“Kitchen.”

You blink.

You smile to yourself, sensing something different about tonight.

You follow the sound of his voice, rounding the corner—

And stop dead.

Candles flicker across every surface.

Not extravagant. Not overdone. Just enough to cast everything in gold.

The table is set. Dinner already waiting.

And Cassian is standing there looking unbearably pleased with himself.

“Well?” he asks immediately, spreading his arms slightly. “Impressed?”

You stare at him.

Then at the table.

Then at him again.

“…Did you cook?”

His expression turns defensive. “I had supervision.”

You laugh softly despite yourself. You bite your lip to keep your giddy smile at bay, a faint colouring to your cheeks as you take the effort he's taken in awe.

And that’s when you notice it.

Sitting near your plate.

A tiny vase.

Inside it, a cluster of pale blue wildflowers.

Your breath catches.

Cassian notices instantly.

His cocky expression falters slightly. “You okay?”

You move closer slowly, almost cautiously, eyes fixed on the flowers.

Tiny. Delicate. Beautiful.

“You remembered?” you ask quietly.

Cassian’s brow furrows like the answer should be obvious.

“Of course I remembered.”

Your throat tightens immediately.

Because it wasn’t just the flowers.

It was these flowers.

The ones you’d pointed out months ago during a flight through the mountains. The ones that only bloomed for a few weeks each year. You’d stopped to admire them for all of thirty seconds before moving on.

You hadn’t even thought he was listening.

“They only grow near the northern ridges,” you say softly.

“Mm.”

“And it’s freezing there right now.”

Cassian shrugs one shoulder casually, but you know him well enough to catch the slight stiffness in the movement.

“You flew all the way out there?”

“You liked them.”

Like that explained everything. Like there was no question he would.

Your eyes sting instantly.

Cassian notices in horror.

“Oh gods.”

You laugh weakly as tears suddenly spill over.

“No, no, sweetheart—don’t cry—”

“I’m not trying to!”

Cassian is around the table in seconds.

Large hands immediately cupping your face, concern written all over him.

“You’re crying,” he says helplessly.

“You remembered the flowers,” you whisper, which only seems to confuse him more.

“Obviously I remembered the flowers.”

That somehow makes it worse.

A soft, embarrassed sob escapes you and Cassian looks genuinely alarmed now.

“Hey,” he says quickly, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes. “Hey, none of that.”

You laugh through your tears.

“You flew into the mountains in winter for flowers.”

“You make it sound dramatic.”

“It is dramatic!”

“You cried last week because I brought you your favorite pastry.”

“It was thoughtful!”

“You’re proving my point!”

You smack lightly at his chest.

He catches your wrist immediately, pressing a kiss into your knuckles before pulling you against him.

"I can't believe you did all this."

“Of course I did,” he murmurs softly as you hide your face against his chest.

You cling to him, still sniffling.

Cassian wraps his arms tightly around you, chin resting atop your head.

“You really didn’t think I’d remember?” he asks quietly after a moment.

You shrug weakly against him.

“It was months ago.”

“So?”

“You barely stopped walking.”

“I always listen to you.”

The sincerity in his voice nearly starts the tears all over again.

Cassian immediately senses it.

“Absolutely not,” he warns gently. “No more crying.”

“You’re too sweet,” you mumble into his shirt.

He snorts softly. “Don’t let the others hear you say that. I’ve got a reputation.”

You smile against him.

He tilts your chin up carefully, brushing away the last traces of tears with impossibly gentle hands.

“There’s my girl,” he murmurs warmly.

He leans down and presses a sweet kiss to your lips.

You look at him properly as he pulls away.

At the quiet pride in his expression. The softness he only ever shows so openly with you.

And your chest aches with it.

“You remembered,” you say again, quieter this time.

Cassian smiles like this was the easiest thing in the world.

“Always.”

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(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "You're shaking."

The wind in the Illyrian camps is different from the rest of Prythian.

Sharper. Crueler.

It cuts straight through leathers and skin and bone until even breathing starts to ache.

By the time night falls, you’re exhausted.

The day had been long—training females who still flinched every time they made a mistake, quietly correcting stances when the males nearby muttered disapproval, pretending not to notice the glares burning into your back.

Cassian had been gone most of the afternoon, dragged from one meeting to another with camp lords and commanders already testing his patience.

You’d told him you’d be fine.

Now, standing alone in the small house assigned to you both, you’re beginning to regret that.

The fire crackles weakly in the hearth.

You’re still cold.

You sit curled near the edge of the couch, wrapped in a blanket that doesn’t help nearly enough, fingers tucked under your arms as you stare numbly into the flames.

Your body won’t stop trembling.

You’re so tired you don’t even realize the door has opened until—

“Sweetheart?”

Cassian’s concerned voice.

You look up slowly.

His expression changes the second he sees you.

“Gods,” he mutters, crossing the room instantly. “You’re shaking.”

You try for a smile. “It’s freezing here.”

“That bad?”

You nod once.

His jaw tightens slightly, eyes sweeping over you—checking for injury first, instinctively.

Then he kneels in front of you, large hands immediately finding your arms.

His palms are warm. So deliciously warm that you let out a small breath at the contact.

“How long have you been like this?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t know. A while.”

His frown deepens. “You should’ve sent for me.”

“You were busy.”

“I don’t care.”

The answer comes too fast. Too firm.

His thumbs rub gently up and down your arms, trying to coax warmth back into them.

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs.

“I noticed.”

That finally gets the faintest twitch of a smile from him.

“Smart mouth.”

You would grin back if your teeth weren’t threatening to chatter.

Cassian notices immediately and his face softens.

“Oh, honey.”

Before you can protest, he’s standing and pulling you up with him effortlessly.

You make a small sound of surprise as he sits first—then drags you directly into his lap, wrapping the blanket fully around both of you.

Warmth engulfs you instantly.

Cassian’s chest at your back. His wings curving forward around you like shields. His arms tight around your middle.

You practically melt against him.

“There,” he murmurs against your hair. “Better?”

“A little.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. Then another to your cheek.

“You worked too hard today.”

“So did you.”

“Yeah, but I’m built for this weather.”

You snort weakly. “Show off.”

He huffs a soft laugh, tightening his hold slightly when another shiver runs through you. Without another word, one hand slips beneath the blanket to take yours.

Your fingers are ice cold.

Cassian actually winces.

“Gods above.”

He brings your hand to his mouth immediately, breathing warm air over your knuckles before pressing kisses to your fingertips one by one.

You blink, heart squeezing painfully.

“Cass…”

“What?” he murmurs, still rubbing warmth back into your hands. “Can’t have my girl freezing to death on me.”

“I’m not dying.”

“You’re dramatic enough that I can’t be sure.”

You elbow him weakly.

He catches your hand before you can pull it away, kissing your palm this time.

"You know, there is a quicker way I can get you warmed up..."

You snort. "Does it involve less clothes?"

Cassian's grin turns positively wicked. "Maybe."

You roll your eyes, though it lacks any real bite when you’re still curled against him beneath the blanket, half frozen and entirely too comfortable in his lap.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he murmurs, tightening his arms around your waist, “you continue to keep me around.”

“Debatable.”

Cassian laughs before he says softly, “Come here."

As if you aren’t already practically inside his ribcage.

He shifts you more fully against him until you’re completely tucked into his chest, your legs draped over his, wings cocooning you both from the draft slipping through the old cabin walls.

His chin rests lightly on your shoulder.

You can feel the heat radiating off him now.

Steady. Safe.

“Meetings go badly?” you ask quietly after a moment.

Cassian groans dramatically into your hair.

“The worst males alive,” he mutters. “I considered throwing at least three of them off the mountain.”

You laugh softly.

“There she is,” he says immediately, smiling against your skin. “That’s the sound I wanted.”

You relax further into him.

Another shiver passes through you, smaller this time.

Cassian notices anyway.

He rubs his hands firmly along your arms beneath the blanket before pressing another kiss behind your ear.

“Still cold?”

“Not as much.”

“Good.”

Silence settles comfortably.

The fire crackles.

Snow taps softly against the windows.

And Cassian just holds you.

No teasing now. No games. Just warmth and steady affection poured into every touch.

After a while, he murmurs quietly:

“You know I’d leave every meeting in Prythian if you needed me.”

Your chest tightens.

“I know.”

“And next time,” he adds, voice gentler still, “tell me sooner.”

You tilt your head slightly, brushing your nose against his jaw.

“Yes, General.”

He snorts softly.

Then pulls the blanket tighter around you both anyway—

Like he can shield you from the cold through sheer stubbornness alone.

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(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "You have no sense of self-preservation."

Authors Note: I chose to go with Brennan on this one as we need more Brennan appreciation!

The healers’ quarters are nearly empty by the time you find him.

The battle ended hours ago, but Brennan is still standing in the center of the infirmary with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands glowing gold as another rider groans beneath his touch.

You pause in the doorway.

He looks exhausted.

Not ordinary tired—drained. Pale beneath the freckles dusting his face, shoulders tense, movements slower than usual. There’s sweat at his temples and a faint tremor in his hands every time the glow fades between patients.

And still, he says, “Next.”

“Brennan.”

He barely glances up. “One minute.”

“That’s what you said hours ago.”

Violet had wisely sought you out after Brennan kept continually ignoring her gentle demands to rest. If there was anyone he would listen to, it was you.

The healer beside him wisely slips away while Brennan finishes mending a cracked rib. The second the rider leaves, another injured cadet limps forward.

Brennan lifts his glowing hands again.

You step directly between them.

“No.”

His jaw tightens. “Move.”

“No.”

“People need help.”

“And you can barely stand.”

“I’m fine.”

You stare at him flatly. “You’re swaying.”

“I’m not—”

He sways.

Only slightly, but enough.

Your expression softens instantly.

“Brennan,” you say quietly.

He exhales hard, scrubbing a hand over his face. “There are still wounded.”

“And there will be more wounded if you collapse from burnout.”

“They need me.”

“So do I.”

That gets his attention.

His eyes finally lift fully to yours, exhaustion cracking through the stubbornness.

You step closer, lowering your voice. “You need to look after yourself better.”

A tired huff of laughter escapes him. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

His glow flickers faintly again, unstable now, and your stomach twists.

Without another word, you reach for his wrists, gently forcing his hands down.

“That’s enough.”

