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@be-your-coffee-pot
welcome to the coffee shop
hello my little coffee pots
my name is vi. here are some things about me <3
artists i listen to:
taylor swift
harry styles
lana del rey
the neighbourhood
arctic monkeys
louis tomlinson
conan gray
dark academia, f1, ferrari, charles leclerc and bits of other things <3
alright, i'll be the one to say it. ao3 and tumblr becoming "mainstream" did so much damage to the community and the writers. i have seen loads of videos and posts about:
1. people hating on writers and fics. writing is something we do for free and for fun. if you stumble upon a fanfic that isn't necessarily your cup of tea or you just don't like, scroll. dont read it. literally leave their page. you don't know if this could be the author's first work that they're so excited about, you dont know if the language they're writing in isn't their first language, you dont know that the writer could be a literal teen and loads of other reasons. fanfictions don't HAVE to be perfect. you write what you want to write because we do it for fun and enjoyment and we want to share that to the world. seriously, what is the wrong with that?..
2. x reader consumers getting WAY to entitled. the number of tiktoks i've seen that "i run a strict program when it comes to reading fanfics." girl you aint running shit. this is FAN FICTION you're reading. F A N F I C T I O N. there is no denying that most fanfiction writes are beyond talented but just because you read one fanfic that exceeds your expectations doesn't give you the right to talk down on others that don't. people have their own personal writing style, their way of doing things and you talking shit on that isn't right.
at the end of the day, we are all humans, reading and writing is what we do and what we're meant to do. and for you to talk shit about a person WRITING is so insane. we are humans. not some robots that you can tell what to do so you can consume it.
i've seen so so many authors take down their fanfics and losing all motivation to write because of a hate comment. DONT LIKE DONT READ‼️
and to every author reading this, this community values your work and your contribution. we love u and, please, never let anyone's negative words have an effect on you.
yes im addicted to attention and orgasms and food and shiny jewlery and 7$ Iced Lattes. does that really not sound like an awesome lifestyle to you
Needed (Part 2)
A/N: I FINALLY COMPLETED THIS OH MY FUCKING GOD YES. The long-awaited Needed part 2 is finally here people. I really hope yall like it. Love ya
Pairing: Dad!Harry x Daughter!Reader
Word Count: 5.8k (Idk what happened here)
TW: MENTIONS OF SELF-HARM AND SUICIDE, IT GETS A BIT DESCRIPTIVE. PARENTAL NEGLECT AND HEAVY TOPICS PLEASE DON’T READ IF IT CAN TRIGGER YOU.
READ PART 1, here
______________________________________________________________
Wait.
We like neither the action nor the word in general. It’s excruciating to just have to rely on your gut and your anxiety-riddled mind for information because, as humans, we tend to overthink just about anything we do.
In context to Harry’s situation, waiting for the doctor to appear and announce if his daughter was alive or not was fucking with his head, to say the least.
“Momma! When is dada coming home? I made sunflowers for him. I know he’ll love them !” Taylor looked over at her 6-year-old daughter, proudly holding a pretty sunflower field. She smiles, “Yes, he will, sweetie.” Then she goes back to reading Roald Dahl to Charlotte while Ethan entertains himself with his science homework. Y/N doesn’t mind her mom; instead, she gushes about her painting to herself.
When Harry does come home, she runs towards him to exhibit her sunflowers, hoping that he would like them, but Harry just glances down at her and half-heartedly smiles. “Nice thing.”
He doesn’t wait to see how her face falls and how she struggles to hold back tears as he rushes to her siblings and smiles so wide when Charlotte explains that she and her mother were reading a new book together.
Y/N sniffled softly, padding over to where Taylor had plated the food. At least the dinner was of her liking.
__________________________________________
Harry’s mind was occupied with all the times he had ignored his eldest child. Those moments were now coming back to bite him in the ass.
She’s 11 years old.
A race is taking place for her grade, and all the parents are invited. Everybody takes a seat, and the children take their place. “On your marks! Ready, set, go!”
She gives it her all. She runs so fast that day that she even astonishes herself as she breaks the ribbon. Her eyes are frantically jumping from person to person, trying to identify one of them as her mother or father, but no.
When she dejectedly returns home that evening, she finds that the reason for their absence is Ethan. Harry looked infinitely proud, holding his son in his lap. Charlotte and Taylor were settled beside him, clapping excitedly. Ethan, as she later got to find out, had achieved 1st place in a writing contest held for his class.
During dinner, she tries to tell her dad and her mom that she won a gold medal today, but Harry tells her to wait as soon as she gets a word in. So she does. The girl diligently waits for her dada to return to her and ask what she was saying. Still, as the plates get picked up and washed, she belatedly realises that no one was coming back to her.
Harry realises something with a start. That night, he felt so confused when Y/N’s teacher called him to say that she had forgotten her medal in class because he never knew she had won a medal in the first place.
As his mind goes back to the box under his daughter’s bed, he wonders in that hospital waiting room what all the unnoticed achievements she possessed and looked at every day because nobody except her knew she had those.
Unnoticed achievements. Unnoticed injuries.
How many of those did she possess? How many injuries and hidden hurts had she gotten? There was no way for Harry to know that now. All he could do was wait. Wait for her to come out and give him his answers. Wait for her to forgive him. Wait for her to survive.
It was picnic day. Everybody was happy and laughing. Charlotte giggled loudly as she ran from Ethan, who was trying to catch her. Taylor and Harry were laughing, setting up the blanket and food, but Y/N was missing. Not that anybody realised.
She was sitting on the lowest branch of this thick, branched tree all by herself, waiting for her parents to notice her. She tried desperately to catch their attention to show them that she had climbed the tree alone. However, doing so caused her to slip from the branch she was holding onto and fall to the ground 2 meters down.
Startled, Harry looks behind him to find Y/N whimpering on the ground. Her scared siblings run over to their sister as Taylor sighs worriedly, Harry strolling over, perturbed, albeit while rolling his eyes in slight annoyance. Why does she keep doing such stupid things? What was she trying to prove?
Herself.
Harry was on the verge of crying now. He remembers how he had told her off for being irresponsible and stupid even when she was crying in pain, just barely comforting her. Taylor had tried to soothe her cries while their younger children just watched.
Harry wishes he would’ve just held and properly comforted his daughter instead of making her think everything was her fault.
Just as another hurtful memory starts to make its way to the surface, Taylor and the children come running through the door. A sobbing Charlotte settles in her father’s lap.
None of them says anything. The family just sits together as a heavy silence falls upon them, their minds reminiscing happy moments spent with Y/N just to find how little they actually were.
Taylor thinks back to the time she and Y/N baked together for their family.
Y/N was 13 at the time. She had found this strawberry cheesecake recipe she desperately wanted to try. Taylor was in a particularly good mood that day, and she agreed. They pulled out the ingredients needed, dancing to Harry’s songs. They sang along and played with flour when Ethan ran into the kitchen like a flapping chicken. Charlotte sat on the counter and laughed at her siblings.
They finished and decorated the cheesecake as Harry entered through the door. Smiling widely at his family, he helps plate out the dinner they had made as a side project; the lasagna.
All of them, including Y/N, remember that night as one of the happiest memories they had together.
Ethan stands next to his father while his mind reels memories of her helping him with his chemistry project.
This was recent; she’s 15. Ethan’s sitting at the dining table, completely confused with the sheet of instructions sitting in front of him. Y/N walks by the fridge, picking up a chocolate bar to satisfy her craving. She feels like shit. Period cramps are reigning terror, and she wants to commit. But she still feels better than she usually does. A glance over to her brother tells her he doesn’t know shit about what he’s doing.
She smirks at his lost state, propping herself up on the counter beside him. Ethan doesn’t even wait for her to say anything and quickly spills his shit to her. He doesn’t understand the topic and has fuck all for an idea on where to start. Now she topped her class in Chemistry, but he doesn’t need to know that. (He does know that, but there was a sorry excuse of congratulations to her, so technically, she doesn’t need to jog his memory)
3 hours later, they’ve got glue on their face and marker doodles on their hands as Y/N lays down the final touches to the project. Chests heaving with relief, both of them collapse into their seats after working on that thing non-stop for hours. But damn if it didn’t look good.
Excitedly, Ethan reaches over the chairs and squeezes his sister into a hug, who instantly tenses at the action. For him, that’s normal; he hugs his friends, parents, or anyone, but the affectionate physical contact is alien to Y/N. Nobody touches her like that. Ever.
He doesn’t let go instantly but instead holds onto her. She slowly relaxes into his embrace but never wholly.
When he finally let's go, he looks at her gratefully. “Thanks, sister.”
__________________________________________
Charlotte had now quietened down as she thought back to the time Y/N braided her hair when mom wasn’t around.
She was 16 in this one.
With thumping little feet, Charlotte marches around the house looking for her mother, who well wasn’t at home. She pouts and settles down on the couch, looking very irritated.
Y/N, who had just walked out of her room to get some food, glances amusedly at her little sister sitting there.
As she passes, Charlotte stares at her and lights up like a damn Christmas tree, getting a brilliant idea.
She runs and pulls her elder sister’s sleeves to get her attention. Charlotte motions at her wildly flying long hair. Clicking her tongue, Y/N reluctantly picks her up and carries her to her room. She slightly teases her sister, only coming to her when nobody else is there, which Charlotte frantically denies. But Y/N was just joking, wasn’t she?
Opening the door to Charlotte’s room, Y/N sits her down at her small vanity and looks through the drawers to find rubber and clips. She gets a brush and combs down her little sister’s hair, who’s blabbering about what she saw in the last Barbie movie. Relying on what she saw in a video, Y/N partitions and does a dutch braid in her hair with extravagant glittery rubbers and sparkly pins.
Once she’s done, Charlotte gurgles happily about the result. Y/N smiles slightly at her happy sister and then takes her to the kitchen to feed her ice cream.
Taylor remembers how surprised she was when she came home to her daughter’s dutch braided hair. She was even more surprised when she learned that Y/N had done it. As a reward, she cooked her favourite pasta for dinner, which they still remember.
__________________________________________
Harry stares blankly at the wall as he thinks back to when they painted each other’s nails. A scarce bonding memory with her.
She was 12. Her aunt Gemma had bought her this mini nail art kit when she came to visit her nieces and nephew. She was so happy and obsessed with it that it was contagious.
Harry was sitting on the kitchen counter with his diary when she entered the room, giggling loudly.
She scrambled up beside him and pulled on his cardigan. His attention quickly diverted to his daughter, who looked radiant with that manicure kit clutched in her arms. He chuckles and closes his diary, the annoyance quickly dissipating when he sees her so happy and excited.
Within the next five minutes, the kit is open and on the table, while a very convinced Harry picks out black and turquoise for his hands and the same for hers.
Giggling and laughing, they put on the nail paint without spilling anything. Harry got annoyed at Y/N, which was a miracle in itself. They happily click photos to upload on Harry’s Instagram, making weird faces and poses.
Harry wasn’t as annoyed with his eldest daughter for the following days. It startled almost everybody, including Y/N, to some degree. But then nobody was really very surprised when he got angry with her a short 2 weeks after.
But as Harry remembers it, she had done something stupid again that made him angry at her. He had decided that she just didn’t deserve any affection from him because all she made him was disappointed, often forgetting that she was the one that made him a father. Something he had longed for forever.
__________________________________________
Sniffling, Charlotte sits up just as the doctor enters the waiting area. He looks around and nods in recognition when he sees the family of 4 there.
“Hi, I’m Dr Warren. There were pretty deep cuts on your daughter’s wrists which resulted in quite a lot of blood loss. We ran tests, and her glucose levels are almost dangerously low, meaning she hasn’t probably had something nourishing to eat in, say, about 3 days. She seems dehydrated as well.” He pauses to let them take in his words before continuing. “I don’t mean to dishearten you, but according to her labs, her health was not in a good state, and neither was her mental health. Your daughter herself admitted that these were not accidental but rather self-harm scars. She isn’t in a good place psychologically. Dr James is with her right now. She’s a therapist/psychologist, one of the best in her field.”
Harry’s face paled, and he felt dizzy. How could he have let this happen? Taylor burst out sobbing while a crying Ethan tried to comfort Charlotte.
Stumbling over his feet and words, Harry asks the doctor if he can see his daughter. Dr Warren nods quietly and leads him to her room. Before he could go inside, Dr Warren stopped Harry for a second. “Sir, I just want to say that please handle everything delicately and keep in mind to be patient. Dr James will talk with you later.”