“I can keep going.”

“No,” you say softly. “You could. That’s the problem.”

For a moment he just looks at you, worn thin and quietly miserable beneath all the composure.

Then, finally, he lets himself lean into you.

You guide him to sit on the edge of one of the cots, kneeling in front of him as your hands slide up into his hair, brushing damp strands back from his forehead.

His eyes close immediately.

“You’re impossible,” you murmur.

“Mm.”

“You run into collapsing buildings. Ignore injuries. Drain yourself half to death healing strangers.”

“They aren’t strangers.”

“You know what I mean.”

His hands settle automatically at your waist, grounding himself there.

You brush your thumb over the dark circles beneath his eyes. “You really have no sense of self preservation.”

This time, when he opens his eyes, something softer lives there.

“No,” he says quietly. “Mine just disappears whenever it comes to you.”

Your breath catches.

He watches your expression change and gives the faintest, tired smile.

“You ask me to stop,” he murmurs, thumb stroking your hip gently, “and I stop. Everyone else in this place would have had to physically restrain me.”

“That was my next plan.”

He laughs softly at that—weak, exhausted, but real.

You lean forward and press a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“Come to bed,” you whisper.

He looks at you for a long moment before nodding once.

“Okay.”

And when he stands, unsteady from overusing his signet, he reaches for your hand immediately—like even now, exhausted down to the bone, he still needs the reassurance that you’re there.

Taglist:

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "You're beautiful" and "I could stay like this forever."

The first thing you become aware of is warmth.

Not the heavy suffocating kind, but the deep, comfortable warmth of Garrick wrapped around you like he’d spent the entire night trying to shield you from the cold.

One of his arms is draped across your waist, the other tucked beneath your pillow. His chest rises steadily against your back, slow and even with sleep.

For once, there are no bells ringing for formation.

No sparring challenge waiting to bruise you black and blue.

No assignments. No patrols. No pressure clawing at your ribs.

Just him.

You blink slowly at the soft morning light spilling through the curtains and shift slightly beneath the blankets.

Immediately, the arm around your waist tightens.

“Don’t,” Garrick mumbles sleepily against the back of your neck.

A laugh escapes you. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“Hm.” His voice is rough with sleep. “Good.”

You turn carefully in his arms until you’re facing him, and your heart does that stupid little stutter it always does when you really look at him.

His dark hair is a mess, flattened on one side from sleep. There’s still the faint crease of exhaustion beneath his eyes from the last few weeks of training and missions, but relaxed like this—soft and half-awake—he looks younger somehow.

Content.

His eyes crack open slowly, immediately finding yours. And then he smiles.

Not the cocky grin he wears around everyone else. Not the teasing smirk.

This one is small. Sleepy. Real. Like it belongs only to you.

Your chest aches with affection.

“What?” you whisper.

His gaze drifts lazily across your face like he’s memorising you all over again. “You’re beautiful.”

Heat floods your cheeks instantly.

“Garrick—”

“No, seriously.” His thumb brushes softly across your cheekbone. “I wake up next to you and it’s unfair how beautiful you are first thing in the morning.”

You snort quietly. “I look half dead.”

“You look perfect.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your stomach twist pleasantly.

You hide your face against his chest with a groan. “You’re a liar.”

His laugh rumbles beneath your ear, low and warm.

His fingers slip into your hair, gently scratching against your scalp while silence settles between you again—comfortable and quiet.

Outside, you can faintly hear distant movement somewhere beyond the dormitory windows, but neither of you make any move to get up.

After a while, Garrick shifts lower into the pillows, pulling you with him until you’re practically sprawled across his chest.

“This,” he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep, “is exactly where you belong.”

Your heart melts a little more.

“Oh really?”

“Mhm."

“And what if I had productive plans today?”

He opens one eye. “You?”

You smack his chest weakly.

He grins. “Why are you always so cruel to me?”

“You started it.”

His hands slide lazily up and down your back beneath his shirt—the one you stole weeks ago and never gave back.

“Stay here today,” he says quietly.

You tilt your head. “In bed?”

“All day.”

You laugh softly. “Garrick, we’ll rot.”

“That’s fine.”

“We should probably eat at some point.”

“We’ll survive.”

“You say that now, but in six hours you’ll be dramatic about starving to death.”

“I can suffer through it if it means I get to keep holding you.”

Your expression softens.

Gods, this male.

You brush your fingers through his hair, pushing a few strands away from his forehead.

“I think,” you say carefully, “I could manage staying in bed all day with you.”

His entire face lights up like you’ve handed him the greatest gift imaginable.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The grin he gives you is devastatingly handsome.

Then he pulls you impossibly closer until your legs tangle together beneath the blankets and presses a slow kiss to your forehead.

“I could stay like this forever,” he murmurs against your skin.

And wrapped up in his arms, warm and adored and safe, you think maybe you could too.

Taglist:

with protective Azriel!!!

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "You almost got yourself killed!"

The battle was over, but the smell of smoke still clung to the air thick enough to choke on.

Your ears rang.

Somewhere in the distance, soldiers shouted for healers. Metal scraped against stone. Wings thundered overhead as Illyrians landed across the ruined field, but all of it sounded muffled—far away beneath the frantic pounding of your heart.

Because Azriel was on his knees.

Blood soaked through the side of his leathers, one hand braced against the ground while shadows writhed violently around him, unsettled and feral. He looked pale beneath the splatters of dirt and ash, his breathing shallow.

And all you could see—over and over again—was the moment he'd shoved you out of the way.

The moment that spear which had been meant for you had skewered through his side.

You reached him before he could stand properly.

“What in the hell were you thinking?” Your voice cracked so sharply it startled even you.

Azriel blinked up at you.

You had never shouted at him. Not once. Not in all the time he'd known you.

Around you, a few nearby soldiers very wisely pretended not to listen.

“You almost got yourself killed!” you snapped.

The words tore out of you far louder than intended, shaking with panic more than anger. Your hands grabbed fistfuls of his leathers as though you needed physical proof he was still there.

“You—” Your breath hitched violently. “You threw yourself in front of it.”

Azriel’s expression shifted then. The surprise faded, replaced by something softer. Something worried.

"Why would you do that?!"

His face tightened slightly, as though he didn't understand why that part upset you.

“It was going to hit you,” he said quietly.

The sheer simplicity of it nearly broke you.

Your vision blurred. “So your solution was to die instead?”

“I wasn’t going to die.”

“You don’t know that!”

Your voice cracked again, and that—more than the shouting—seemed to hit him.

Because suddenly Azriel was moving despite the obvious pain, rising just enough to reach for you.

But you got there first.

You practically threw yourself at him.

Your arms wrapped around his neck so tightly he staggered a little from the force of it, and then he was holding you just as fiercely, one hand sliding into your hair while the other anchored around your waist.

You were violently trembling.

Azriel felt it immediately and his entire body softened.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured.

The tenderness in his voice shattered the last of your composure.

“I thought—” Your words dissolved into a shaky breath against his neck. “I thought I was watching you die.”

Azriel went completely still.

The shadows around him quieted instantly, settling low and calm for the first time since the battle ended.

You buried your face against him harder, clutching at the back of his leathers. “Don’t do that to me,” you whispered brokenly. “Please don’t do that to me.”

His arms tightened.

You could feel his heartbeat against your chest. Strong. Steady. Alive.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

And Azriel almost never apologized for battlefield decisions.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, tears mixing with soot on your cheeks. “You scared me half to death.”

Something anguished flickered across his face then.

Not from his injury, but from you hurting. He hadn't even thought when he'd acted, it had been purely been protective instinct.

His thumb brushed beneath your eye carefully, reverently, as though he hated every tear he found there.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“Because you’re an idiot.”

A tiny breath of laughter escaped him at that. Tired. Disbelieving.

You glared at him through wet eyes, which only made his expression soften further.

Then his forehead rested against yours.

“You are my life,” he said quietly.

The words wrapped around your battered heart and squeezed.

Azriel’s voice dropped even lower. “Every instinct I have is built around protecting you.”

“But not at the cost of you,” you whispered fiercely.

His eyes closed briefly, as though hearing that hurt him more than the wound in his side.

“You don’t understand,” he admitted softly. “If something happened to you—”

“You think I’d survive losing you?”

That finally made him open his eyes.

Real shock crossed his face then. Genuine, vulnerable shock.

You cupped his face with trembling hands. “Azriel, I love you. If you had died in front of me tonight…” Your voice faltered. “I don’t even know what would’ve been left of me after.”

For a moment he simply stared at you.

Like no one had ever said something like that to him before.

Then he kissed you.

Not gentle. Not careful.

Desperate. Relieved.

His hands framed your face like he couldn't bear even an inch of distance between you, and you kissed him back just as fiercely, pouring every ounce of terror and love and gratitude into it.

Alive.

He was alive.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was uneven.

“Don't worry sweetheart, you’re stuck with me,” he murmured against your lips.

You let out a watery laugh. “Good. Because if you ever pull something like that again, I’ll kill you myself.”

A quiet chuckle rumbled from his chest.

Then he tucked you impossibly closer, pressing a kiss into your hair while his shadows curled lazily around both of you at last.

Safe.

Together.

Exactly where he intended to stay.

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(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "You're impossible to argue with when you look at me like that" and "Have you even been listening to me?"

The infirmary at Basgiath smells like burnt cloth, antiseptic, and exhaustion.

You hate it.

Mostly because being here means you pushed too far.

Again.

The healers move around you in practiced motions, checking burns along your forearms and the strain damage from completely overextending your signet during the sparring challenge. One of them keeps talking to you—something about magical depletion and stress on your body—but it all blurs together into background noise.

Because Xaden hasn’t said a single word.

Not one.

He stands near the foot of your bed, arms crossed tightly over his chest, jaw set hard enough to crack stone.

Watching. Waiting. Fuming.

And somehow that’s worse.

You risk a glance toward him just as one of the healers sighs dramatically.

“She’s lucky she stopped when she did.”

Xaden’s expression darkens immediately.

You wince.

The healer continues, entirely oblivious to the death glare aimed at the back of their head. “Another minute pushing that hard and we’d be having a very different conversation.”

Silence.

Then—

“We’d like to keep her overnight for observation.”

Absolutely not.

“I’m fine,” you immediately protest.

“No, you’re not,” the healer says flatly.

“I can walk.”

“You almost burned yourself out.”

“Yeah, almost.”

That earns you a look. Not from the healer.

From Xaden.

Gods.

You’d rather fight a wyvern barehanded.

The healer finally leaves after another round of instructions, giving Xaden a polite nod on the way out that he barely acknowledges.

And then the door closes and you’re alone.

The silence stretches.

You pick nervously at the blanket over your lap. “So…”

Nothing.

Xaden stares at you for another long second before dragging a hand down his face.

“You scared the absolute shit out of me.”

There it is.

You exhale quietly. “Xaden—”

“No.” He cuts you off immediately, finally pushing away from the wall. “No, because I specifically told you not to overdo it.”

“I had it under control.”

His laugh is sharp and completely humourless. “Really? Because from where I was standing, it looked a lot like you were about to collapse in the middle of the ring.”

You look away.

Wrong move.

“Have you even been listening to me?” he asks, frustration rising again.

“I am listening.”

“Then why do you keep doing this?” He gestures sharply toward you, toward the burns, toward the infirmary around you. “Why do you insist on pushing yourself past your limits every single time?”

“I just wanted to prove—”

“You don’t need to prove anything.”

“You don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t understand.” His voice cracks louder this time, emotion slipping through the control he’s clearly been clinging to. “I watched you nearly destroy yourself because you’re too stubborn to stop when you’re hurting.”

Your throat tightens.

Not because he’s yelling, but because he sounds scared.

Actually scared.

“I told you to stop,” he continues, pacing once now, agitated energy pouring off him. “And you looked me dead in the eye and kept going anyway.”

Your eyes sting suddenly. You stare down at your hands in an attempt to hide the fact.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble.

But he’s still going.

“You could’ve seriously hurt yourself. Do you have any idea what that would’ve done to me?” He stops pacing long enough to look at you properly. “Gods, you’re impossible sometimes.”

You blink quickly.

Once.

Twice.

Your vision blurs.

Because now that the adrenaline is gone and the healers are gone and it’s just him, all that’s left is embarrassment and humiliation.

You pushed too far in front of everyone. You lost control. And now Xaden’s upset with you on top of it.

A tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it.

The effect is immediate.

Xaden stops mid-sentence.

“…Hey.”

His entire expression changes in an instant, anger vanishing so fast it almost gives you whiplash.

You scrub at your face immediately, mortified. “I’m fine.”

He gives you a pointed look, softened at the edges. “No you're not.”

“I said I’m—”

Another tear escapes.

Xaden’s face softens immediately, all sharp edges melting into concern as he crosses the room in seconds.

“Hey, hey, sweetheart—”

“I know it was stupid,” you say quickly, voice wobbling despite your best efforts. “I know I pushed too hard, and everyone saw, and now I’m stuck in here and—”

“Look at me.”

Gentle.

So gentle it makes your chest ache.

You reluctantly lift your gaze.

The frustration is gone from his expression now, replaced entirely by worry and something painfully affectionate.

“You’re hurt,” he says softly. “I’m upset because you scared me. Not because I’m angry at you.”

You sniff weakly. “You sounded angry.”

“I was angry.” His hand comes up to brush away another tear with his thumb. “For about five seconds. Then you started crying and apparently I lost the ability to function.”

A watery laugh escapes you despite yourself.

“There it is,” he murmurs immediately, relief flickering across his face like he’d been waiting for that sound.

“I just feel stupid,” you admit quietly.

His brows pull together instantly. “For what? Getting hurt during training?” He shakes his head. “That doesn’t make you stupid.”

“I should’ve listened to you.”

“Yes,” he says immediately.

You glare weakly through your tears.

His mouth twitches.

“You’re impossible to argue with when you look at me like that,” he mutters.

You let out another tiny laugh, shoulders finally loosening slightly.

You can literally see him relax the second he hears it.

His hand slides gently into your hair, smoothing it back from your face.

“You don’t have to push yourself until you break for anyone,” he says quietly. “Not for the professors. Not for the other cadets. Not for me.”

Your throat tightens again—but this time for a different reason.

“I just wanted to keep up.”

His expression softens even further somehow.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “you’ve never once been something I had to drag behind me.”

Your eyes sting all over again.

“Oh gods,” he mutters affectionately. “Don’t start crying again.”

“You’re being nice to me.”

“That’s usually how this relationship works, yes.”

You huff out a weak laugh and immediately lean into him when he opens his arms.

He pulls you close carefully, mindful of the burns, one hand cradling the back of your head against his chest.

“You scared me,” he admits quietly into your hair. “I know you hate when I get overprotective, but seeing you like that…” He exhales shakily. “I can’t lose you.”

Your arms tighten around him immediately. “You won’t.”

“I’d prefer not to test that.”

A small silence settles between you then.

Warm. Safe.

His fingers continue combing gently through your hair while your breathing slowly evens out against him.

Eventually, he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“You’re staying here tonight,” he says firmly.

You groan softly. “Xaden—”

“Nope. Not negotiating.”

“I hate infirmaries.”

“I know.”

“They smell weird.”

“I know.”

“The beds are uncomfortable.”

“I know.”

You tip your head back just enough to look up at him. “You’re staying too then.”

That catches him off guard for half a second.

Then his expression softens into something unbearably fond.

“…Yeah,” he says quietly. “Course I am.”

Because there was never really another option.

Not for Xaden.

Not when it comes to you.

Taglist:

Feel free to request a scenario using one of the prompts below with your favourite character:

“You’re impossible to argue with when you look at me like that.”

“Don’t look at them. Look at me.”

“You’re going to bed even if I have to carry you.”

“Have you even been listening to me?”

“You remembered?”

“You came back.”

“I said I’d protect you.”

“Why are you smiling at me like that?”

“Tell me what happened.”

“You scared me.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Stop apologising for things that aren’t your fault.”

“I can’t lose you too.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

“I knew you’d come.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Get behind me.”

“Who did this to you?”

“You should see yourself right now.”

“You’re not seriously jealous.”

“You were flirting with them.”

“I hate seeing you with someone else.”

“You look good in my clothes.”

“Don’t move.”

“You’re warm.”

“Stay.”

“You can sleep here tonight.”

“I trust you.”

“You don’t trust anyone.”

“Why me?”

“Because it’s you.”

“You remembered my favourite.”

“You noticed that?”

“I wasn’t going to let you go alone.”

“You followed me?”

“I had to make sure you were safe.”

“That was reckless.”

“You almost got yourself killed.”

“You came for me?”

“I always will.”

“There's my favourite person.”

“When was the last time you slept?”

“You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

“Take my hand.”

“You are very obviously not fine.”

“Don’t shut me out.”

“You matter to me.”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“We’ll figure it out together.”

“You’re staring.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”

“I’ve never meant anything more.”

“You make me nervous.”

“Can you blame me?”

“You’re safe here.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Come here.”

“You remembered?”

“Did you really think you could get away with it?”

“I could stay like this forever.”

“Take it.”

“You did all this for me?”

“You’re avoiding me.”

“No, I’m trying not to kiss you.”

“That’s a terrible idea.”

“I think this is what happiness feels like.”

“You’re blushing.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re cute when you’re angry.”

“You think this is funny?”

“Kill me now.”

“I thought you hated me.”

“That’s a HUGE problem.”

“I shouldn’t want you like this.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You make me feel reckless.”

“You make me feel safe.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Why are you late?”

“You can’t keep saving me.”

“Watch this...”

“I didn’t ask you to come.”

“I know what you did last night.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You remembered my order?”

“Hey, don't do that!”

“You’re terrible at lying.”

“Only when it comes to you.”

“I thought I lost you.”

“I’m right here.”

“You’re hiding something.”

“You really have no sense of self-preservation.”

“You smiled.”

“Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“You’re softer than you pretend to be.”

“Careful.”

“Is that a threat?”

Hey everyone!

My ‘Moments’ series is like my little baby and I love seeing things or finding inspiration in little mundane moments in life and imagine what that would be like with our favourite men. I am so happy and grateful for all the comments and support I’ve received on all of them so far.

That being said, do you guys want more ‘Moments’ or something different and longer/more in-depth. Just general moments or something more specific? I’ve been considering doing themed ‘Moments’, for example around pregnancy/parenthood, different emotions like ‘Moments of jealousy or love’ etc. Comment below if you’d like that!

Is there someone in particular you’d like to see more of? You’ll notice I’ve added Liam from FW below, as I’m considering adding him to my portfolio… But you tell me what you want and I shall deliver!

I’ve put a poll below, so happy voting! 🥰 Depending on the results I shall release them in that order, so may the best man win!

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: A continuation of my 'Moments' series with our favourite High Lord.

Authors Note: Pre-established relationship below. Inspired by random moments and not in particular order. No warnings below.

The House of Wind had never felt so quiet.

Not in sound - there was always something: Cassian stomping through the halls, Mor laughing too loudly at something Azriel muttered under his breath, Feyre and Nesta arguing about something trivial that only sisters could argue over.

But to Rhysand, it was quiet in all the ways that mattered.

Your laughter wasn't there.

Your presence - warm, bright and grounding - was gone from every room like someone had pulled the sun out of the sky and expected him to just adjust.

He never did.

Not well.

The first night you left for the Summer Court, he told himself it would be fine.

A few weeks. Political duties. You were brilliant at it - sharp, compose, devastating when needed. He was supposed to accompany you, but Kier had been insistent with requiring him for a council meeting, so he was forced to stay behind.

He was proud of you, truly.

But pride didn't make the bed feel any less empty.

Rhys lay there that night, staring at the ceiling, one arm stretched across your side of the mattress like muscle memory hadn't caught up yet.

The sheets still faintly smelt like you - your perfume, something soft and warm with a hint of lavender - and he turned his face into your pillow like he could briefly pretend you were lying beside him.

It didn't work.

"Oh gods, I'm doomed," he muttered to himself.

By the third day, the Inner Circle noticed.

"Why do you look like someone stole your favourite toy?" Cassian asked one morning, dropping into the chair across from him with entirely too much smugness.

Rhys didn't even glance up from the papers currently scattered across his desk. "I will throw you off the balcony."

"That's the second time you've threatened me like that today," he retorts, eyes narrowing in accusation. "What is wrong brother?"

Azriel, quiet as ever, watched from the corner with a knowing look. "He hasn't been sleeping properly."