With that in mind, he opens the door and almost wants to collapse at the sight he finds.
A couple of tubes and IVs run back and forth from her body as the heart monitor beeps in the corner. A small bag of blood is can be seen connected to her body.
The supposed Dr James and Y/N look up as the door opens. Y/N takes in a shuddering breath as Harry comes closer. With a nod and squeeze of Y/N’s hand, the doctor leaves her and Harry in the hospital room alone. The only sound in the room for the next few seconds was her heart monitor beeping loudly until Harry started to speak.
“Hi, darling.” She scoffs lightly at his words, replying in a bitter sassy tone. “Hi, dad.”
“Why did you do it? Why - Just I can’t understand- how you would-” He struggles to wrap his head around it all while she chuckles. “I thought you were happy, Y/N. I thought-”
“No! You thought.” She interrupts him loudly. “You just thought. You never once bothered to check in on me. Never bothered to check if I was doing okay because I wasn’t. I know you never wanted me there in the first place. You would have liked it better if I was never even born, right?”
Harry gapes like a fish at her words, not having a single idea in the world as to how he would reply to her. He wants to deny it, but can he even?
“You like your other 2 prize children so much better, don’t you? I understand, though. They’re so smart and pretty and perfect. I’m not needed in this family. I never was.”
A high-pitched sob breaks the air. Their heads turn towards the door where Taylor and her siblings stood. She scoffs at the tears in their eyes, not having the emotional capability to give a fuck about their feelings. Not when they never gave a fuck about hers. Even when they had the emotional capability to do so.
She turns her head to the side before resuming quietly. “I know I wasn’t meant to be born. You never wanted me there. I was so incapable of being loved that you got 2 more children out, ones that were worthy enough of the abundance of love you both had for each other. Ones that were capable of being loved.” Her voice quietens down to something short of a mumble. A broken whisper you wouldn’t have heard if not for the painstaking silence in that room.
“But you never even gave me a chance.”
“Never gave me a single chance to prove myself. To prove that I was capable of being loved. That I wasn’t useless or loveless.”
She raises her voice ever so slightly, more or less tilting her head towards her sister and brother.
“I don’t have anything against you. You’re my friends, both of you. I won’t say siblings cause siblings are supposed to have a bond. Siblings are supposed to be there for each other, protect each other from scoldings, and steal cookies. All of that shit.” A finger slightly twirls in the air.
The only thing that interrupts the chilling quiet in the atmosphere is the almost lifeless sounds of the heart monitor with suspiciously slow beeps that made Y/N herself doubt whether her heart was beating correctly or not.
“I’m sorry.” Harry’s apology uselessly cuts through the thickly tense air. “I really am sorry, Y/N.”
“Bandaids don’t fix bullet holes, do they now? You say sorry just for the show. Take a look at what you’ve done. Wounds can heal, but this won’t. Stop trying. From what I know about myself, I’m damn sure I’m not gonna forgive you or you.” Her slender finger points at Taylor and Harry.
Y/N starts coughing with the rough use of her voice as Harry rushes to grab the glass of water beside her bed. Leading the straw to her mouth, she barely takes a sip before snatching the glass with whatever strength she had.
Settling back into her bed. She begins again. It seems like all of the quietude from the past years was bubbling over now. Rather violently.
“I’m 19.” She states in a matter-of-fact tone. “I don’t know if you know, but I got into Stanford. Yay, me!” Y/N rolls her eyes snarkily. “As soon as I get out of here, I’m leaving for good. I will do everything for myself, on my own. I didn’t need you for the past 10 years, and I don’t think that’s gonna change now.”
“I think you’re being rather harsh-” Taylor starts but gets interrupted by a very emotionless chuckle.
“Please don’t. I didn’t come to this lightly. I’ll leave next month. You don’t have to bother with anything at all. I will be out of your hair soon. You can try to bridge things all you want, but please don’t think you can fix this. Now, I wanna sleep.”
Like an angel, Dr James opens the door and ushers her family out. Y/N sighs thankfully and pulls her blanket up to her face as they leave.
Once Charlotte gets settled in the play area for kids with Ethan nervously watching over her, Dr James leads Taylor and Harry to her office. She settles in her seat with a sigh, lacing her fingers together while the couple in front of her can’t stand touching each other. Probably because of the blame they were tossing around in their head.
“I’m not gonna beat around the bush; I’m sure you’d appreciate that.” Dr James begins in a genuinely gentle tone. “Well, for starters, I’m Dr Augustine James. I’m a psychiatrist, psychologist and therapist. Y/N has told me that she was very upset living in your household. This was a suicide attempt, as she admitted herself. Please don’t go about thinking that she wasn’t sure or had no reason to be upset because she was.”
Harry choked on a sob as Taylor rubbed her husband’s shoulder gingerly.
“It seems like she hasn’t had an output for her emotions or somebody to talk to in a long time because she almost immediately told me everything. It usually takes some coaxing, but they spill when the patient gets overwhelmed.” She pauses for a second to allow them a moment to absorb her words.
“Now, I’m not gonna tell you what she said because of the patient-doctor confidentiality, but you should know you need to be careful 'cause I know that it’s delicate. She is a hair’s breadth away from leaving for college and never looking back on you. I suppose it's harsh, but it's the truth.” Dr James had taken an albeit gentle but matter-of-fact-I-don’t-take-bullshit tone towards the end.
_____________________________________________________
About one really agitating and eye-opening hour later, Taylor and Harry trudge out of the doctor’s office looking as beaten as could be. All the shit they subconsciously gave to their eldest daughter, did they even realise how harmful it all was? When they enter her room this time, they find her asleep. Looking more peaceful than she ever had.
Taylor sits down in the chair closest to the bed, laying her head down on the bed. Harry awkwardly stands around for a second before pulling up a chair near Y/N’s bed, gingerly placing a ringed hand on her arm.
The girl in question sighs or grumbles more like. In pleasure or displeasure from the physical contact, her parents don’t know. They don’t know her well enough to understand her sleeping habits granted, as she dared never crawl into bed with her mama and papa.
Thinking about this, Harry stumbles down the memory rabbit hole of all the time he spent with her (not that it was a lot) and screeches to a halt at the time he comforted her after a night of recurring nightmares.
She’s merely 6. After Y/N jolts awake from the bouts of fitful sleep and bad dreams that had been plaguing her night, for the umpteenth time, she decides she should go to her parents. Hoping they would let her in and snuggle her to sleep. She takes in a deep breath, contemplates (which she shouldn’t) if she actually should bother and wake up her parents at 1:25 in the night.
Eventually gathering up the courage, the little girl walks across the hall and weakly knocks at her parents’ bedroom door. No response at first. She knocks again with a slightly stronger hand. Somebody trudges across the floor and the door swings open where a sleepy Harry looks down at Y/N. His face turns almost annoyed from the gentle state it’d originally been in.
Slightly cowering under his gaze, Y/N weakly mutters that she had nightmares and couldn’t sleep. They can hear Taylor faintly stirring behind them.
Seeing her afraid posture, Harry crouches down to her level and raises his hand to which his daughter somewhat flinches. He softens a great deal at the motion, placing the bare hand on her head to slightly ruffle her hair, which incites a tiny almost afraid giggle.
Taylor appears behind Harry and yawns. She gets down to her knees beside her husband, smiling clemently. She gently asks about what happened. Cooing pitifully at her daughter’s sleepless night, Taylor comforts her by pulling her into an embrace and into her lap. Harry strokes her back and Y/N swears it doesn’t get any better. Until she asks if she could sleep in their room.
She looks up from her position on her mother’s lap, now sleepily mumbling out a request to sleep with them. Harry goes ever so slightly rigid as Taylor’s pale blue eyes flit from her daughter to her husband chewing the inside of his cheek. Before she could think about agreeing, Harry starts, “You should sleep in your own room. You’re a big girl.”
And it probably came out more irately than it was meant or was supposed to. Taylor vaguely winces at his tone, proceeding to shut him up and backtrack on his words. “I’ll tuck you in, yeah? Daddy needs to go to work in the morning, he needs sleep.”
She looks so dejected at the statement that he almost regrets saying it, especially how he did it.
“Y/N, you can sleep in your own bed, can’t you? Your mom will tuck you in.” She wants to be selfish and say no and throw a tantrum like she knows her siblings would’ve done and easily gotten their way. But deeper in she knows they wouldn’t need to know a tantrum in the first place.
She sniffles, tears fluttering in her eyes. Well, she doesn’t want to trouble her dada further, does she?
Y/N gives them a watery, defeated smile as she trudges down from Taylor’s lap. Harry’s heart breaks (for some strange reason) when she defeatedly crawls back to her room, turning once at her door, waving sweetly and disappearing inside. Taylor sighs from beside him as they get up.
“It’s ok H, she needs to learn to get up on her own.” She appeared to have caught on to his sudden and rare burst of sadness on the occasion of his eldest. However, he shrugs her off, muttering and going back to the room. His wife shakes her head and follows him into their bedroom.
He remembers it all too well. Time didn’t seem to fly where inky minutes turned into the early hours of the morning. He seemed to be paralysed by it. Unable to fall asleep and think about anything except Y/N’s sad face. It goes round and round like a satellite in his head. Spinning around waiting for him to pay attention.
Soft shuffling rouses him from the murkiness of his thoughts. He looks beside him where his wife lay comfortably, sound asleep. He can somewhat hear light little footsteps descending the stairs but he convinces himself it was just due to his lack of sleep.
Now, he’s pretty sure he heard the clanging of something downstairs. He glances at the soft blue letters of the clock. 2:40. Crawling out from under the covers (and his wife), Harry makes his way to the kitchen where he can see tiny shadows dancing ‘round the kitchen in the refrigerator light.
“The fridge light washes this room white.” He thinks.
Entering the kitchen he sees something, he’s not entirely surprised by. Y/N stands there holding the fridge door, periodically drinking, what he assumes to be orange juice according to the juice box in her hand. Her eyes go impossibly wide as she turns and notices her father standing in the doorway with his arms crossed and a softly amused expression that her startled little head does not register.
The door simply slips from her hand and shuts close as she nervously puts down the juice box on the floor. Tears immediately start pooling in her eyes and she starts blubbering out apologies. Harry frowns at her fear, crouching near her but that just makes her more scared. Y/N chokes in her apologies and winces once again when he raises his hands to shush her (again for some bizarre reason he couldn’t explain to himself).
And Harry feels….hurt? Why is his own daughter afraid of him that way?
He tuts and tugs her into his arms which well alarms the both of them. Y/N hesitantly relaxes against his silky sleep shirt as he tentatively tightens his arms around her. “It’s uh it’s ok.” He clears his throat kinda awkwardly.
But that doesn’t stop her from pulling back and spewing out justification for drinking juice in the middle of the night.
“I’m really sorry dada. I didn’t mean to make you mad. I promise. I was going to sleep but then the bad dream was- it was scaring me and I just came down to drink water and then I found a juice box so I took it, I’ll put it back, please don’t be mad at m-”
“Hey hey hey. It’s ok Y/N. You can have it, yeah? You can have one more.” That stops her in her hiccuped rambling of an apology in it’s tracks, eyes wide once again. Terribly hidden surprise and disbelief was skewered over her features as she confirmed that he really was not mad at her. He was even ready to give her another one!
He picks her up and sets her on the kitchen on counter. The action most certainly shocks her.
“Has papa drank that weird liquid thing again? Is he gonna punish me later? Why isn’t he mad? I want ice cream. Is dada going crazy? Why didn’t he shout and call mama? I really want ice cream. I hope he doesn’t get mad again. Will he get ma-” Y/N’s tiny head is almost short circuiting due to her father’s strange mood swing.
Harry, meanwhile, picks up the juice box she was already drinking and hands it to her. She innocently sips from it, observing him all while silently wondering about what even was happening.
His smile is slightly tight. Unnatural maybe. But atleast he was smiling at her. Once the box is finished, which was pretty quick, she jumps down from the kitchen island, scrambling to throw it into the bin as Harry’s eyebrows wrinkle. His furrowed gaze never once wavers from her small frame. She cowers in front of him, softly stuttering out a goodnight.
“Good night, dada. I will quickly go to sleep, promise. Won’t bother you anymore.” His confusion and creeping agitation is evident on his face.