Rhys finally snapped his pen down. "I sleep."

"Sounds to me like you're brooding," Cassian snorts.

"I do not brood."

"You have been a lot more...serious the last few days," Azriel commented.

Rhys dragged a hand down his face. "I am the High Lord of the Night Court - I do not brood."

Cassian leaned back, grinning. "Miss her that much?"

Rhys didn't answer.

But that was answer enough.

Over the next few days he tried to keep busy.

Meetings, patrol reports, diplomatic letters. He even visited Velaris more than usual, walking the Sidra at night like he used to before you came into his life.

It only made things worse.

Everything reminded him of you.

A cafe where you once insisted he try some ridiculous pastry and laughed when powered sugar ended on his nose.

A shop window where you'd lingered too long over something simple, something he later bought just to see that smile again.

Even the stars felt duller.

By the second week, he'd started doing small, unconscious things.

He'd reach out down the bond at odd hours, just to check. Just to feel that faint echo of you - alive, steady, warm.

Sometimes you'd respond, soft and apologetic, but always sending a burst of love to him.

Sometimes you were too occupied to respond.

Those were the nights he hated the most.

One evening, he'd taken to wearing one of your discarded shawls around his shoulders when he worked late.

Not that he'd admit it.

Mor's eyes widened as she walked past his open doorway. "Is that-"

"No," Rhys said immediately.

"Huh, it looks a lot like-"

"It's comfortable, and it's cold in here," he snapped.

Her eyes twinkled in knowing before she scuttled off to tell Azriel and Cassian.

And then - finally - three weeks in, the world righted itself.

The House was lively again, dinner just about to be served. The Inner Circle gathered around the long table, Mor at Rhys's side, speaking softly to him about something he barely registered.

He was half-listening, half elsewhere - as he'd been for weeks.

"...and then if we send the proposal back-Rhys?"

He blinked. "Hmm?"

Mor's lips twitched. "You've not even pretending anymore."

Before he could retort, the doors to the dining room opened.

You stepped inside, travel-worn but radiant, a hint of dust still clinging to your clothes, your hair slightly windswept from the journey.

You weren't supposed to be back for another few days.

For a heartbeat, no one spoke.

And then-

Rhys froze. Like his entire world had just stopped.

"Have I missed dinner?"

The chair scrapes loudly against the floor as he crosses the room in three strides.

"Hey-"

You don't get another word out before he's there.

His arms wrap around you, lifting you clean off the ground as he pulls you into him like he's been holding his breath for weeks and can finally exhale.

"You're back," he says, voice rough against your hair.

You laugh softly, clinging to him. "I thought I'd come home early."

"Good," he mutters, pressing kisses everywhere he can reach - your temple, cheek, jaw, nose.

"Rhys-", you laugh, breathless.

"I missed you," he says, not even trying to hide it.

You soften instantly, pulling back slightly, hands cupping his face. "I missed you too."

His hands frame your face in return, thumbs brushing your cheeks, eyes scanning you as if checking for injuries, for changes, for anything he might have missed.

"You're alright?"

Your expression melted. "I'm alright."

That was all he needed.

He kisses you properly then - slow, warm, just enough to make the room collectively groan.

"Oh, for gods' sake," Cassian mutters.

Mor grins. "Look at him. Completely gone."

Azriel just shook his head, shadows practically rolling their eyes.

Rhys doesn't even acknowledge them.

He's too busy looking at you like you've just been returned to him after years instead of weeks.

Amren leans back in her chair, her lips slightly pulled up in a smirk. "He's been unbearable, by the way. You are not allowed to leave again, unless you take this lovesick fool with you."

You pulled back slightly, still wrapped in Rhys's arms. "Oh?"

Rhys didn't even look ashamed. "Can a husband not miss his wife?"

"He's not been sleeping," Azriel says.

"And I swear I saw him wear your shawl one night," Mor piped up.

"You missed me that much?" You asked, a teasing lilt to your voice.

"The House was too quiet," he complains. "And no one laughs at my jokes properly."

Cassian scoffs. "Your jokes aren't funny."

You smile, leaning into Rhys's side. "I'll laugh at your jokes."

"I know you will," he says, pressing a kiss into your hair. "Gods, I missed you."

"Is that all you missed about me?"

"No-!" He protests. "Shall I list everything I missed about you?"

"Please don't," Cassian grimaces.

You laugh, affectionately brushing some hair away from his forehead. "You can show me how much you missed me later."

"Ew! You're both insufferable," Mor complains.

You both laugh as he pulls out your chair for you, still entirely too close, still stealing small touches - your hand, your shoulder, your hair.

You squeeze his hand under the table.

He glances at you, smile softening into something quieter, deeper.

Home, finally.

Rhysand had known you were stressed.

Not the kind you brushed off with a smile and a joke. Not the kind you could fix with one good night's sleep and a lazy morning in bed.

This had been building.

Late nights. Too many responsibilities. Too many people needing pieces of you at once. He'd felt it down the bond - tight, frayed, stretched thin.

He'd tried, in his own way.

Gentle touched when you passed. Quiet check-ins. The occasional "come to bed" murmured against your mind when you stayed up too late.

You always smiled. Always said you were fine.

He didn't quite believe you.

So when he returned home that evening, shrugging off the weight of the day, he was already planning to corner you - softly - and insist you take a break.

Maybe a weekend away to the cabin, so you could both enjoy some uninterrupted time together.

"Hello? Darling?" He called as he stepped inside.

No answer.

He frowned slightly, shrugging out of his dark coat.

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

But then-

A voice.

Not yours. And not one that he recognised.

"...just try to breathe slowly-"

Rhys stilled.

Every instinct sharpened.

There was a stranger in his house.

He moved silently down the corridor, power coiling under his skin, darkness flickering instinctively as he approached the living room.

And then he stepped inside-

He froze.

You were lying flat on a table in the middle of the room.

Completely still. And covered in needles.

Long, thin, scary looking things that had no right puncturing your skin. In your arms, legs, chest.

Rhys blinked.

Once. Twice.

He could detect the faintest smell of your blood. His mating instincts surged to the surface.

"...What," he said slowly, "the fuck."

You didn't move. Couldn't apparently.

But your eyes flicked toward him, and - of all things - you looked calm. Relaxed.

"Hi, darling," you said, like this was completely normal.

Rhys gestured vaguely at you. "You are...full of sharp objects."

"Mmhmm."

"Why?"

Before you could answer, another figure stepped into view - a stranger, calm, composed, carrying a small tray with more needles on.

Rhys turned his head slowly. Dangerously.

"Who," he said, voice dropping, "are you, and why are you putting needles into my mate in my house?"

"High Lord," the male greeted politely, dipping his head. "Please don't disturb her. She's in a very relaxed state."

Rhys's eye twitched.

You sighed, staring resolutely at the ceiling.

"Rhys, darling, calm down."

"Calm down!?"

"This is exactly why I didn't tell you beforehand."

"Didn't-" Rhys looked back at you, incredulous. "You didn't think I'd have questions about this?"

"A few, maybe," you admitted. "I didn't want you to worry."

The acupuncturist, entirely unfazed, offered, "It's perfectly safe. I'm a licensed practitioner."

Rhys stared at him.

"I'll be the judge of that, thank you."

"Rhys," you said gently. "I'm fine."

"I can see that you are immobilised."

"I'm relaxed."

"You look like a pincushion."

You huffed a laugh. "Come here."

He hesitated, before he approached cautiously, like you might shatter if he moved too quickly, eyes scanning every needle like he was cataloging potential threats.

"Gods," he muttered, crouching beside you. "There are so many of them."

"I know."

"Why are there so many?"

"I don't know, ask him."

"I am asking him-"

"It's to stimulate specific pressure points," the acupuncturist said calmly. "To relieve tension, improve energy flow-"

Rhys blinked. "Energy flow."

You tilted your head slightly. "It's working."

He looked back at you, incredulous at first, but then he really looked at you.

Your shoulders weren't tight. Your brow wasn't furrowed. The constant hum of stress he'd been feeling from you through the bond was quiet.

Soft. Peaceful.

"...You do looked relaxed," he admitted slowly. "Does it hurt?"

"Not really," you said. "I feel amazing. Like properly calm, for the first time in weeks."

His thumb brushed over your knuckles, still grounding himself. "More relaxed than usual?"

You smiled, eyes flickering closed. "Mhmm."

There was a beat.

And then-

"Oh really?" Rhys said lightly, a hint of mischief that he couldn't help from creeping in. "More relaxed than the last I had you laid out on a table like this?"

Your eyes shot open.

"Rhys," you said flatly. "We have company."

The acupuncturist made a very deliberate effort to suddenly be extremely interested in adjusting something on the tray.

Rhys looked entirely unrepentant. "I'm just asking a question."

"You're being insufferable."

"You said you were relaxed."

"I was."

He grinned, leaning in slightly closer, voice dropping just enough to be teasing and warm.

"I missed you."

The shift was instant.

Your expression softened as you registered the meaning behind his sentiment.

"I'm right here."

"I know," he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "I just...haven't seen you like this in a while."

"Like what?"

"Still," he said. "Peaceful. Not carrying the entire world on your shoulders."

You exhaled slowly. "I didn't realise how bad it had gotten."

His grip on your hand tightened slightly. "You don't have to do everything alone."

"I know."

"Do you?" He asked softly.

You smiled faintly. "...I'm still learning."

The acupuncturist cleared his throat lightly. "She'll need about ten more minutes."

Rhys didn't even look at him this time, instead gently caressing your hair with his free hand. "Take all the time you need."

Then, to you, quieter-

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Good," you murmured. "Because if you do, I'm stuck here."

He huffed a quiet laugh, brushing his thumb over your skin again, grounding, affectionate.

"I think I can manage ten minutes of not panicking while my mate is...decorated with needles."

"Very brave of you."

A pause.

Then softly-

"I'll go and make us some dinner," he said. "You're taking the rest of the night off. And then after you've eaten, me and you are having a bath."

You smiled up at him. "Bossy."

"Correct."

"And what if I refuse?"

He leaned closer, voice low and playful again. "Then I'll find another table."

"Rhys!" You blushed.

"What? You asked-"

"We still have company."

"I'm aware."

"You're impossible."

"And yet, you love me."

You turned your head just enough to glance up at him, eyes warm despite everything. "Fortunately, yes."

He smiled - soft, fond, completely gone for you.

He pressed a final kiss to your forehead, before disappearing into the kitchen.

The bed was too cold.

That was what woke you.

Not fully, but just enough for your body to notice the absence beside you. The space where Rhys should have been was untouched, sheets smooth, pillows undisturbed.

You blinked slowly into the darkness.

He hadn't come to bed.

A glance toward the clock told you it was well past the hour he'd promised he'd be done.

You exhaled softly through your nose.

You gingerly got to your feet, sleep still clinging to you, wrapping a robe around you to keep the night chill away.

The house was quiet as you padded through it, the soft hush of night wrapping around everything. Most lights had dimmed, the usual hum of life stilled.

But not completely.

A faint glow spilled from beneath the door of his study.

You didn't knock.

Rhys was exactly where you expected him to be - slouched slightly in his chair, sleeves rolled up, a scatter of papers across his desk.

His hair was a little messier than usual, shadows faint beneath his eyes, the picture of someone who had absolutely been sitting there far too long.

He didn't even notice you at first.

"...and if we adjust the patrol rotations-" he muttered to himself, scribbling something down.

"Rhys."

He stilled, before looking up.

And something in his face softened instantly at the sight of you.

"Darling, why are you awake?" He asked.

"You're not in bed."

A flicker of guilt crossed his expression. "I'm sorry, I lost track of time."

"You promised."

His face crumpled further at your words, knowing you were right. He had spent the last several days coming to bed well past the point he should have been.

But you didn't scold him. You didn't need to.

Instead, you walked straight over, slipping between him and the desk so you were a physical barrier between him and his work.

"Hey-" he started, startled, but then you were climbing into his lap, settling there like you belonged - which you did.

His hands come up automatically, steadying you, even as he let out a quiet breath.

"You're stopping the final draft of our new treaty with Autumn being finished," he murmured.

You hummed, unconcerned, already reading up to cup his face.

"How tragic."

Up close, it was worse than you realised.

The exhaustion. The tension still lingering in his shoulders, the way he was holding himself upright more out of sheer will than anything else.

"You're tired," you said softly.

"I'm fine."

You raised a brow.

He huffed quietly. "Alright, I'm...a little tired."

"A little?"

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

Then another to his jaw. Then to his temple.

Each one was slow, deliberate, like you were undoing him piece by piece.

"You need sleep," you murmured against his skin.

He closed his eyes briefly as your fingers slid into his hair, gently tugging, massaging.

"Mm," he hummed, almost involuntarily.

"That's the sound of someone who should have been in bed hours ago," you tease softly.

His hands tightened slightly on your waist, pulling you closer.

"You're very distracting," he murmured.

"Good."

You press another kiss just beneath his ear, and this time-

He melts.

His head tips forward, nuzzling into your neck, breath warm against your skin as he lets himself lean into you and your warmth.

"I'm so tired," he admits finally, voice low and rough now.

There it was.

Honest. Unfiltered.

"I know," you whisper, wrapping your arms around him, holding him close. "Come to bed."

"In a minute," he says automatically.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

"No. Now."

He opens an eye, mouth opening to argue.

But you tug on his hair gently again, and whatever protest he had dissolves into a quiet exhale.

"...you're very bossy when you want to be."

"Only when you're being stubborn."

You don't give him time to change his mind or argue with you.

Instead, you clamp down on him, your power brushing against his and then-

The world shifts.

Darkness folds in and out-

And suddenly you're both falling-

Soft sheets catching you as you land in bed in a tangle of limbs and quiet laughter.

Rhys lets out a breathless chuckle, one arm tightening instinctively around you.

"That's cheating," he murmurs.

"You were taking too long."

"I was working."

"You were suffering needlessly," you correct gently.

He huffs, but there is no argument left in his now.

Not when you're snuggled against him. Not when the bed envelopes him in warmth and comfort. Not when your fingers were already tracing slow, soothing patterns along his back.

He pulls you closer, burying his face into your neck again, breathing you in like he needed it.

"You're too good to me," he mumbles, already half gone.

His grips loosens just slightly as sleep begins to claim him, the tension finally draining from his body.

You press one last soft kiss into his hair, holding him there, steady and safe. Listening as his breathing evens out.

The house settles again around you both.

Quiet. Peaceful. Exactly how it should be.

With him finally, finally asleep.

The first sign that something was wrong was the silence.

Velaris—your Velaris—was never silent. Not like this. Not with that strange, hollow stillness pressing in from every direction, as if the city itself was holding its breath.

Then came the screams.

“Stay with me.”

You barely had time to turn before Rhysand was there—shadows already curling around him, violet eyes blown wide with urgency. His hand closed around yours, firm, grounding.

“We’re going to the River House. Now.”

You nodded, heart racing, trusting him without question. You always did.

Darkness wrapped around you both as his wings snapped open, powerful and vast, and then you were airborne—Velaris sprawling beneath you in chaos. Smoke curled into the sky. Buildings burned. Winged creatures—too many of them—cut through the air like nightmares made flesh.

"Rhys, what's happening?" You asked, raising your voice so he could hear you over the roaring wind.

"One of the queens must've told Hybern...", he murmured, the rest unspoken.

The human queens had betrayed their trust and revealed to Hybern the location of Velaris.

You tightened your grip on him. You couldn't believe this was happening.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against your ear. “I’ve got you.”

For a moment, you believed him.

Then something slammed into him.

Rhys jerked mid-flight, a sharp grunt leaving him as claws tore across his shoulder. You cried out as his grip faltered—but didn’t break.

Another creature dove towards you on the edge of your periphery as Rhys directed his power and darkness towards the first one.

This one didn’t go for him.

It went for you.

"RHYS!"

A screech split the air as talons painfully caught your arm, ripping you from his hold whilst he was temporarily distracted. The world tilted violently—Rhys's hold on you slipping, slipping—

“NO!”

Rhys’s scream was raw. Terrified.

You saw it—his hand reaching for you, darkness lashing wildly, fury and panic written across every line of his face.

And then—

You were falling.

The sky rushed past in a blur. Wind roared in your ears. Your stomach dropped somewhere far above you as the city spun below—too fast, too far.

This is it, you thought. This is how I die.

For one endless, suspended heartbeat everything went quiet.

Then—

Impact.

But not the kind you expected.

Strong arms slammed around you mid-air, halting your descent so abruptly it knocked the breath from your lungs. You gasped, clinging instinctively as wings beat hard—steadying, stabilising.

“I’ve got you,” a familiar voice grunted.

You blinked, dazed, vision swimming until it focused on the scarred, steady face of Cassian as he held you like something precious and breakable.

Either way—you were alive.

“You’re alright,” he said, voice firm despite the chaos around you. “I’ve got you.”

Your hands shook as you clutched at him, breath coming in short, panicked bursts. You couldn’t even form words—only nod weakly as he carried you down, landing hard but controlled on a quiet stretch of street.

The moment your feet hit the ground, your legs nearly gave out.

And then—

“Where is she?!”

Rhys.

He crashed into the street seconds later, darkness exploding around him like a storm barely contained. His eyes locked onto you instantly—and the sheer, unfiltered terror in them made your chest ache.

He was at your side in an instant.

Hands everywhere—your face, your arms, your shoulders—as if he needed to confirm you were real.

“You—” His voice broke. “You’re here—gods, you’re—”

You didn’t get a chance to respond before he pulled you into him.

Hard.

One hand cradled the back of your head, pressing your face into his chest as the other wrapped around you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he loosened his grip even slightly.

“I thought—” he choked, pressing frantic kisses into your hair, your temple, your forehead. “I thought I lost you.”

“I’m okay,” you managed, though your voice trembled. “Rhys—I’m okay.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you again, scanning your face like he was committing every detail to memory. His hands were still shaking.

“I dropped you,” he said, horror threading through every word.

“You didn’t,” you said quickly, reaching for his face, grounding him the way he always grounded you. “They took me. It wasn’t you.”

It didn’t seem to matter.

His forehead pressed to yours, breath unsteady. “I should’ve—”

“You came back,” you whispered. “You always do.”

That seemed to hit something deep.

His arms tightened again, pulling you impossibly closer as he buried his face against your neck, holding you like you were the only solid thing left in a world gone mad.

For a moment, everything else—the fighting, the screams, the burning city—faded.

There was only this.

Him. You. Alive.

He was never letting you go now.

You noticed the first warning sign three days in.

Rhysand had started glaring at your book.

Not at you. At the book.

You were curled into the couch in the townhouse, utterly consumed by the latest ridiculous romance novel you’d found in Velaris—a dramatic, over-the-top story involving a morally grey prince, forbidden longing, at least four assassination attempts, and enough tension to make your heart pound.

Rhys had tolerated it at first.

Then he’d started noticing things.

Like how you barely heard him when he spoke. How you kept smiling to yourself while reading. How you gasped out loud at one point and clutched the book to your chest dramatically.

He’d narrowed his eyes immediately.

“What did he do?”

It took you a few seconds to register that he had spoken. “Mm?”

“The male in the book. What did he do to make you react like that?”

“He finally admitted he’s been in love with her for years.”

Rhys had rolled his eyes, mumbling how you hadn't even looked at him as you spoke.

Now, three days later, you were still reading it.

Which was how he found himself alone in your bedroom while you bathed in the adjoining bathroom, staring at the abandoned novel on the bed.

He only meant to glance at it, just enough to understand what could possibly be more interesting than him.

Five minutes later, he was still standing there reading.

Ten minutes later, he was sitting down.

By the time you came out of the bathroom an hour later, skin warm from the bath and hair damp, the book was exactly where you’d left it.

But Rhys was acting strange.

Too casual. Suspiciously casual.

“You were gone a while,” he said from the armchair by the window.

You eyed him immediately. “I was bathing.”

“Hm.”

That hm was guilty.

You narrowed your eyes.

Rhys smiled innocently. Far too innocently.

Your suspicions about Rhys's behaviour were confirmed later that evening.

You were in the kitchen pouring wine when Rhys appeared in the doorway with an unreadable expression.

No teasing smile. No smirk.

Just… intensity.

Immediately suspicious.

“You alright?” you asked slowly.

He approached without answering, violet eyes locked onto yours in a way that made heat creep up your spine despite yourself.

Then he gently took the wine glass from your hand and set it aside.