“Do you not want me to read you something or sing or what?” Charlotte and Ethan would’ve begged him to do something of that sort by now not that they would’ve been in a position where they had to ask Harry for stories. He voluntarily dished out such things for his younger kids.
“Um uh I- I- I don’t- I don’t want to trouble you papa. Mama said you had work, you can go to sleep. I can go to sleep by myself now.” She didn’t sound very sure of it but tried her best to unwaveringly deliver her partial lie.
He sighs and holds out his hand. “Come on Y/N. Let’s get you in bed.”
The wide eyes should be trademarked at this point.
Slowly creeping up the staircase, the duo tip toe into Harry’s bedroom to where Taylor was sleeping. He motions for her to quietly get under the blanket. She moves uncertainly as if he was gonna suddenly change his mind and not let her sleep in their bedroom.
Once she gets under the covers, her mother instincually pulls her closer. A pleased sigh emanates through the room. Smiling, Harry leaves the room to go work in his home studio. He wasn’t gonna fall back asleep anytime soon.
__________________________________________
It hurts his heart to think about it now. He acted like nothing happened the very next day, crushing Y/N’s hopes in his ringed fist.
The memories go through his head like flashbacks in a film reel as he sits there with his wife and kids, watching his daughter lay asleep in a hospital bed.
Y/N doesn’t wake for the next few hours. Not until she’s sure that visitor hours are over and her family has left.
_____________________________________________________
3 weeks later
Its been about 3 weeks since they discharged her from the hospital. 2 weeks since, what everybody keeps referring to as ‘that night’. The air in the Styles’ household seems sombre and stale. As if somebody was gonna burst out screaming and crying.
She’s planned to leave for university in the next few days. The last of her stuff is packed up and shipped to her new apartment in Stanford which her parents were adamant on funding. She didn’t fight them a lot on that.
All that was left now, were the damn boxes full of years of tropies, awards, prizes and certificates. Photographs, keepsakes, diaries. A lot was there under her bed. But not anymore.
Harry’s watches Y/N from the doorway, her back to him. She digs around the boxes like she was searching for something important. She’s scoured through the other 2 boxes seemingly not having found whatever it was she had been looking for.
With a sudden gasp, she straightens up holding a few polaroid pictures in her hand. Harry can just make out what the pictures are of. Them.
The first one is of Harry and Taylor sitting together in the grass, laughing. It looked like the shot was taken while they weren’t aware. All of the pictures looked like that. In the second one, everyone except Y/N is sitting around the kitchen island apparently having breakfast. Their faces were cheerful, unaware that somebody was capturing the moment. The next one was one of the photographs they’d taken on a family vacation. This shot had all 5 of them in the frame. They were sitting on the sofa at Anne’s old Cheshire house. Charlotte and Ethan are settled in Harry’s lap and Y/N in Taylor’s. He remembers Gemma pushing them together and quickly getting the snap. They’re all giggling and happy.
The last one. The last picture in Y/N’s hand was of her and her father. Harry’s cradling a newborn Y/N in his arms, holding her as if she’d break if he so much as to dared to breath harshly. His gaze was fixated on her with a loving look. Something so uncommon, she’d die for it now.
He’s gonna start crying. He swears he is. He sniffles from the doorway and watches Y/N’s head shoot up in alarm. Her eyes glisten with tears in the light. Sighing, she looks back down to stuff the pictures inside a folder and into her bag.
“D-dinner’s ready, Y/N. I made lasagna for you.”
She mutters out a response as she shuts the box and pushes it to the side with the other ones.
She hopes her life gets better
_____________________________________________________
3 months later
It’s been three months since she left their house and she’s never felt better. Never felt so in control. Taylor calls her every one or two days with Harry chiming in, asking about her day. She’s trying to talk to him without the sarcasm and bitter comments. Its not proven to be very successful till now but Harry won’t stop trying. No matter her words he still asks her a question and tells her a dad joke when he calls her.
University is good. She’s making friends that understand her. Finding her own people. Y/N decided to keep this small kitten she saw wandering around on campus. It looked lost and hurt; like her. Named it Oreo.
She thinks her life might start getting better.
_____________________________________________________
2 years later
Its been three years since she started university. She found a bestfriend in a girl called Lila. Y/N thinks she might love her. Oreo has become her forever companion and found his best friend in Lila’s cat, Milkie. Her course still has a year to go.
She calls Harry everyday now. Their relationship is getting better. She’s started to forgive him because her therapist and Lila told her to be the bigger person and move on. He’s not entirely forgiven but he knows that 17 years of pain isn’t forgotten that easily. Harry’s trying his hardest for her now and Y/N isn’t letting it go unnoticed.
She visits home for break and stays. She used to have dinner and leave the next morning, gradually staying for the weekend and then the week and then the entire break. She celebrates, Christmas, Easter and birthdays with them.
Christmas break is starting in a weeks. This time Lila is going with her.
Her life is getting better.
my own writing made me cry wow
The Tormented & The Unforgiven Part Two (ii) | Azriel x reader
Reminder of TW: Suicidal thoughts, suicidal ideation, deep depression, anxiety, panic attacks, PTSD, sexual assault, graphic description of injuries, sexual themes.
MDNI
Part Two had to be split into 2 parts because of tumblr’s word cap. This is the SECOND post of part two so please make sure you read the Previous Part first.
Eight days later you knocked on the door of the large river house that Feyre and her family resided in. The door opened on a breeze after your third knock, and you walked in. Not a breeze... it was Nuala. It had been a considerable amount of time since you had seen either her or her sister Cerridwen… long before your last mission for their boss.
"Nuala, how lovely to see you. I hope you're keeping well," You breathed with a measured smile. They were firmly loyal to Azriel and reported everything they saw to him, no matter who it was about so it was only a time before he knew you were there if Feyre and her mate had not already told him.
"I am well, thank you. Please follow me." Nuala led you down the vast hallways of Feyre's homes, large windows letting in streams of light to showcase the large and small canvasses the High Lady had painted herself. Before too long, you were instructed to sit in a large living room, the large floor-to-ceiling doors allowing Velaris' fresh, briny air to fill the room.
"Ah," Rhysand said emerging from a door on the other end of the room. "It's good to see you."
A sort of awkwardness coiled in your gut, when you did not know where your relationship with someone stood kind of awkwardness. You smiled politely. "Thank you, Rhysand. You too, I hope you are well."
Rhysand wasted no time in taking your hand and bringing it to his lips in the kind gentlemanly way he usually did things, "Call me Rhys please. Feyre will be here in a moment, I hear she has told you a little of what we are dealing with at the moment."
A slight bit of panic seized your lungs for a moment, "Well, not much- j-just that there's a bit of unrest and you both are incredibly busy."
Rhysand smiled carefully, "It's okay. I wasn't trying to catch you out, I apologise. I only meant that you were up to date. Feyre can underplay things a little when she's stressed. A coping mechanism I think." When Rhys talked about his mate, there was clear devotion and love laced with his words and on his face. A sliver of envy snaked its way into your heart. "But that waterfall you showed her has brought her a lot of peace."
A real smile graced your face this time, "It's really beautiful. I'm surprised she hasn't brought you there yet."
"I want her to, but we've been rather busy. I read a little into it, I had never heard of such a location on the Sidra before. I found something interesting," Rhsyand stated.
"Oh?" You asked, genuine interest piqued. "What's that?"
"Apparently, a waterfall on the Sidra will only present itself to Night Court citizens who truly need it. It is a place of healing, apparently. There are very few mentions of waterfalls in anything I've read about it. Even fewer mentions of anyone actually seeing one,” Rhys said with awe.
"Oh," You said with curiosity. "Well, I've always lived near the river. I'm glad we found it."
"You found it," He corrected, but not in an unkind manner. "And I'm glad. Not only does it mean that you are truly a citizen of this court and city, but you shared it with my mate and Syrena. That is a kindness I won't forget."
A flurry of feelings and thoughts washed over you at his words rendering you quite unable to reply but one thing was clear. You felt appreciative of the knowledge, like you belonged.
"What are you two talking about?" Feyre asked, gliding through the door with a young Nyx trailing behind her.
"I was just saying how grateful we both are," Rhys said with a wink to you before opening his arms to his son who wasted no time wrapping his little arms around his father.
"Oh, we so are. You are a true angel," Feyre sighed and plopped down on the seat next to Rhys.
"It's no hassle. I want to help. But- uh, and forgive me for asking, but are the others here?" You asked, unsure of how to ask who you might run into.
"With everything going on at the moment almost everyone is away. Mor is in the Court of Nightmares trying to keep them in line, Cassian is in the Illyrian mountains, Nesta is in the library helping the priestesses with their research, Elaine is in Spring with Lucien to aid Tamlin, Azriel is on a mission and well, Amren is being Amren," Feyre listed off watching her son in Rhys's arms. "She doesn't react well to Nyx at this age."
"I know I may not look like it but I'm good with kids," You said, feeling a wave of insecurity hit you. It seemed like at that moment Nyx spotted you. "I think if you allow him to get used to me today and we can work something out where I look after him for you."
"Sounds good," Feyre said and turned to her son. "Nyx, come to mama," She cooed and he trotted across the sofa to her. "This nice lady here wants to say hello; will you say hello to her?"
Nyx smiled from his mother across to you. He promptly climbed down off the sofa, using Feyre's legs as a ladder and plodded along until he was right in front of you. Nyx stopped just before you, opened his arms and all but fell into you wrapping his arms around your legs. "Hello," he said with his soft baby voice that melted everything cold within you.
You wrapped your arms around him, uttering a soft 'hello' back. Nyx pulled away as you told him your name.
"I'm Nyx," Nyx stated, little hand splayed across his chest.
"Nice to meet you, Nyx," You replied with a smile. In your peripheral vision, you could see both Feyre and Rhysand visibly melting at their son. He was more than cute, you'd give them that.
"What happened to your hands?" Nyx asked, eyes trained on the gaps along your knuckles.
"Nyx!" Feyre and Rhysand gasped, both of them sitting up pin straight with horror on their faces.
"No, no, it's okay," You said, raising your hand to stop them. "Well, Nyx," You said bringing the boy's focus back down to you. "What would you say if I told you that I got really hungry?"
Nyx's face contorted with confusion as he worked through what you told him. A moment later he burst into a fit of giggles, "You ate them?"
All three of you giggled along with the boy. "Yes," you stated. "I got so hungry. They weren't very nice!"
Nyx's laughter increased making your own follow suit. "That's so silly!" The boy's laugh was contagious; Feyre clutched her belly as he turned to her. "Mama your friend is too silly!"
"I know baby," Feyre giggled back. You sent a wink her way.
"Do you want to come see my toys?" Nyx asked after his laughter subsided, his arm outstretched to you. Something in his innocent gesture healed something inside of you, his willingness to hold your hand despite what he saw... even when he thought you were a cannibal that ate your own fingers.
Your eyes darted over to his parents, Feyre and Rhys watching your exchange with soft eyes. They both nodded, so you took Nyx's hand into your own and let him lead you through the rooms, even if you had to crouch down slightly so you didn't lose his grip. Nyx led you into a room filled with books, wooden toys, teddy bears and gods knows what else.
"His aunt Mor likes to buy him more toys than what's good for him," Rhys said from the door, Feyre by his side watching.
"Toys are good for his enrichment," You answered back with a smile.
"Mama said I can share my toys with the other kids in the city because they don't have any to play with!" Nyx said, rummaging through his toy box. Your heart warmed, the boy seeming genuinely excited to give away his belongings to those less fortunate -- not that he truly understood the prospect just yet.
"I think your mama and papa are raising a very sweet boy," You said to Nyx who smiled proudly. You glanced back at the two who gave you an appreciative smile of their own.
"How are you so good with kids?" Feyre asked from the door.
Nyx placed a toy into your hand and you focused on setting it up with him. "I looked after some kids that lived on the same street as me when I was growing up." Nyx placed another toy in your hand, and you set it up next to his other one, he was setting up a little scene to play out you realise.
Feyre and Rhysand were smart enough to gather what you were saying, something you did not want to say in front of their child. You had taken some younger kids under your wing. Fed them, stole books for them and protected them from those who tried to exploit them. It had been many years since you had seen any of them, more than a few lifetimes. You were not the person you once were, and you doubted they were either.
"What are we setting up here, Nyx?" You asked him.
"We," He said, leaning into his toy box once again, "Are having a tea party." Nyx emerged from the box with a little wooden tea set.
"He begged us for one after he grew obsessed with watching the hosts at the cafe down the road," Feyre added.
"And here I thought you couldn't get any cuter."
***
"Good morning, Nyx. How are you?" You asked as the aforementioned toddler sat up in his bed, rubbing his eyes tiredly.
"Mornin'," Nyx mumbled back, squinting a little as your drew the curtains back.
"Ready to come get some breakfast?" You asked, hunkering down beside his bed.
"Where's mama?"
"Your mama has gone away, remember we talked about it yesterday? Your daddy too, but they will be back soon," You answered, helping him straighten out his pyjamas.
Nyx nodded but looked a little down, "Where have they gone?"
If there was one thing Nyx could do with expert ease, it was melt your heart. "They have gone to Winter to see their friends for a few days."
Your answer did nothing to appease the boy, "Why can't I go with mama and papa?" Nyx asked with tears filling his eyes.
"Can I tell you a secret?" You asked him, immediately piquing his interest.
"What?"
"You pinky promise not to tell?" You continued, holding out your pinky fingers.
Nyx wasted no time in hooking his finger with yours. "Tell me," He urged.
Leaning in close, you had to fight to keep the smile from your lips, "They told me they are trying to find a reindeer for you."
An excited and shocked gasp escaped Nyx, his hand shooting up to cover his mouth. He backed up a step to look into your eyes, gauging whether you were being serious. Seeing whatever he needed to in your eyes, a large grin stretched across his lips. "Are they going to bring it home?"
"No, silly," You giggled, making him deflate just a little. "It's far too warm here for a reindeer but they will take you to see it when you're old enough!"
With a newfound excitement, his earlier sombre gone in its entirety, Nyx walked towards the door, you followed closely behind him. As you walked across to the kitchen, you called out to Feyre in your mind like she had instructed you to do so before they left.
'Everything okay?' Feyre's voice sounded in your mind, an edge of worry to it.
'Oh perfectly fine,' You replied. 'But he is missing you both so I may have told him you and Rhys are there to get him a reindeer.'
It was a strange thing to hear your friend's laughter in your mind, a grin spreading across your lips. 'You're nearly as bad as Cassian!'
'I know, sorry. But I told him that you would bring him to meet his reindeer when he was a little older and that seemed to satisfy him,' You responded, opening the door of the kitchen for Nyx and you both filed in.
'Well Rhys said he thinks it's a fun idea. What are you getting up to today?' Feyre had told you this was the first time her and Rhysand would be away from Nyx. Truly away. With tensions as high as they were, emissaries were no longer good enough to send.
'Going to make pancakes for breakfast and then I'm bringing him out to the park with Syrena. Promised to play whatever games he wanted,' You responded. You instructed Nyx to grab his stool so he could reach the countertop and help you make the pancakes.
'You are a lifesaver, honestly. I can't tell you how much it means that you're doing this. We will be home as soon as we can.' You knew Feyre was saying it to sound like it was for your benefit, but you knew she was itching to come home.
You closed off your mind after a goodbye and a promise to let her know if you promised any more pets to her son.
***
"I think it's time we cut our sessions down to once a month," Alina said. Four months had passed since the day you began to look after Nyx.
"I think I'm ready. But I must admit there is something that's been bothering me... I'm not really sure why I haven't said anything about it yet," You admitted, pushing yourself to speak while you had the courage. Courage you knew would disappear for another untold amount of time if you did not speak in that moment.
"Go ahead," Alina asked, though there was a knowing look in her eyes.
"You know how I said that I had closed that chapter with Azriel," You started, trying to find a natural work around to what you were building up to say.
"Yes," Alina said.
"Well, I still feel like it isn't finished. I told him to move on from it and to continue to live his life, find someone to love..." The words were right there, on the tip of your tongue, threatening to spill.
"You didn't mean it," Alina stated. Simple. Not judgemental, in fact you were convinced that Alina did not possess a single judgemental bone her body. But she knew what you were going to say.
"Not exactly," You replied. "I want him to move on from the incident but I think I still have feelings for him. Does that make me sound mad?"
Alina stayed quiet for a moment, contemplative. "No, you are not mad. But what I believe is important is discerning whether or not you have real feelings for him or if you just miss the person you were around him."
You bristled a little, and in the past you might have snapped at Alina for that, but you knew she was right. "I understand. But how do I do that?"
"Well," Alina began. "There are a few different ways we could explore it. What about you? How do you think you should figure it out?"
"Well, at the moment all I've been doing it dwelling on it. Sometimes I want the feelings to be real but other times I am terrified that I'm misguided and what I'm feeling isn't really what I'm feeling." It felt like a mass had been lifted from your chest, one you hadn't noticed was there. "But the first thing that comes to mind would actually be spending time with Azriel... to see if what I'm feeling is real."
"That's a good option. I trust you enough to listen to yourself when you are with him. Trust your instincts," Alina replied.
"But what if he doesn't want to... he'd be perfectly entitled to turn it down. I think if I were him, I would."
"Then the decision will have been made for you, and you'd have to focus on moving past your feelings for Azriel," Alina answered. Sometimes you felt silly, she was able to put feelings you thought were too complex for words into a single sentence. Though that was her profession, you supposed.
***
The following week you were in one of the empty living rooms in the river house, awaiting the man who was the sole occupier of your recent thoughts. You had let Feyre and Syrena know of your plans the day after your session with Alina, both females promising a girls excursion to the waterfall whenever all three of you were free next. You could have done with it there and then, but you knew they weren't in a position to drop everything and go -- though you were sure they would have if you had told them how much you were struggling. You also did not want to go alone. You were sick of being alone.
You jumped a little when a throat cleared behind you. The sound did not sound like Azriel. Turning around, you saw Cassian standing behind the sofa you were on. "Hello," he said, looking a tad awkward. The General was the only one you hadn't seen since that fateful day when the truth had been revealed.
"Oh, hello Cassian." You thought you'd feel more jarred at his presence, like you had with both of his brothers. But it had been almost three full years and a boat load of therapy since then.
"I hope I'm not intruding," Cassian said, rounding the sofa to sit across from you.
"Well, I don't live here so you're not intruding. Azriel is supposed to meet me here soon," You said in return, staring into Cassian's eyes.
"I won't beat around the bush," Cassian began, forcing himself to look you in the eyes. "I want to apologise for my role in what happened to you. For detaining you in your home and for failing to unravel the lies that resulted in your torture and almost murder. It was wrong and if there is any way I can atone for it, I will do it in a heartbeat. I can't admit the amount of times I have laid awake at night thinking of the way both mine and my brothers' complicity affected you."
Your heart swelled with genuine gratitude and appreciation for saying it straight. "You do not need my forgiveness, Cassian. Only to forgive yourself. I am alive and well, as I'm sure you've heard from Feyre and Rhys, so please let's draw a line in the sand."
"I do want your forgiveness though," Cassian said warmly, apology shining in his eyes.
"Then you have it, if it makes you sleep better at night. There are bigger things for you to lose sleep over right now, General," You reminded him.
A tentative smile stretched across his lips. "How are you so.... okay?"
"Some days are harder than others, trust me there. But," You paused, gathering the right words. "I have been working to move past it and to enjoy my new life. To not make it my whole story, just a chapter in it. I am not a victim. I was in that moment, but no more."
Something like relief passed over Cassian's face. "I understand... thank you."
Before anything more could be said between you, Azriel appeared at the door, passing through with tension wound tight, wings taut and shadows wisping around. One of the tendrils extended out towards you, the feeling of its coolness familiar as it brushed against its hand. It returned to its master's ear, though you were unsure what it had to report. Cassian stood, offered a nod to his brother, and exited the room.
You also stood, body twisting as Azriel rounded to stand in front of you. "Hello, Azriel," You said, wiping your sweaty palms on your bottoms.
"Hello," He replied, emotions closed off and guarded.
"How are you?" You asked, again feeling at a loss for words to work into the conversation.
"Busy," Azriel responded flatly, his tone making a surge of panic zip across your chest.
This was a very bad idea, "Oh. Yes, I'm sorry. We can talk another time if you don't have the headspace right now."
Realising the impression he had given, Azriel raised both his palms. "No, sorry. I'm not too busy to talk. Just can't say much."
"Ah," You replied, understanding but a bit stiff. "Uhm. I have something to ask you and before I do, I want you to know that I completely understand if you say no. I know it might seem strange."
Azriel's eyes narrowed slightly, his wings tensing a centimetre more than they were already. "What is it?"
"Well," You began, finding that the curtains were easier to look at than his smouldering gaze. "I was wondering if you would perhaps like to see more of each other."
For the first time in all the time you had known him, Azriel seemed at a loss for words. His mouth was slightly agape, eyes widened a little and you were fairly sure he had stopped breathing. You looked at him once again, allowing him to see your burning face. "Why?" He asked after a solid thirty seconds of silence. The longest thirty seconds you had ever felt.
You cleared your throat awkwardly, wondering if he thought you were some sort of masochist, or a nut job. Or both. "I realised that when we last spoke that I was sad it was a goodbye."
Azriel sucked in a breath through his nose, his chest heaving a little. His shadows had slowed to a lazy swirl around you both, like they knew no matter what they had to report, their master would not hear them."Are you sure you're not just missing our past? Trying to find some past comfort?"
A weak smile curled your lips, "That's what I'm trying to figure out."
Azriel's fingers twitched on his lap. "Is that a wise idea? What if you being around me brings back all the bad things you've worked to move on from?" He asked as though he was some sort of disease, which objectively broke your heart.
"I'm a big girl Azriel, I can handle myself. I haven't 'gotten rid' of the things I've worked on," You scolded slightly. "There are things we will obviously need to talk about but being around you won't make me feel apart. If anything, our distance is what has been troubling me."
Azriel looked like he wanted to say yes, jump right into it. There was something sad in his eyes though.
"Az," You used his nickname for the first time since before you were detained and it seemed to have a physical effect on him.
"What?"
"It is okay to say no," You reminded him. "And you also must say no if there is any part of you that wants to agree purely just to punish yourself. If this is to work, we need to start from scratch. Like we don't know each other. As friends."
Azriel's gaze looked a little more hopeful. "Can I think about it? I'm seeing someone and would like to run it by them." You smiled, ignoring the way your heart plummeted to the core of your soul at his words. Seeing someone. The words echoed in your ears, paining you in a way that you had no right to feel.
"Of course. Gods, take as long as you need," You said, pulling out a slip of paper from your pocket. "Here is my address, you can either write or come see me when you have made up your mind. No pressure at all, Az, I mean it." The olive branch you extended revealed something raw on his face, like you had pulled his head up from below the surface, allowing him to breathe for the first time in eons.
It took Azriel three days to get back to you with his answer. Three days of anxiety curling in your gut, wondering if he had understood what you had meant, especially if he now had a partner. You had felt a little betrayed by it, which you knew was childish. You had also wished Feyre had told you, the fact might have deterred you from doing it in the first place. By the third day you had decided all your ruminating was pointless and at the very least, you wanted to attempt a friendship with him... that should be enough.
You were reading a book when there was a knock on your door. You knew who it was without opening the door. A nervous sigh left your lips as you closed your book, stood up and made your way to your front door. Azriel stood on the other side, looking determined. It was a nice change from the usual tortured, kicked-puppy expression he had around you.
"Azriel. Come in," You said by way of greeting, opening the door wider.
Azriel stepped into your apartment, winged tucked in politely. He looked around as you led him to your kitchen table. You offered him tea to which he agreed. Silence filled the room, but not an entirely uncomfortable one. When you brewed the tea and turned around with two cups and the pot, an ache twisted in your chest at how familiar this felt. It was like you were reliving a memory of a day when you were giving him a report as a spy, like nothing had changed. Except everything had changed. You settled in front of him, letting the tea brew for a bit longer and also letting Azriel lead the conversation this time. Ball was in his court.
Azriel drank in the sight in front of him, watching you carefully. He also felt the irony at the situation. To be such a similar setting despite the raging rift between you. Only after the minutes had passed and you had poured both him and you a cup did he speak.
"So, you know know why I am here," Azriel said, grounding himself against the heat of the cup in his hands. It was your favourite blend. His one too. You had introduced it to him after you discovered it in a quaint little town in the Summer Court years ago. You had been so excited to make it for him.