Oh, definitely suspicious.

“Rhys—?”

“You know,” he began softly, “there are a thousand females in this world more graceful than you.”

You blinked.

That was… rude?

His gaze darkened with devastating sincerity as he stepped closer.

“But none of them laugh like sunlight.”

Your mouth fell open slightly.

Because—

No.

Absolutely not.

“And if the Mother herself offered me peace in exchange for you,” he continued, taking your hand dramatically, “I would gladly choose ruin instead, so long as it was beside you.”

You stared at him.

He stared back with the expression of a male who clearly thought he was doing something profound.

Slowly—very slowly—you set your wine down.

“You read my book.”

A pause.

Rhys blinked once.

Then: “I have no idea what you mean.”

You burst out laughing.

Actually laughing hard enough you had to grab the counter for support while Rhys looked deeply affronted.

“That is word for word from chapter twenty-seven,” you accused between laughs.

“It is not.”

“It absolutely is! The balcony confession scene!”

His expression shifted instantly from denial to annoyance at being caught.

“You said it was a good scene.”

“I said it was dramatic.”

“And yet,” he said smugly, stepping closer again, “you liked it. Look—you're blushing."

You were still laughing as you swatted at Rhys's hand. “Rhys, that male also climbed through her bedroom window during a thunderstorm and challenged someone to a duel over her.”

His brows lifted. “I can do both of those things.”

“That is not the point.”

He finally cracked then, a grin tugging at his mouth as he pulled you into him by the waist.

“You’ve been ignoring me for this fictional male all week,” he murmured against your temple. “I needed to assess the competition.”

“The competition,” you repeated incredulously.

“He’s a shadowy prince with emotional issues and a tragic past.” Rhys clicked his tongue thoughtfully. “Frankly, I felt threatened.”

You snorted so hard you nearly spilled the wine.

Then his arms tightened around you, expression softening into something unbearably fond.

“For the record,” he murmured, brushing his nose against yours, “I’d still choose ruin beside you.”

Your heart betrayed you with a stupid little flutter.

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Don’t weaponise the trashy dialogue.”

“That sounds like something someone deeply affected by the trashy dialogue would say.”

You hated that he was right.

Taglist:

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: A continuation of my 'Moments' series with our favourite Wingleader.

Authors Note: Pre-established relationship below. No warnings. Not in any particular order or canon. Just realistic moments. Enjoy!

The door barely makes a sound when it finally closes behind you, but it feels like it echoes anyway - loud in the quiet that follows battle.

You don't remember the hours that's passed since finally dismounting from your dragon. Not really. Just flashes - mud clinging to your boots, the metallic tang of blood in your mouth, the cries of those injured, the tense debrief of leadership. Your body is heavy in that dangerous way, where exhaustion borders on collapse.

You feel the wall of warmth behind you, gentle hands firmly clasping your hips and slowly turning you around.

Xaden.

For a second, neither of you says anything. You'd already had your emotional reunion on the battlefield, but that had been momentary before you were both swept up in the aftermath.

So, for now you just look at each other.

He's a mess. Blood - some his, some not - streaked across his jaw and throat. One sleeve is torn clean through, exposing a gash that's already clotted dark. His eyes find yours immediately, sharp despite everything, and something in your chest loosens so suddenly it almost hurts.

You made it.

So did he.

That's enough.

You lean into his hold as one of his hands lifts up to cup your cheek. His hands are firm, grounding, like he needs to feel that you're real.

"You're hurt," he murmurs, voice rough.

"So are you."

That's the extent of the conversation.

It always is after days like this.

His fingers move to the fastenings of your leathers without asking, slower than usual - not because he's unsure, but because he's careful. His jaw tightens as he loosens the buckles across your chest. There's a bruise blooming across your ribs, deep and angry.

"You should've pulled back when I told you to," he murmurs.

You huff, your mouth almost curving in response.

You don't argue. You don't have the energy.

You return the favour, hands shaking just slightly as you help him. Piece by piece, the armour comes off - yours, then his - until it lies in a discarded heap on the floor, smeared with dirt and blood and the remnants of a day you'd both rather forget.

"Shower," you say softly.

He nods.

The water runs hot - almost too hot - but neither of you flinch. You stand under it together, not touching at first, just letting it wash everything away. Blood swirls down the drain in thin, rust-coloured streams. The sharp scent of battle fades, replaced by steam and the lavender body wash you loved so much.

Eventually, his hands find your hair, gently pulling the knots and tangles free. His hands caress down your body, tender and searching. You let him, accepting the care and devotion he shows you in quiet moments like this.

You lean against him, lips pressed against his collarbone, head tucked under his chin, chests pressed together. You hold each other close and you don't speak a word.

You never have, to have a conversation with each other. To understand each other.

After, you sit on the edge of the bed wrapped in clean clothes. The exhaustion hits harder now, creeping into your bones, making your limbs feel too heavy to lift.

Xaden kneels in front of you.

Carefully - always carefully - he takes your arm, inspecting the cut along your side. His touch is steady, but you can see it in his eyes: the restrained anger, the quiet relief, the way he's holding himself together by sheer will.

"This is going to sting," he says.

"I'm sure I can take it."

Still, you hiss when the antiseptic hits. His jaw tightens like he's the one feeling it.

"Hold still," he murmurs, softer now.

You do.

Your body goes compliant under his gentle touches, completely trusting him to take care of you.

He presses a reverent kiss to each marker on your skin.

You return the favour once he's done, tending to the gash on his arm. He doesn't react much - barely even flinches - but his hand settles on your thigh, fingers curling slightly like he needs the contact.

When you're finished, neither of you moves for a moment.

You just sit there, basking in each other's physical presence.

That you're both alive and breathing.

The bed feels like salvation.

You don't even bother with the blankets properly - just collapse into it, the mattress dipping to your familiar shapes. For a second, you think you might just fall asleep like that-

-but then Xaden shifts, pulling you to him.

You go willingly.

His arms wrap around you, strong and certain, drawing you close until there's no space left between you. Your head tucks beneath his chin, his hand settling at the back of your neck, fingers threading into your damp hair.

His breath is warm against your temple, uneven at first before it slowly steadies. You can feel the tension in him - the remnants of battle, of fear, of everything he doesn't say - gradually begin to ease.

Your hand presses lightly against his chest, right over his heart.

It's still racing.

"It's okay," you whisper, "we're okay."

His arms tighten in response.

"You almost weren't," he grumbles.

"So dramatic," you mumble, too tired to put any real bite into it.

A soft huff of laughter brushes your skin. "You love it."

"Not if you give yourself a heart attack from worrying."

Xaden grumbles again in protest, but doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to - you always know what he's saying, or not.

Minutes pass, maybe longer. Time blurs in that soft, hazy way that only comes after survival.

Eventually, his lips brush against your hair.

"You're here," he whispers.

It's not a question. It's not quiet relief either. It's something deeper, something steadier.

"I'm here," you answer, voice barely audible. "I'll always be here."

His hold on you tightens again, just for a moment - like he's sealing the truth of it into his bones.

And then the room finally quiets.

You just lie there tangled together in the quiet, holding on like the world might try to take it away again in the morning.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you survived.

And for now, that's enough.

The door opens quietly - Xaden never makes unnecessary noise - but the second he steps into the room, something shifts.

He feels it.

The shadows curl tighter around him, instinctively alert, and his gaze snaps across the space like a blade being drawn.

"...What happened?"

You're sitting on the edge of the bed, back slightly hunched, shoulders trembling just enough that he notices immediately. Your face is turned away, but it doesn't matter - he can hear it. The uneven breaths. The soft, stubborn attempts to stay quiet.

Crying.

You're crying.

And that - that - is enough to make something dark and dangerous rise in his chest.

He crosses the room in three strides, all sharp edges and barely restrained violence, already scanning you for injuries, for bruises, for anything.

"Who did this to you?"

His voice is low. Controlled. But there's an unmistakable edge to it - the kind that had made grown cadets freeze where they stand.

You sniff, quickly wiping at your face. "No one."

"I don't believe you."

Of course he doesn't.

His hand comes up, gently but firmly tilting your chin towards him, forcing you to meet his eyes. They soften the second he sees your face - tear-streaked, flushed, utterly miserable - but the tension in his jaw doesn't ease.

"You're upset," he says, quieter now, but no less intense. "So I'll ask again, who-"

"It's stupid."

"I don't care."

You let out a weak, watery huff, somewhere between a laugh and another sob. "You will."

"I won't," he counters immediately, like it's not even a possibility. "Try me."

There's a pause where you hesitate.

He waits.

Finally, you take a shaky breath. "...I dropped my pastry."

Silence.

Xaden just blinks at you.

Once, twice.

"...You what?"

You press your lips together, clearly trying to hold it together and failing miserably. "I went to the kitchens early because they had those honey pastries I like, and then-" your voice wobbles again, "-I tripped on the stupid step outside and it fell and it got all dirty and-and I was really looking forward to it and it's just gone."

Another pause.

A longer one.

His expression crosses between concern and something else - you suspect it's amusement.

"...That's why you're crying?" He asks carefully.

You nod.

"...Why didn't you just get another one?"

"That was the last one!" You exclaim, your lip wobbling again at the thought.

And that's it.

That's the moment he loses.

A quiet, disbelieving exhale leaves him as he drops his forehead briefly against yours, shoulders shaking once with a suppressed laugh.

"You're unbelievable," he mutters.

"Oh my gods, I told you it was stupid-" you start, mortified now, trying to pull away, but his hands immediately come up, steadying you.

"No, no-" There's a grin in his voice now, unmistakable, even if he's trying to hide it. "I said I don't care."

"You're laughing at me! I'm supposed to be a badass dragon rider, but here I am crying over a pastry!"

"You're still a badass dragon rider," he corrects, failing slightly when a small chuckle escapes anyway.

You smack lightly at his arm. "Xaden!"

"Alright-alright," he concedes, catching your hand before you can do it again, pressing a quick kiss to your knuckles. "I'm sorry, it's a tragedy really."

You glare at him, but it's weaker now, the tears already starting to slow.

"Don't mock me."

"I wouldn't dare," he says solemnly, which would be more convincing if his lips weren't still twitching.

But then - just as quickly as the amusement came, it softens into something else.

Something gentler.

His thumb brushes beneath your eye, wiping away the lingering tear there, his touch careful in a way that doesn't match the man everyone else sees.