"I do," You answered, sipping from your cup.
"I want to make sure we are both doing this for the right reasons and not as a way to hurt ourselves or to try bring something dead back to life," Azriel said, each word measured and thought out.
"Of course," You agreed and he could tell it had been something you had pondered for longer than him. Of course, he had imagined a reality where you and him were okay again but he also wasn't naïve enough to think that was achievable. Until you had approached him.
"And I think that if we are going to do this, we should do it like you said. Like we don't know each other," Azriel continued, igniting hope in your chest that you weren't ready to untangle just yet, to understand. "Because the reality is, we don't know each other anymore. Not truly."
There was an undeniable truth to his words. Your kind often talked about how two or three years were a blip in time for them, but this particular blip was monumental for both you and Azriel. It had changed you both forever. "I agree with you... Does this mean you are agreeing?"
"It does," Azriel confirmed to which you breathed a sigh of relief. "But I would like to lay down some ground rules, which you are entitled to do yourself."
"Go ahead," You said.
"I think we need to be slow and respect each other's boundaries. If one of us decides it's too much, then we stop. No questions asked." Azriel allowed himself to show the nervousness he was feeling.
"That's fair."
"And I think also need to be able to call each other out if the other hasn't realised they aren't happy," He continued.
You nodded with him. "I think we need to state now that it's okay for us to talk about what happened. But we need to ask if the other wants to hear it... that being said we can't always avoid it," You clarified.
Azriel looked a tad uncomfortable, and you worried for a moment that he would disagree. "Okay. Can I add a caveat to that?"
"By all means." This conversation was the real reflection of how much you had both changed. Neither of you had ever been so direct with one another, so clear about your intentions.
"I think we should talk about it all now. Get everything off our chests. I don't think I could handle it being brought up every time we spoke. Don't get me wrong, if you need to talk about something then do but..." Azriel trailed off.
"You can't be constantly reminded," You finished for him.
"Exactly," He replied, looking guilty.
You pondered his request for a moment and if anything, it made you feel relieved. You also did not want to rehash it all the time. "Agreed," you said, taking another sip.
"Great," Azriel said. He must have gotten his partner's go ahead for this, but you would not ask about her. You did not know him, of course.
"So, you want to talk about what happened. Anything in particular?" You asked. It had been quite awhile since you recounted the exact details to anyone.
Azriel paused, like there were hundreds of things passing through his mind. "I suppose I wanted to hear about your recovery. I knew you were recovering of course, but not how or what you were doing."
Humming, you gathered your thoughts for a second. "To be honest, I thought Feyre would have let on a little of how I was doing."
"Not once," Azriel said quickly. "She would never betray your trust." Which you well believed.
"Well," you moved on. "It was hard. I was in a new city, surrounded by people I did not know and coming to terms with the fact I had been betrayed." You eyed Azriel, trying not to hurt him too much with your words. But he needed to hear the truth if your new friendship was going to work. "I had no memories, at first, of what happened. But they came back to me. Syrena said it was something to do with the trauma. But I eventually remembered all of it." Your mind did a mental checklist of all your injuries. The missing fingers, the inscriptions all over your abdomen, the scars. All of it. "I wanted to die. For a long time," You said, feeling a flicker of fear for yourself at the memory of just how bad it had gotten. Azriel paled a little, despite his Illyrian colouring, "I'm not exactly sure when that feeling left, but Alina, my therapist, pushed me to keep doing. Go on walks, figure out my hobbies, what made my days feel full. She helped me take my power back, the control I had given to everything but myself. I think the first time I felt true peace was when I discovered a waterfall along the Sidra in the mountains, about a two-hour hike from my old house." You paused again, smiling at Azriel. "I am happy Azriel. There is a lot more than what I've said, but I am doing well. In some ways, I'm doing better than I ever have before."
Azriel's lips twitched into a small smile, and it warmed you. It had been so long since he had. "I am... glad to hear it. Truly."
"Thank you," You said. "How about you?"
Azriel knew what you were asking. "I think if my family hadn't been around me in the aftermath of what happened, I would have killed myself. I think they knew that." Your heart thundered in your chest at his words. "I wanted to," He continued. "I had let myself down in all the fundamental ways I knew. I was like my brothers," Azriel said, peering down at his hands. As much as you wanted to reach across and tell him it was okay, you didn't. Because what happened wasn't okay and it never would be. And that was okay to admit. It was in the past and now all that mattered was the present and future. "I had wanted to disappear and never return. I think I would have if it weren't for the way Nyx looked at me one night, still a babe. He stared into my eyes and smiled like I hadn't done something abhorrent, and it reminded me that no matter how nasty I was, I would stay and make sure he wouldn't have do anything similar to what I had done. Ever." Azriel's face was sombre, but he smiled at the memory of his nephew. "But staying wasn't enough. I still fell deeper into that dark place, and I thought about how I could atone for what I had done," He continued, his amber eyes glancing down at himself. "It took about a year and a half for me to seek real help. I could drink, fuck and drown out as much of it as I could possibly try but it always caught up with me. So I started seeing a therapist. It has not been easy, feeling things that I pushed away for many years. It got worse before it got better, really. But I have really been working on myself. I find it hard to accept a lot of the things I did to you, what I allowed to be done to you. But I am learning to live with it and to find joy in life again."
There were tears lining your eyes at his words. Both from sadness and understanding but also from happiness that he had decided to speak with someone about it. Therapy wasn't something that was often suggested in Prythian. More often, anyone with troubles was encouraged to seek out the help of a Priestess and allow The Mother to guide them... but there was only so much help The Mother could give while her children drew breath. She could only embrace you once you passed. So, to hear that Azriel, an Illyrian male, with baggage unlike any other being you knew, was speaking with someone filled you with more relief than you had any real claim to.
"I hope you know that you're doing the right thing. If anyone knows that it's me," You replied, wiping at your eyes.
"I know, even if it doesn't feel like it most of the time. I sometimes feel like I am forgiving myself too soon like... what right do I have to try absolve myself of things I've done to others?" Azriel let out a shaky breath, like what he had just said was the scariest foe he had ever faced.
"You have every right," You said passionately. "No one else lives your twenty-four hours, Az. You have to learn to live with yourself."
"And do you?" Azriel asked, eyeing you sadly. "Live with yourself?"
The question took you aback. "I do," You replied. "Despite what happened between us, I have also had to unpack things I have done. No one is perfect, especially us with our profession. There are no excuses for some of the things I have done but I go to sleep at night knowing that I was acting in the best interest of the Night Court..." You hesitated on your next words. Stretching across the table, you clutched Azriel's hand into your own. "Because you were the one ordering me to do so."
Azriel's chest hitched, his throat bobbed and amber eyes widened. "What makes you say that?"
You studied Azriel's face. "When you recruited me all those years ago, I admit I just took you and this court as another group of sanctimonious assholes who believed they were better than everyone else. I did my missions, killed my targets, and pried for information purely because it's what paid the bills. And paid well." Azriel smiled a little at that. "But the closer we got, the more information you gave me about your life, your family and eventually this city, I knew I was working for a good male, with a strong moral compass. That I was working for someone who understood that certain sacrifices had to happen for the greater good.... and would rather that sacrifice came from himself than of that from the innocent."
Azriel's throat bobbed again, his jaw clenched hard. Sitting across from you, the Spymaster of the Night Court, one of the strongest Illyrian warriors of all time, was struggling to keep his composure.
“Do you mind if I winnow us somewhere else?” Azriel asked, his chest heaving like he was barely keeping his composure. Like being surrounded by your new life was suffocating.
Still holding your hand, Azriel cloaked both of you in mist and shadow and when it ebbed, you realised you were in a clearing of a forect. A patch where no trees grew and there were rays of sunlight basking down onto you. But you did not have a chance to dwell on it long before the sound of Azriel's muffled sobs sounded right next to you. He had removed his hand from yours the moment you had landed and walked across the clearing, wings and shadows completely hiding his sorrow from you. You followed him, heart cracking at the sounds he so desperately tried to hide.
"Sorry," Azriel croaked out, back turned to you still.
That little apology, the apology for crying in front of you broke the last of your resolve. You rounded to face him and wasted no time before you placed both of your hands on either side of his face, tears of your own now falling down your cheeks. "It's okay," You choked out, before guiding his head down to your chest and cradled him.
Azriel's muffled sobs turned to cries and he lowered himself to his knees before you, arms winding their way around your waist. Barely coherent apologies spewed from him, your shirt quickly becoming soaked. You rested your head on top of his and shh'd him gently, your chest heaving from your own cries. At how broken you both were yet still clung to each other as though your lives depended on it.
When Azriel's sobs ebbed and you had lowered yourself to the forest floor, still holding the Illyrian Shadowsinger like he was a child, you spoke. "What is this place? You asked, your voice hoarse.
"Just somewhere I like to come and clear my head," Azriel answered, his wings curled around you both now shielding you from the breeze.
"It's pretty," You mused, your fingers running through Azriel's curls absentmindedly.
The silence lingered, both of you in a world of your own digesting everything that happened between you.
"I would like to see you again soon, if you are free?" Azriel asked, clearing his throat after a few minutes.
"I am. When are you free next?" You asked, understanding that his moments of liberty were scarce as of late.
"I will send you a note," He suggested, finally breaking his hold on you.
Azriel's movement reminded you that you were still holding his head to your chest, still curling his locks in your hands, and a smidgen of mortification riled within you. You removed yourself from him, allowing you both to stand. Despite what happened, no humiliation shined in Azriel's gaze... and none within you either. You had comforted each other. Like friends would. And that filled you with so much hope.
"Sounds good to me," You answered.
After Azriel had transported you back to Velaris, to a street not too far from your home, you smiled to him. "I am glad we did this," You stated.
Azriel, though he looked drained from his breakdown, smiled a little back. "Me too," He replied.
***
You had only gotten the chance to meet Azriel again only a handful of times since your last encounter. The stakes between courts had risen to near boiling point. Rumours and theories flew around the various news publications that you could get your hands on. Random disappearances of both Autumn and Night Court soldiers were now too blatant to ignore on either side, micro attacks near the borders, spies never being heard from again. All of it sending both courts barrelling towards war. Resulting in the people you had become close to having almost no time to themselves, let alone for you. You looked after Nyx often, though you rarely actually saw Feyre or Rhys. It had become increasingly common for you to hand over with Nuala and Cerridwen. Syrena was run off of her feet, constantly being called out to random locations throughout the Night Court to attend to wounded or treat people for poisonings. Azriel was even more scarce than everyone else. His spies, your former peers, had dropped like flies from what you had gathered from him.
Despite your loneliness, your inability to help them, you worried terribly about their wellbeing. All of them. Even Nyx had noticed the distance between them all, between his parents. You tried to placate him, but it got harder and harder as the time went on. All your friends were distant in the fleeting moments you got to see them, their minds lingering elsewhere. Selfishly, it made you feel isolated. Not that you enjoyed the prospect of having their worries but there was a want there. A want to lighten their load. But whenever you asked, every single one of them said you had done enough. It only made you realise they were likely all leaning on one another, on those who truly understood it all. Syrena leaned on her colleagues in the clinic, Feyre leaned on Rhysand and her family and Azriel leaned on his partner and family also. All while you relied on them and yourself.
You were sitting on a bench in Nyx's favourite park, keen eyes watching him as he played a little ways away. He was currently trying to find some rocks to add to his collection. That was his newest pastime, collecting rocks and pebbles of different shapes, colours, and varieties.
"Look, aunty!" Nyx squealed, trotting over to you with four rocks clutched between his two hands, wings bouncing lightly behind him. The nickname was new. When you asked the boy why he called you that, he shrugged his little shoulders and said that was what he called people he loved. You had trouble keeping your eyes dry that time.
"Very beautiful, my dear," You cooed, holding out your hand so you could place his newest treasure into his satchel.
In the split second you lowered your gaze to place the rocks into the satchel, something cold was placed at your throat. A feeling so familiar, so sharp that you knew what it was the very moment the coolness kissed your chin, its sharpened tip already breaking the skin on your neck. When your eyes moved up, there was a pict standing just behind Nyx with a long, shining blade resting in his hands. It was not pointed at Nyx, but the threat was there in its black, depthless eyes. Make any sort of movement and the child will be hurt, the serrations on the knife mere inches from Nyx's tiny wings. Wings that could be permanently damaged with little effort due to their youth.
"It's okay, Nyx," You said, voice grave. Nyx was staring at you; his olive skin pale and eyes furrowed in confusion. While he was likely too young to realise exactly what was happening, he understood enough to know that something was wrong. "Please," You said, looking up at the male pict standing behind him. "Do whatever you want to me but leave the boy alone."
A wicked, satisfied smile revealed the pict's pointed teeth. "Worry not," He replied. "If you follow our exact instructions, no harm will come to the little heir."
Nodding, you raised your arms in surrender, screaming out into that bond to both Feyre and Rhysand for help. You usually felt a certain openness in your mind dedicated to that bond with Nyx's parents but now it was muted. A feeling similar to that of opening your eyes under water. Its metaphorical silhouette was there, but almost completely blurred.
Faebane.
Panic roared in your chest, the small trickle of blood dropping down your neck like a tear suddenly making sense. Still, you thrashed your panic towards that bond in the hopes they would hear it.
"You will come with us now," The male behind you instructed, voice frightfully cold.
"Do not get any ideas or else," The male standing behind Nyx warned, placing rough hands-on Nyx's shoulders.
One moment you were both in a park in Velaris, the next you were in a wooden room. The very prospect terrified you, since when were picts able to winnow? The males wasted no time in tying you to chair, leaving Nyx to sit on the floor near you.
"Why are we here?" You asked, tugging at your ropes, still desperately clawing at the cage the faebane had placed on your mind.
"All will become clear," One of the males answered before retreating from the room.
Left with Nyx on your own, your eyes darted around the room frantically. Trying to gain any sort of information as to your whereabouts. It was only when you heard Nyx's breaths becoming a little laboured beside you did you realise your biggest priority in that moment. Protecting that little boy with everything you had.
"Nyx," You called, looking down at him. His face was buried in his hands, his wings flaring with his sobs.
"I want mama and papa," Nyx cried and the sound send fury rippling through your veins like poison, promising revenge for making your little companion scared.
"It's okay, my darling," You cooed, keeping your voice steady. The last thing Nyx needed was to feel unsafe in the room with you. "Tell you what, let's try a game to pass some time."
Nyx looked up at you, fat tears dripping down his cheeks. "What game?"
"It is a game your mama and papa play, the one where they talk to each you without opening their mouths. Do you remember it?" You asked. Feyre had said only recently that Nyx's daemati abilities were not developed enough for mind-to-mind speaking just yet, but it was the best shot you had at rescuing their son from the trauma he was about to face.
"Uh huh," Nyx replied, shoulders hitching.
"Well, let's see if we can get them to play with us."
"How?" Nyx asked. "I don't know how to play."
Footsteps sounded, nearing the door. Panic rose within you. "How about you try for me. Try calling out to your mother using the voice in your head?"
The door opened before Nyx could ask for any more guidance. But you did wink at him, hoping he would at least try despite the clear fear on his face. A different male walked through the door, a lesser fae judging by his ears but you weren't sure what. There was something off about him. His skin was pallid in a sickly kind of way, greying in a way you had only ever seen on a corpse.
"Nyx, go to the corner," You ordered, the hairs all over your body standing on end as the male strode towards you.
"I want to stay by you!" Nyx cried back, eyes unable to move from the creature approaching you.
"Do as you're told!" You ordered, ignoring the pang of guilt for snapping at the child. Whatever this thing was, you did not want it anywhere near Nyx.
Nyx scrambled back in the corner furthest from you and you prayed to The Mother and all the gods in existence that he would be left alone. The creature stopped in front of you and smiled, revealing rotting teeth and gums that emitted an odour that made you gag instantly.
"Ahhh," The creature said, its breath fanning over your face like a mist. "A new toy. Let us go," it mused, a long, sharp fingernail cutting the rope around you with ease.
You wanted to fight it but the way death was clinging to its very being told you that any fight would be futile and could result in Nyx being harmed. So, as you were being dragged out of the room, you looked at a crying Nyx in the corner and reminded him of the game.
"I will be back soon, my darling. Play our game and I will be back in no time," You stated, dipping your chin. Though he was young, Nyx was anything but stupid.
You were transported to a setting you hoped you would never have to face again. In the room you were in was a chair. Along the wall beside it was various paraphernalia that promised your next moments were not going to pleasant. The creature fastened you into the chair with ease, its deathly cold fingers making your squirm to get away.
"You might as well know now that I know absolutely nothing," You stated to the creature.
"I know that," It answered, voice vacant and contradicting of the smile on its face.
"Then why am I here?" Your heart was thumping painfully in your chest. Whatever this being had in mind for you was a lot bigger than a classic torture for information trope you had originally thought.
"So many questions," It tease, grabbing your face and squeezing your cheeks hard. Enough to make your teeth slice your gums. "Wouldn't want to reveal it all now, would I?" The creature forced it's long, razor sharp nail between your lips and onto your tongue. Its milky eyes rolled in delight at your frantic and muffled groans.
"Such young organs," It breathed out in delight, nail slicing your tongue causing blood to dribble out of your mouth.
Despite your panic, you did the only thing your survival instincts told you to do. Bite. So you did. As hard as you could, to the point where your molars crushed the gums that he had squeezed. A shriek left your mouth at the pain, but you continued, until you felt the skin and bone between your teeth relent and break apart. The creature roared and tried to pull its appendage from your mouth. When your jaw did not concede, the creature resorted to jabbing its other fingers into your eyes too. White hot pain ripped through you, and you released its hand as you screamed in agony.
"Stupid female!" It roared. You could hear it pacing back and forth in front of you. You tried to open your eyes but all you could see was red. Suddenly, it was right in front of you, rotting mouth right in front of yours. "Such a pretty face, but terrible attitude," It scolded, fury in its voice. "I was excited to wear you. But I will not tolerate such behaviour!" Wear you? Ice cold terror rattled through you as a single word clanged in your mind.
Skinwalker.
"Get the fuck away from me!" You roared, angling your head away.
"I shall bring the child in, perhaps that will keep you quiet," The skinwalker suggested.
"Don't you dare!" You roared, thrashing against your restraints. "He is just a boy, leave him out of it. He is innocent!"
A laugh escaped the skinwalker, the sound strained and not too dissimilar to a death rattle. "I agree. Children are my favourite. Such pure little organs uncorrupted by the world."
You strained against the ropes holding you, still unable to see clearly. You shouted abuse at the skinwalker but the lack of sound and odour in the room told you that he had gone to get Nyx. So, you did what you could to protect him.
"Nyx!" You screamed as loud as you could, hoping he would hear you as he neared the room. "Nyx, close your eyes! Do not open them whatever you do!"
Steps neared.
"Squeeze them tight, like you are trying to go to sleep! And keep playing our game!"
The steps, accompanied by the slightly faster patter of a child's feet entered the room.
"Nyx are you listening to me?!" You shouted, hearing a panicked cry in return.
"Yes, aunty!" Nyx responded, voice wobbling with fear that made your heart ache.
"Good boy," You praised gently, wishing you could see him. "Do not open your eyes no matter what. Keep playing the game. You will be fine, I promise."
"So heart warming," The skinwalker cooed, nearing you again. "If you do not comply, I will make sure that only will the boy see what happens to you, but I will mimic every action onto him."
As much as you wanted to fight and shout and scream, the thought of Nyx even witnessing what the skinwalker was about to rendered you silent. You nodded, letting out a shaky breath.
"You're doing perfectly, Nyx. How is your game?" You asked Nyx, trying to distract him and yourself.
"I'm trying!" Was all the child responded.
"Good boy, that's all I can ask!" You encouraged, feeling the skinwalker's hands begin to run all over your body. Like it was memorising it. It dawned on you what it was going to do.
"Do you think you will fool the High Lord and Lady?" You asked it incredulously.
Another cocky laugh came from it. "Who said anything about the High Lord and Lady?" It asked, confusing you further. "A decorated spy from the Night Court, what a specimen to wear!" It delighted again, hands running over your breasts. Your stomach twisted with fear.
"I haven't been a spy for over three years now," You told the skinwalker, hoping it would delay the inevitable.
"The rest of Prythian does not know that," It replied before bringing the crown of your head to its nose and inhaling. That was the moment you felt salty tears stream down your cheeks, fear unlike anything you had ever experienced washing over you in waves as your brain desperately tried to catch up with what was about to happen.
Before another word could leave your mouth, a pained roar escaped the skinwalker and you felt its presence being ripped away from you violently. A dreadful, vengeful power seeped into each corner of the room, drenching the space in a power that you knew all too well... and in a setting that was not too far detached from your current one.
"Keep your eyes closed, Nyx," You reminded him, unsure of who, other than the High Lord of the Night Court, was in the room likely tearing the skinwalker limb from limb if the sounds were anything to go by.
"Nyx has been taken home," Rhysand replied to you but his voice was not his own. It sounded animalistic. Raw and angry.
Your shoulders bowed in relief. You felt someone kneel down in front of you. "It cut my eyes," You told Rhys, his presence unmistakeable.
"I will winnow us home," Rhys stated. He was definitely not himself. But who would be after their son was abducted. In way you were glad you had not seen whatever your High Lord had done to the skinwalker.
The moment Rhysand's hands had settled on, you had been transported to their home in time to hear the words,
"He is unharmed," Escape Madja's lips.
Syrena shrieked your name as you appeared in the room with Rhys and you jumped when you felt her hands wrap around your shoulders, Rhys's leaving at the same time. But all you could focus on was Madja's voice, that little Nyx was okay. It sent relief barrelling through you, enough that your whole body was jittering and cold.
"You're safe now," Syrena whispered.
"What the hell happened!" You heard a voice roar over to you. Feyre. As ferocious as you had ever heard her, her power snaking around the room. It made your arms go weak.
"My eyes," You mumbled to yourself, the adrenaline finally wearing off and the true extend of the pain becoming apparent at breakneck speed.
"What the fuck?!" A new voice shouted, a female.
"Is he okay?!" Cassian roared at the same time.
"Where is he?" Another female.
"My eyes," You croaked again, bringing a shaking hand to finger around them. A sticky liquid was around them.
Syrena cooed your name again, warier than before.
"How could this happen?!" Another female addition shouted. You wished you could see who was here but from what you could tell, the entirety of the inner circle was present.
"How the fuck did this happen!" Feyre roared again and you knew it was directed at you.
A groan of pain got caught in your throat as you tried to sort through your rising panic. You were too out of practice with violence to be okay with it so suddenly.
"Feyre," Azriel spoke softly at his High Lady. The sound was careful.
"No, I need to know! How did they get their hands on my son!"
"My eyes!" You cried out as another wave of pain overtook you and your knees collapsed from beneath you, Syrena holding you elbow to help cushion your fall.
"Shh, shh, just stay still. Let me take a look," Syrena cooed next to you, her warm hands cupping your cold cheeks. Her thumbs rubbed and pulled lightly under your eyes, spreading the sticky blood.
"I'm here," Azriel said on your left, the familiar kiss of his shadows doing their own assessment on your wellbeing. “I need you to tell me who did this to you,” He added softly but with an unmistakable bite in his tone.
"I need Madja here, this is very complicated," Syrena said. "If I make one wrong move she will be blinded forever." That one sentence sent fear shooting down your spine and a laboured breath to escape you. You grabbed at Azriel beside you, trying to find his hand.
Syrena's statement seemed to pull Feyre from her angry babbling and she went silent, her mate still soothing her.
"Hello, dear. My name is Madja," An older female's voice said, making you jump slightly not having heard her come over. Your heart was too busy thumping in your ears to make any room for smaller sounds. Azriel's thumb brushed over your palm.
"Hello," You replied, voice hoarse.
"Can you explain to me what happened?" Madja asked, her own hands now on your face.
"It-It..." You trailed off, mind racing trying to make sense of the last few hours.
"It's okay, you're safe now," Azriel reminded you.
"It wanted to wear me. I tried to fight back a-and... it jammed its nails into my eyes. Its nails are like blades," You said, opting to keep the details simple at the moment. If you elaborated, you weren't sure you'd be able to overcome the panic it caused.
"Wear her?" One of the unfamiliar female voices mumbled in horror.
"I see," Madja said, voice calmy professional like you just told her you scraped your knee on a rock. "Syrena, I need you to come hold her head still."