"You've had a long week," he says quietly. Not a question. A knowing.

You sigh, the fight leaving you all at once. "I think I'm just...tired. And everything feels...bigger than it should be."

"Hm." His gaze studies you for a moment, sharp and perceptive as ever. "And the pastry was the final blow?"

"Exactly."

A beat.

Then-

"Alright."

That tone.

You narrow your eyes slightly. "What does that mean?"

"It means," he says, already pulling you gently to your feet, "that we're fixing this."

"Xaden-"

"No one makes my girl cry over a pastry and gets away with it."

"It was the ground's fault."

"Details."

Before you can argue further, he's already guiding you toward the door, one hand firm at your waist, the other still clutching yours.

"Where are we going?"

"The kitchens."

You blink. "They're probably closed now-"

“We’ll see about that.”

There's something in his voice that makes you pause.

"...What are you going to do?"

He glances down at you, a slow, slightly wicked smile tugging at his mouth. "You'll see."

Ten minutes later, you're sitting on the kitchen counter, swinging your legs slightly while Xaden leans casually against the counter beside you like he owns the place.

Well it’s Aretia, so he basically does.

A very nervous-looking kitchen worker scurries around, hurriedly preparing a fresh batch of honey pastries under Xaden's very watchful gaze.

"You didn't need to threaten them," you murmur.

"I made a suggestion."

"Xaden-"

"My house, my rules."

You snort, unable to help it.

His attention snaps back to you instantly, the faintest hint of satisfaction crossing his face at the sound.

When the plate is finally handed over, still warm, golden, and perfect, he takes it without breaking eye contact with you.

"Here," he says, offering it out.

You hesitate for half a second - then take one.

A bite.

And oh.

Your eyes close immediately, an undignified groan slipping past your lips before you can help it.

Xaden raises an eyebrow, keeping his suggestive comment back until he knew you were feeling, "Better?"

You nod, taking another bite. "Much better. You need one."

"I'm not the one who cried over it."

"I will cry again if you don't have one."

That earns a quiet laugh.

He plucks one from the plate, taking a bite before setting the rest back onto the plate.

For a moment, it's just this.

Warm light. Quiet laughter. Sugar on your fingers. The chaos of earlier fading into something softer.

Then his hand comes up, brushing away the tear tracks that still remained. His thumb lingers for a second longer than necessary before he drops his hand.

But not before you catch it - threading your fingers through his.

"Thank you," you say, squeezing his hand gently.

He doesn't pull away.

He doesn't even say anything, just raises your linked hands and presses a kiss to the back of your hand, continuing to watch as you eat.

No matter how ridiculous the reason, no matter how small, if something makes you cry?

Xaden will burn the world down to fix it.

Or, apparently just bribe the kitchen staff to make a special batch of pastries for you every day.

The first few days at Basgiath are always chaos—new cadets, shifting alliances, instructors barking orders like they’re trying to shake weakness out of the stone itself.

But none of that is what has Xaden distracted.

It’s you.

More specifically—something off about you.

He notices it in fragments at first. The way you shift your shirt collar slightly higher than usual. The way your hand brushes your collarbone absentmindedly, like you’re checking something is still there. The way you angle your body just a fraction away from him when he gets too close.

Small things, but he’s spent years learning you—mapping every habit, every tell, every shift in your breathing.

So of course he notices and it bothers him - immensely.

By the time you both make it back to your room that evening, he’s done pretending he hasn’t noticed.

The door shuts behind you with a solid click.

“Take it off.”

You blink, halfway through unfastening your gauntlets. “Wow. No hello? No ‘how was your day’?”

“Your shirt,” he clarifies, already stepping closer, eyes narrowed slightly. “Now.”

There’s no heat in it—not like that.

This is something else. Suspicion. Concern.

You hesitate just a fraction too long and that’s all it takes.

His jaw tightens. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

You sigh, dropping your hands. “I’m not lying, I just—”

“Then show me.”

There’s a quiet beat.

And then—slowly—you reach up, fingers catching the edge of your shirt, and pull it down just enough.

Just enough to reveal it.

The scar.

It sits just beneath your collarbone—thin but deliberate, not jagged like a battle wound, not accidental. It’s clean. Intentional.

Fresh enough that it hasn’t fully faded.

For a second, Xaden doesn’t react at all.

He just… looks at it.

And then—

“What the fuck is that?”

The words come out sharp. Controlled only by force.

You wince slightly. “It’s just a—”

“A scar,” he snaps. “I can see that. That’s not what I asked.”

His hand comes up before he can stop himself, hovering just above it—not touching, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to.

“Who did this to you?” His voice drops, dangerously quiet. “Tell me.”

“No one did it to me.”

His gaze snaps to yours. “Don’t—”

“I did it.”

That lands, hard.

You actually watch the moment it registers—the shift in his expression, the disbelief sharpening into something darker.

“…You what?”

“I did it,” you repeat, quieter now.

“Why?” The word is rough, dragged out of him like it costs something. “Why would you—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching hard enough you can see the muscle jump. “Why would you mar your skin like that?”

There it is.

Not just anger, but hurt. Real, raw, personal hurt.

You soften slightly, stepping closer despite the storm brewing in him.

“It’s for you.”

That doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse.

His expression darkens immediately. “Don’t say that like it makes sense.”

“It does to me.”

“It shouldn’t. Why would you ever hurt yourself for me!?”

You reach for his hand then—slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wants to.

He doesn’t.

You guide his hand up, pressing it gently against your collarbone, right over the scar.

His fingers twitch at the contact.

“You carry responsibility for all of us,” you say softly. “The marked ones. Me.” A small pause. “You bear it here.” You shift slightly, your free hand brushing briefly over his back, where those scars lie hidden beneath his clothes.

His eyes flicker.

“You take that on without question. Without hesitation.” Your voice steadies. “So I thought… it was only fair you weren’t the only one carrying something.”

Silence.

Heavy. Dangerous.

“You think this makes it equal?” he asks finally, voice low.

“No,” you admit. “I don’t think anything ever could.”

“Then why—”

“Because I wanted a choice in it.”

That stops him.

You hold his gaze, not backing down.

“They didn’t choose what was done to them,” you continue. “But I chose this. I chose to stand with you. To carry something that ties me to you—not just in words or feelings, but in something real.”

His hand is still against your skin.

Still warm and tense.

“You already are tied to me,” he mutters. “You don’t need to carve yourself open to prove it.”

“I know,” you say gently. “This wasn’t about proving anything to you.”

“…Then why?”

You hesitate.

And then, honest as ever—

“I wanted to take responsibility for you, so you don't have to carry all this alone.”

That lands differently.

The anger doesn’t disappear, but it shifts and softens at the edges.

Becomes something tangled with understanding—and something far more dangerous for him.

Love.

Gods, he hates it.

Because he gets it.

That same instinct. That same need to choose, to claim, to protect - it was the same reason he had taken the scars on his back.

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face before looking back at you.

“You drive me insane,” he mutters.

A small, tentative smile tugs at your lips. “You’ve mentioned.”

“I’m serious.” His gaze flicks to the scar again, something fierce and conflicted burning behind his eyes. “You don’t get to just—just hurt yourself like that and expect me to be okay with it.”

“I didn’t expect you to be okay with it.”

“Good. Because I’m not.”

A beat.

Then, quieter—

“But I understand it.”

Your smile softens.

For a second, neither of you moves.

And then, he snaps.

Not in anger, but in something else entirely.

His hand slides from your collarbone to the back of your neck, pulling you into him in one swift motion. His mouth crashes against yours—not gentle, not restrained, but not careless either.

It’s everything he’s not saying.

Frustration. Relief. Love so sharp it borders on unbearable.

You barely have time to react before you’re kissing him back, hands fisting in his shirt as he crowds you closer, like he needs to erase the distance between you.

“You’re impossible,” he murmurs against your lips.

“You love it,” you breathe back.

“Don’t push it.”

But his voice is softer now, warmer.

His kisses slow after a moment, losing their edge, turning into something deeper, steadier. His forehead presses against yours, breath uneven.

His thumb brushes lightly over the scar. This time, he doesn’t hesitate to touch it.

“…Don't ever do that to yourself again,” he says quietly.

You huff a small laugh. “Yes, sir.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

His gaze lifts to yours, searching, making sure you really understand.

You do, but you also don’t regret it.

He can see that too.

Another exhale leaves him—half defeat, half acceptance.

“Gods, I love you,” he mutters, like it’s both a confession and a curse.

You smile, softer now. “I know.”

His lips find yours again.

This time, slower, gentler, but no less certain.

Because no matter how much you frustrate him, no matter how recklessly you choose to love, Xaden will always meet you there.

Even if it drives him completely mad.

The training ring at Basgiath is loud in the way only controlled violence can be—steel clashing, boots scraping, instructors barking corrections that sound suspiciously like threats.

And in the middle of it—

You.

Sweat-slick, breathing hard, pushing yourself through another round long after most of the others have dropped out.

Again.

Xaden’s been watching for a while now.

At first, it was casual—leaning against the edge of the ring, arms crossed, shadows lazily curling at his feet, smug pride as he watched his girl pummel men twice her size onto the mat.

Now?

Now his posture is different. Tighter. More alert.

Because you’re not just training now.

You’re driving yourself into the ground.

Your footwork falters for half a second—barely noticeable to anyone else, but not to him.

“That’s enough.”

His voice cuts across the ring, low but sharp enough to carry.

You don’t stop.

Of course you don’t.

You pivot, duck a strike, counter with more force than necessary—proving a point no one asked you to make.

Xaden exhales slowly through his nose.

He pushes off the wall and steps into the ring like he owns it (because, realistically, no one’s about to stop him), his presence alone enough to make your sparring partner hesitate.

“Session’s over,” he says flatly.

Your partner doesn’t even argue—just backs off immediately, offering you an apologetic look before escaping.

Traitor.

You straighten, wiping sweat from your brow, already annoyed. “I wasn’t finished.”

“You were over an hour ago."

“I’m fine.”

“You’re exhausted.”

“I said I’m—”

“Fine,” he finishes for you, unimpressed. “Yes, I heard you. Still don’t believe you.”

You fold your arms. “You don’t get to just end my training because you feel like it.”

“And you don’t get to run yourself into injury because you’re too stubborn to stop.”