Your panic began to rise again when Syrena's hands came to hold your head, her palms settling over each ear.
"This will hurt," Madja said, voice grave. "The eyes are very sensitive, but you must try your very best to stay still, do you understand?"
"Yes," You answered breathlessly, although you weren't sure you were prepared. Particularly so when you felt the grip Syrena had on your head become very tight.
"Shadowsinger, you may want to let go of her hand. Her muscles will tense with the pain," Madja told him, the implication clear.
"I will be fine," Azriel stated, his hand closing tighter around your own and the comfort settled you just for a moment.
Heat built from your eyes. Slow at first before charging into full-on white-hot agony. Every single muscle in your body tensed hard, your hand closing around Azriel's impossibly tight. Through a clenched jaw, a cry of pure suffering squeezed its way out through your teeth. It was like time had slowed to a fraction of what it was, each second passing by with leisure.
"Remember to breathe," Azriel said, placing his free hand over your joined ones like you weren't rearranging his bone structure with your grip.
You tried to suck in a breath, the dizziness rising fast, but your lungs felt like there was a vice around them.
"I'm nearly done," Madja warned.
"Breathe," Syrena joined in. You could feel tears leak from your eyes, burning the hurt flesh on their way.
"Breathe in," Azriel tried again but it no avail.
There was someone new crouching near you now, you could feel from the displacement of air, your mind doing anything to distract itself from the earth-shattering agony you were enduring.
"Let me take the pain away," Feyre said.
In your mind, you felt a caress upon your mental shields, and you wanted to open them. You would open them and let her in to take whatever she wanted if it meant you did not have to suffer another second of this.
"Let her in," Azriel encouraged, his wing brushing against your back.
You wanted to, you were desperate to. But you were too panicked, too out of control to do anything. So, you did the only thing you could think to do, through the pain.
"Force it!" You screeched.
"What?" Syrena asked, voice dripping in fear.
"Can't. Open. Force it!" You shrieked again, forcing your attention to the edges of your mental shield in the hope Feyre might be able to pick up on it.
Whether she did or not became clear when your mind went fuzzy and black.
***
"How are you feeling?" Azriel asked you, sitting on the edge of the egregiously large bed you were laid in.
"Disorientated. My vision isn't fully back yet," You replied, resisting the urge to rub at your eyes.
"Madja says it will take a few days to come back. She said you are very lucky, if your eyes had been scratched even a millimetre further there would have been nothing she could do." You could make out Azriel's form well enough, his shadows nondescript blobs moving around him. The details of his face were blurry.
"Where are we?" You asked.
"My room in the River House. It was the closest one," He answered sheepishly.
"Oh," You said, feeling heat creep up your neck. "If you could bring me home that would be great. I don't want to take up any more space."
"I don't stay here a lot," Azriel soothed. "I mainly stay in the House of Wind. This space is yours for now. Madja says you are going to need some supervision for the next few days."
You settled back into the bed, its size now making sense. Azriel's wings were the largest out of his brothers’ you had heard.
"Are they furious with me?" You asked, anxiety pooling in your chest remembering Feyre's wrath.
"They are terrified," Azriel corrected. "Terrified that their son was taken under the supervision of someone they trust, in a city that is supposed to be safe." The words sat heavy upon you, failure nipping at you. You wondered what you could have done differently, if you had perhaps began training again when you were given this task would you have been able to fight them off.
"They hate me..."
"They don't understand what happened," Azriel said, his hand settling over yours again. "They are scared. They could only tell so much from Nyx. Will you talk to them?"
"I will have to, whether I want to or not," You answered, aching to be at the waterfall so you could build the courage to face the parents of the child that was taken under your care.
Thirty minutes later you were in a rather large office, Azriel at your side. Your arm was looped around his to help guide you around the house. You could make out both Feyre and Rhys sitting on the other side of the desk, their unease permeating around the room like a bad smell. You wished you could see their faces.
"Would you like me to stay or go?" Azriel asked.
When Feyre and Rhysand did not answer, you realised he was asking you. "Stay," You whispered.
Azriel led you to the chairs at the desk and helped settle you before he sat next to you.
Feyre said your name, voice uneasy and full of... exhaustion.
"How is Nyx?" You asked before you could convince yourself it was a bad idea.
"Nyx is fine. Shaken but fine," Rhysand answered, a hint of relief trickling into his tone. A sentiment that you felt too, your shoulders bowing at the fact.
"I need to know what happened. Nyx was too panicked to say anything," Feyre stated. This female was very different to the one you had come to know as your friend. This was the High Lady sitting in front of you. The High Lady that came perilously close to losing her child.
"I thought you would look when you went into my mind," You said, hoping to avoid reliving what happened quite so soon.
"I tried but you were also too distressed to make any sense," Feyre answered, her patience growing thin if the strain in her voice was anything to go by.
"Do you want to try again? I-I...." You looked at your lap as tears of shame gathered in your eyes. Tears that stung your injuries. "I am not sure I can say it."
There was no reply from either Rhys or Feyre but, there were two distinct passes made over your mental shield. This time, you were able to lower them, and you felt the High Lord and Lady sift through your memory of what happened. You glanced across at Azriel, wishing you could see his face. Even though he had not explicitly said it, you knew he was on your side.
"Why?" You asked him.
Azriel remained quiet for a moment, and you knew he understood. "Because I didn't trust you once before it was the worst mistake of my life. I will not make it again." Despite your anguish, warmth bloomed in your chest.
This time you weren't completely on your own.
When Feyre and Rhys withdrew from your mind, one of Azriel's shadows had settled into your lap.
"They were going to cut his wings..." You mumbled to everyone in the room. "I didn't think picts could winnow and I was terrified that they would take his wings. They cut my neck, and I tried to call out but there was faebane on the blade," You rang your fingers over the healed skin. "I can't fight anymore. I'm so sorry, Feyre. I'm so sorry, Rhys. Please, I would have-"
Feyre cut across you, calling your name with more softness than what was there before. "I understand. We both do."
The tears spilled over even more and you placed your hands on your forehead as sobs wracked your body.
"You protected our son with your life," Rhysand added, gratitude dripping from his voice. "Protected him from seeing something that could scar him for life with no care for your own safety as a result. Not only that, but you also helped him use his daemati abilities to contact us." Rhysand stood, rounding the table to stand in front of you making you stand as well, sobs still wracking your body. "And for that," Rhys said, his voice strained as though he was struggling to keep a hold of his emotions. "We are indebted to you in a way we will never be able to repay." With that, Rhysand pulled you into a bone crushing hug. A hug so tight, so loaded with fear and relief, that you threw your arms around the High Lord and broke down into sobs again.
After a few minutes, you felt Feyre's hand on your shoulder, pulling you from the hug with her mate. But not in a possessive way. No, both her hands came to cup your cheeks, wiping at your tears though you could hear sobs of her own escaping her lips. "I am sorry," she said, voice strained. "I am sorry for screaming at you. Thank you for protecting Nyx. For protecting his body and mind. For protecting his wings, for keeping him calm. For everything." With that, Feyre placed a kiss on both your cheeks before also hugging you tight.
When you were all hugged out and tears drying, you pulled away. You nearly tripped on the leg of one of the armchairs across from the desk, but Azriel was there, steadying you in a heartbeat. "I'm here," His cool voice said gently.
"You are welcome to stay here while you recover," Rhysand said. "You could stay for the rest of your life, and I would have no complaints. But we understand if you would like to return home to recover, but you will need someone to stay with you while your vision returns."
"I will stay, if you don't mind. I would like to see Nyx once my vision has recovered," You asked sheepishly, not wanting to be alone just yet after the ordeal.
"You can see him now, if you wish. He has been asking for his favourite aunty. Both my sisters and Mor are devastated at the fact," Feyre said warmly.
You giggled a little, affection spreading withing you. "I want to wait until my vision has returned. Nyx is clever and I don't want him to be reminded of what happened when he realises I can't see properly."
"As you wish," Rhysand said, grateful that you were still thinking of his child's wellbeing even after the fact.
***
Two weeks later, vision now fully returned, you were sitting in front of Alina for the first time since the kidnapping.
"You've had quite the encounter since we last met," Alina greeted you, concern clear on her face.
"Indeed," You agreed, rubbing along your eyes absentmindedly. "But we are both safe so that's something to be thankful for."
"Of course. How have you been?" Alina asked, offering you a steaming cup of tea which you accepted only to ease your nerves.
"It brought up a lot of feelings from before... and I've been having nightmares," You said into your cup, shame filling you.
"Why do you look embarrassed?" Alina jumped straight in at the kill.
"Just feels like I haven't moved past it as much as I thought," You admitted.
"Why do you think that is?" Alina asked, the sound of her sipping her tea the only sound in the room.
"Because I feel like I should be able to bounce back from these things better... what happened wasn't nearly as bad as before and yet I still feel just as terrified." There it was, your shame out in the open.
"Okay, I can see why you might think like that. Do you mind if I comment?" Alina asked. That was one thing you were thankful for. She always asked if you were open to hear something. There were days where you would shake your head and stare out the window and Alina would accept that and move on. But she would always revisit it at a later session. You nodded your head this time. "You are angry at yourself for not overcoming something traumatic immediately."
You felt yourself bristle at her words, defiance rising. But it halted right at the precipice of your mouth. Because you knew she was right.
"One thing we have learned together since we began our sessions is to be patient with ourselves. It makes sense that the abduction has affected you in not only bringing up feelings of your previous ordeal but also new ones too. What you went through was scary. You not only had to try protecting yourself, but you also had the life of a child in your hands as well. If you were unchanged after it then I would have failed at my job. Do not punish yourself for feeling, my dear. Do not do yourself the disservice because you are only kicking those emotions further along the path to fester, and you will eventually happen upon them again," Alina finished, voice stern.
Your shoulders bowed slightly at her words, opening that part of yourself that you had convinced yourself wasn't there in the name of being 'healed'. That part that lingered in the back of your mind and whispered that you were the same person as before and that you had been knocked all the way back to day one. "I feel like I haven't made any progress though." Tears trickled from your eyes.
"How long did it take you to actually start engaging with me the last time? And not when I told you to, when you actually felt like you were making progress with me?" Alina questioned, placing her teacup down on its saucer.
"I'm not sure... somewhere around the year mark," You revealed, face burning.
A small, amused smile stretched across Alina's lips. "It has been two weeks since the abduction and here you are, opening up to me on our first session since... do you see where I am going with this?"
And you did. You saw the comparison, despite the raging self-deprecation at play.
"When we take things one step at a time, it can feel small and insignificant. It is only when we look back can we see how high we have risen."
"You're right," You agreed, the statement resonating within your soul.
"I know I am," Alina joked.
"I wonder how the old me would've reacted to this," You mused, thinking back to the angry wretch that sat in your very seat almost three years earlier.
"No where near as civilly," Alina joked again.
An amused smile curled at your own lips. "Full of jokes today," You chuckled.
"Perhaps I should try out a comedic profession," Alina continued, earning a full of laugh.
"Well, I've given you plenty of material to work with," You added, both of you laughing together.
One thing was certain.
The old you would not have been able to smile so easily. And that is what was important.
***
"Aunty!" Nyx all but shrieked, launching himself into your arms the following day.
"Hello my friend. How are you?" You asked, wrapping your arms around him and lifting.
"Nyx has done nothing but talk about wanting to see you," Cassian said from his armchair in the grand living room. Each member of the inner circle sat somewhere in the room.
You smiled warmly at the child in your arms, "And why is that?"
"Because you're my favourite aunty now!" Nyx said, arms splayed wide.
"Which is a scam," Morrigan jabbed playfully from her chair. You turned to the room, a toothy grin on your face. Even though most of these people had been in the room the day you and Nyx were winnowed home, it still felt like the first time you were meeting them because now you could actually see.
"Hello," You greeted the room, those who you had not officially met although you knew of them all. They were names that were commonplace across Prythian, not just the Night Court.
Feyre smiled at you, coming to retrieve her son from your arms so you could greet everyone properly. Nyx fussed a bit but conceded. You walked over to the closest female to you. The one they called Lady Death.
"Hello," You greeted, outstretching your hand to her.
Nesta stood and looked down at your hand, facial expression completely unreadable. You felt yourself holding your breath, something about her unnerving you completely. Nesta disregarded your hand completely and instead threw her arms around you tight, not just surprising you from the various gasps and snorts in the room. "I think the woman that protected my nephew deserves a lot more than a handshake. I am Nesta Archeron and I know who you are. It's a pleasure."