“I’m not injured.”

“Yet.”

There’s a beat.

A stare-off.

And then—you turn like you’re going to walk right past him and continue anyway.

It lasts exactly half a second, because suddenly the ground is gone.

“What the—Xaden—!”

You’re yanked clean off your feet, the world flipping upside down as he hoists you over his shoulder like you weigh absolutely nothing.

“Put. Me. Down.”

“No.”

“You cannot just kidnap me mid-training!”

“Watch me.”

You squirm, smacking at his back. “Xaden Riorson, I swear to—put me down right now!”

“No.”

“You’re being ridiculous!”

“And you’re being reckless.”

“I was winning!”

“You were about to pass out.”

“I was not!”

“You stumbled.”

“I adjusted.”

He snorts. “Right.”

You huff, twisting to try and slide off his shoulder, but his grip tightens around your thighs, locking you in place.

Oh, absolutely not.

“Put me down,” you warn.

“No.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“I will bite you.”

There’s a pause.

Then—

“I’d like to see you try.”

That was the wrong thing to say. You go very still for a second. And then you lean down and bite him.

Hard.

Right on the ass.

Xaden jerks mid-step.

“What the fuck—did you just—”

“You told me to try!”

“You bit me!”

“You deserved it!”

He actually stumbles a step before recovering, one hand coming back like he’s trying to decide whether to grab you or his dignity.

“You are unbelievable,” he mutters, voice caught somewhere between outrage and—gods help him—laughter.

“Put me down and I won’t escalate.”

“Escalate?” he echoes. “You’ve already assaulted me.”

“I have more teeth.”

That does it.

A laugh breaks out of him—low, disbelieving, completely unable to be contained.

And just like that, the tension snaps.

He finally lowers you back to your feet—but keeps a hand firmly on your waist the second you land, like he fully expects you to bolt.

(You do consider it.)

“You’re insane,” he says, shaking his head.

“You carried me like a sack of grain!”

“You bit me!”

“You said to!”

“I was joking!”

“Well, I wasn’t!”

Another pause.

Then he grins.

Slow. Dangerous. Familiar.

“You know,” he says lightly, stepping closer, “most people would be afraid to do that.”

“Most people aren’t me.”

“Clearly.”

His hand tightens slightly at your waist, tugging you just a fraction closer. Not enough to trap you—just enough to remind you he could.

“You’re done for today,” he adds, softer now but no less firm.

You open your mouth to argue—

He raises a brow.

You close it.

“…Fine,” you grumble.

“Good choice.”

“But only because I’m tired. Not because you said so.”

“Of course.”

“And if you ever pick me up like that again—”

“You’ll bite me again?” he interrupts, amused.

You tilt your head, considering. “…Probably.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head like he’s accepted his fate.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything. “Worth it.”

You blink. “What?”

“Nothing.”

But the way his hand lingers at your waist, the way his gaze softens just slightly as he looks at you says everything.

The council chamber in Aretia is too loud.

Not in volume—no one dares raise their voice that much around Xaden—but in tension. In expectation. In the constant, relentless weight of decisions that never seem to end.

Maps are spread across the table. Reports stacked in uneven piles. Someone is talking—has been talking for a while now—about supply routes, about risk, about whether moving sooner would expose too many people.

It’s all reasonable.

Logical. Necessary.

And Xaden has had enough.

“That’s not the point,” one of the council members insists, tapping a finger against the map. “If we wait, we risk losing—”

“I said we’re not waiting.”

The words crack through the room like a whip.

Sharp. Final.

Everyone goes still.

The man across from him stiffens. “With all due respect, that’s not a decision you can make alone—”

That’s when it happens.

Xaden snaps.

“You think I want to make it alone?” His voice rises—not shouting, but close enough that it sends a ripple of unease through the room. “You think I enjoy this? Weighing which lives are worth risking and which aren’t?”

Silence.

No one moves. No one breathes.

“Every time we hesitate, we lose people,” he continues, colder now, more dangerous. “Every delay costs us something. So unless you have a better solution than standing here questioning every call I make—”

“I’m just saying we should consider—”

“I have considered,” Xaden cuts in, the edge in his voice turning lethal. “More than you have, clearly.”

That lands harder than it should.

You see it—the flicker of hurt, quickly masked.

And that’s when you know.

This isn’t about the plan. This isn’t about the council. This is something else.

Xaden exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair like he’s trying to pull himself back—but it’s too late.

“I’m done with this,” he mutters.

And then he’s gone.

Out of the chamber before anyone can respond.

Before anyone can push back. Before anyone can see too much.

You follow immediately.

He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t look back. His stride is sharp, purposeful, like if he stops moving for even a second everything he’s holding in might spill out where people can see it.

By the time he reaches your shared room, the tension around him feels like a storm barely contained.

The door shuts harder than usual behind him.

You say nothing.

Not yet.

He paces once. Twice. Hands dragging through his hair, breath uneven, shadows restless at his feet.

“This is pointless,” he mutters. “All of it. Sitting in there arguing in circles while people are—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “I don’t have time for this.”

Still, you don’t interrupt.

You just move.

Quietly. Purposefully.

Water begins to run in the adjoining bathing room, steam slowly curling into the air. You don’t look at him as you pass, don’t try to catch his eye, don’t try to fix anything.

You just prepare.

Behind you, he’s still talking—words sharper now, frustration bleeding through.

“They second-guess every decision like they’re the ones who have to live with it. Like they’re the ones—” He exhales harshly. “Gods, I’m tired of it.”

You step back into the room then, crossing to him without a word.

Your hands go to the hem of his shirt.

He blinks, caught mid-sentence. “What are you—”

You pull it off him, just like that.

He huffs a quiet, disbelieving sound. “Seriously? Now?”

No response. You just shoot him a look.

Not soft. Not gentle. A look. The kind that says don’t argue with me right now.

He actually pauses.

“…I don’t have time for this,” he tries again, weaker this time.

You raise a brow. That’s it, that’s all it takes.

He exhales, long and resigned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Unbelievable,” he mutters—but he’s already letting you guide him toward the bathing room.

Reluctant, but compliant because it’s you.

The water is hot enough to make the air thick with steam.

He sinks into it with a quiet exhale, tension still clinging to him but starting—slowly—to loosen.

You kneel behind him, fingers threading gently into his hair.

For a second, he stills.

Then he leans back into your touch, unable to help himself.

He's silent for a few moments, his mind still working overtime, frustration and tension still sitting on his shoulders.

“...I need to head back to the Assembly,” he murmurs.

You still don't say anything, you only make a disapproving noise. A noise that tells him to try it and see what happens.

Your fingers work slowly, methodically, easing the tension from his scalp, washing away the dust and sweat and stress of the day. He doesn’t say anything else for a while—doesn’t need to.

His eyes close. His breathing evens. The sharp edges of him dull, just enough.

When you finish, you press a light kiss to the back of his head and rise without a word, but the command is loud and clear.

Stay.

He barely reacts at first—until—

click.

The unmistakable sound of the door locking.

His eyes open immediately.

“…Did you just lock me in here?”

From the other side of the room, your voice drifts back, calm and entirely unapologetic.

“Yes.”

A beat.

“You do realise that won’t actually stop me.”

“I know.”

“…You’re unbelievable.”

But he doesn’t move, he doesn’t get out

Because despite everything he knows what you’re doing.

And for once he lets you.

Because he's so tired.

By the time you return, the room is quiet.

You help him out of the bath without ceremony, wrapping him in a towel, drying him off with the same quiet efficiency. He grumbles under his breath once or twice—but doesn’t resist or pull away.

You dress him in clean clothes, hands steady, movements practiced.

And then you guide him to the bed.

He gives you a look. “You’re not serious.”

You are. Completely. Deadly.

He exhales, somewhere between exasperated and defeated, but sits anyway.

You push him gently back against the pillows, tug the covers over him despite the fact that it’s far too early for sleep.

He lets you, because it’s easier than fighting it. Because some part of him—deep down—is too tired to argue anymore.

You disappear one last time.

And when you return you’re holding a plate. A very large slice of chocolate cake.

You place it in his hands.

Only then do you finally speak.

“Eat.”

He stares at it.

Then at you.

Then back at the cake.

“…You locked me in our room, forced me into a bath, tucked me into bed, and now you’re feeding me dessert like I’m a misbehaving child.”

“Yes.”

A pause.

Then a quiet huff of laughter escapes him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Eat the cake, Xaden.”

He shakes his head, but there’s no real bite to it anymore.

Just exhaustion and something softer.

He takes a bite.

Then another.

Silence stretches between you—but it’s no longer heavy. No longer sharp.

Just quiet. Safe.

You sit beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushes his, your hand coming to rest lightly on his arm.

“You don’t always have to hold it together,” you say softly.

He doesn’t respond straight away.

Just stares down at the plate in his hands for a moment.

You shift closer, your hand lifting to brush his hair back from his face, fingers lingering there, slow and gentle.

“I hope you know how much I admire you,” you say softly. “Not just for what you do—for everyone—but for how you carry it. The strength it takes… even when you’re tired.”

He stills slightly, listening.

“You don’t have to be unbreakable all the time,” you continue, voice quieter now. “Not with me. I’m here—for all of it. The good, the bad… the moments like today.” A small pause. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His jaw tightens faintly—not in resistance, but in emotion.

“…I know,” he says, rougher than before.

You smile softly, thumb brushing once along his temple. “Good. Because I need you to know that.”

He finishes the last bite of cake slower this time, like he’s not just eating—but coming back.

Grounding himself.

When the plate is empty, you take it from him, setting it aside and before you can even fully turn back, his hand catches your wrist.

You don’t resist as he pulls you toward him, guiding you down into the bed, his arm wrapping tightly around you as he settles back against the pillows, bringing you with him like it’s instinct.

Like he needs you there.

You go easily, fitting against him, your head tucked beneath his chin.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

“…Thank you,” he murmurs, voice low, close to your ear.

You hum softly in response, your hand resting over his chest.

“I love you.”

Your chest warms instantly.

You tilt your head slightly, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.

“I love you too.”

His hold on you tightens just a fraction, like he’s anchoring himself there.

“We’ll get through this,” you add gently. “Like we always do.”

A slow exhale leaves him.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

And this time he believes it.

Because you’re here. Because you always are.