You pulled back from the hug, eyes slightly widened but you did not get much of a chance to respond before another Archeron was hugging you, her essence floral and face far more kind looking than her elder. "I'm Elain. Thank you for what you did." You glanced at Azriel over her shoulder who seemed to be holding in a laugh at your discomfort. You weren't a particular cuddly person... with strangers at least. But you'd forgive it.
"Hello, Elain. Nice to meet you," You replied, patting her back awkwardly.
A ginger male, clearly from Autumn despite his colouring joined the middle Archeron sister's side, thankfully forgoing an embrace. Though you knew exactly who he was. One of Beron's sons and the emissary of Spring Court, or he was at one time at least.
"You are Lucien," You said by way of greeting, wanting to curl in on yourself with cringe the moment the words left you lips. "Sorry," You added with burning cheeks and outstretched your hands.
"And you are the one whose name has been on everyone's lips for the last while," Lucien rebutted with a boyish grin.
"Move, it's my turn," Morrigan's voice snipped from behind Lucien and Elain. The blonde shoved her way in front of them with a confidence you could only have from being as absolutely breath taking as she was. It made you feel self conscious in a way, when you took stock of your own appearance in comparison. But whatever apprehension you had of her was erased with her next sentence. "However much I want to hate you for usurping my title of favourite aunty, I can't. I don't think I'll come close to being as amazing as you are."
A sheepish grin stretched across your lips, glancing back at Nyx who was playing with Rhys' hair... much to his father's annoyance from what you could tell. "Well, I'm sure you will earn the title back soon. When I look after Nyx he often talks of his Aunt Mor and all the toys she buys him."
Morrigan smiled a toothy smile and pulled you into your final hug. You hoped it was the final one at least. "I'm Morrigan, but please call me Mor."
You introduced yourself in return, the two of you babbling for a moment before you remembered there were others in the room and one more person you had yet to formally meet. The one who truly terrified you, despite the rumours that she lost all her powers after the Hybern war. You walked over to her, where she watched you expectantly. Like a queen having an audience with her subjects. And true enough, you could tell she was not the subject of nightmares she once was but there was still something staring back at you that wasn't totally High Fae.
"Amren, I believe," You greeted, telling her your name just after.
"You believe correctly. Tell me, girl, how is it you have forgiven not only the Shadowsinger but also the other overgrown bats to the point where you have agreed to be Nyx's guardian." Genuine distrust shone in her eyes, assessing you with predatory ease. Looking for a chink in your armour.
"Amren!" Morrigan snapped quietly but the entire room had taken a breath and held it.
"A lot of therapy and understanding," Was all you could think to say, the question setting your heart racing in your chest. Of which you were sure everyone in the room could hear.
"Really?" Amren asked lazily, swirling the red wine in the glass she was holding. "You did all of that? After the three Illyrians in this room not only detained you, but authorised and carried out your torture before almost killing you in a way that many would say is the worst way to go?"
The judgement in her tone, the clear apprehension at your integrity made you square your shoulders.
"Amren, that's enough," Rhysand warned from the side. Even Nyx had stopped fiddling with his father's hair to watch the exchange.
"What? I am merely judging for myself the girl's intentions. I may be one of you now, but I am nowhere near as foolish. I am doing my due diligence. You understand, don't you girl." Amren said more than asked, eyes never leaving yours for a moment.
"Completely," You agreed, holding your own against her. You even raised your chin, making sure you were looking down your nose at her. Just slightly. "Though I might point out that I could have taken revenge a long time ago and saved myself the effort of ‘coming face to face with the 'three Illyrians in this room who not only detained me, but authorised and carried out my torture before almost killing me in a way that many would say is the worst way to go'," You mimicked, your hands with the evidence of the aforementioned torture up in front of you to make air quotes at Amren. "But most intelligent people don't believe in revenge. I certainly don't. Especially not against a child."
If the room had taken a breath before, then it had gone into asphyxia when you implied that Amren, the second-in-command to the High Lord and Lady, the death angel, was stupid. But whatever discomfort was in the room was not felt by either you or Amren. You both watched each other, unrelenting in your assessment of one another. It only came to an end when Amren's lip curled into smirk, and she took another sip of her wine.
"Very well," Amren said, voice silky. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
When you dipped your chin in return, not returning the sentiment, the room breathed a sigh of relief. It was only when Azriel beckoned you to the free seat next to him, a healthy distance from Amren, did you realise your palms were sweating. Azriel's shadows spread over you like they were checking for injuries after your exchange with Amren.
"I think if I said anything remotely similar to Amren like that she would skin me alive," Cassian commented on your left, Nesta agreeing with him.
"That is because you share the same level of intellect as livestock, General. At least our new addition isn't a total fool," Amren bit back and you assumed that would be the closest thing to a compliment you would receive from her.
"Is she always like that?" You whispered to Azriel, so only he could hear.
"Yes," Azriel answered simply, amusement shining on his face.
"Aunty!" Nyx shouted, running the short distance to you. "I learned to play the game you told me about!" He looked like he had been bursting to share that information with you.
Opening your arms to him, you grinned. "Hm," You mused quietly. "Want to show me?"
Nyx turned back to his parents for approval. They must have warned him that what he was doing was only under certain circumstances. You did not envy them, trying to teach a child how to use daemati abilities seemed like a nightmare. Feyre eyed you, and only when she received a small nod from you did she subsequently give her son the go ahead.
Not a second later, you felt a weak knock against your mental shield. A knock that could be pushed away all too easily, which was endearing in a way. His abilities just as young as he was himself. You opened a pocket in the shield for Nyx and heard a little, 'Hello aunty' in your mind. Pride burst into your chest at his voice within your mind. The fact he managed to do so was the only reason there wasn't a skinwalker wearing your body right now.
'Hello,' You replied in your mind and Nyx beamed at you.
Nyx withdrew from your mind after that, likely too untrained to remain there for too long if you were correct.
"Very impressive," You encouraged and earned yourself another smile from Nyx.
"Nyx, come to Aunty Mor, I have a gift for you," Morrigan interrupted, making you snort out a laugh at her clear jealousy of being knocked off her pedestal. Nyx pottered over to her and then the rest of the room descended into various conversations and bickering.
It was foreign to you, not ever having much of a family before. But you felt comfortable, just unsure how to inject yourself.
"Are you okay? I know this is a lot, but everyone wanted to meet you after you saved Nyx," Azriel asked, making sure to keep a respectful distance even if his shadows wouldn't. You didn't mind.
"I get it. I'm okay. Plus, Nyx saved me more than I saved him, really. He contacted Feyre and Rhys..." You trailed off, mind returning to the skinwalker and how Nyx desperately tried to reach his parents with eyes squeezed shut.
"You kept him calm though, Rhys showed me," Azriel reminded. "You did not panic and thought about his welfare. Nyx probably would have froze if he caught sight of what was done to you."
There was no denying that. Most seasoned warriors would have frozen in the face of a skinwalker.
"Well, I'm just glad we are both okay," You moved on, feeling strange taking any more praise. "Anyways, where is your partner?" You asked suddenly, wondering why she had not appeared if this was to be a family dinner.
"What?" Azriel asked.
But before you could repeat the question, Feyre beckoned you all to the dining room where dinner was being served. When you all settled, you were seated with Azriel on your left, Nyx on your right and his parents on his right. Just as the food appeared on the table, Feyre stood, holding his glass.
"I want to raise a toast to our guest of honour. Not only did she protect my son and earn the title of favourite aunty," Feyre began with a playful glance at Mor who rolled her eyes in response with a grin. "But she sacrificed more than anyone for this court and managed to still find room for forgiveness and kindness in her heart. I would be grateful to even gain a fraction of the honour and integrity she possesses." Feyre turned to you, with a kind smile. "To our friendship."
The rest of the room toasted you, variations of your name and 'favourite aunty' flowing around the room which left your cheeks burning hot as a wave of emotion built in your throat. You took a drink with the inner circle and tried to swallow it down.
"Now I think we've embarrassed you enough. Enjoy," Rhysand joined and you sent him a thankful smile.
The rest of the room began piling food onto their plates, but you sat for a moment, taking in the feelings. If you had told the person you were three years ago that you would be celebrated at a dinner with the inner circle of the Night Court you, would have lost your mind.
“Are you not hungry?” Azriel asked, scooping a hefty pile of roast potatoes onto his plate.
“I am hungry. Just…” You trailed off a tad awkwardly. “Just thinking. This is a lot.”
Azriel dipped his chin understandingly, offering you a scoop of potatoes. You nodded, allowing him to pile them onto your plate too. The aroma of rosemary, butter and garlic made your mouth water. Syrena was sitting directly across from you, in deep conversation with Nesta. Next, your eyes landed on Feyre, who was chatting about some training routine or other with Cassian. It dawned on you in that moment that this was your life now. Surrounded by richness. Not in the way of luxury items and expensive food and drink. But in the ways that mattered. Rich with life, forgiveness, and growth. With good people, good friendships and people that genuinely cared about you. And despite the circumstances that brought you all together, this was the first time you could freely admit that you wouldn’t change a thing about it.
“So what court do you hail from originally?” Lucien asked you, sitting two seats away on your left. His long, auburn hair swayed as he tilted it to see you.
“Not sure,” You answered, earning yourself questioning glances from those who heard it. “I drifted throughout the courts for most of my life. I think my earliest memory is from the Summer Court but whether or not I am actually from there is a different question altogether.”
Lucien looked like he understood your predicament, though you weren’t sure why that was. “So, you belong to all of them then,” He mused.
“I’ve never thought of it like that before,” You said with a smile. “But yes, you could put it like that. I have spent many years in each of the courts.”
“Which is your favourite?” Nyx asked from your right, hope in his eyes.
“Whatever court you’re in, my friend,” You answered without hesitation and hugged Nyx into your side.
“Come on,” Mor exasperated. “Never going to get my title back now.”
“Let it go, Mor,” Cassian teased. “That title is well and truly gone for any of us.”
“It’s nice to see you fitting in so well with everyone,” Azriel said, taking a sip of his wine.
“It is… I’ve felt sick about this dinner for the last few days, but I am surprised myself at how easy it was,” You replied, looking into his amber eyes and it was like the rest of the room faded to nothing around you. Like everything else ceased to matter when you looked at Azriel.
“They are good people. Each of them. I didn’t always see that myself with some of them,” Azriel admitted with a subtle head flick to Lucien on his left. “But I know they are, in their own ways. And so are you. If there is one thing I am glad I have been able see, it is you gain their company.”
Heat built on your cheeks, but not of humiliation. It was a feeling born of fullness. Warmth. The sensation that everything was okay. “I am too. I never would have thought I’d be able to say one of my closest friends is the High Lady and Cursebreaker herself but when that friendship bloomed, she was just Feyre. Still is,” You answered, glancing at Feyre who was clearly pretending not to hear what you said but the smile on her face betrayed her. You returned your eyes to Azriel. “And Syrena too. I didn’t make it easy to be my friend. I was so angry. But she stuck around.” Syrena was none the wiser to your discussion, stuck in a vigorous conversation with Elain on her right about some medicinal plants.
“I hope you can find more companionship with more of the people in this room. You deserve that at the very least,” Azriel said, glancing around the room as if scoping out who else would become a close friend. But there was something in the way he spoke that made you feel like he wasn’t exactly referring to himself. Like he was giving you access to more people. You wondered if it was because he wanted more space, for himself and his partner.
You eyed Azriel, trying to decipher the meaning. “I hope so too. But it’s not about deserving, I hope you know that,” You clarified. “I hope to be close with more people in this room because I want to. Not because you owe me parts of your life.”
Azriel looked a bit sheepish, like he had been caught.
“She’s right, Az,” Rhys interjected. “We want her here, but not as payment for the past.”
Azriel swallowed, staying quiet for a moment. “I know,” He responded, words careful. “Just sometimes think that you ought to have access to the good things in my life too.”
“I will now.” Empathy spread like wildfire in your chest, melting your heart for the male who was clearly still struggling. “But because most good people deserve that in their life and not because they’ve experienced something bad.”
Azriel nodded again, eyes looking a little heavier. You glanced back at Rhysand who dipped his chin a little. If there was one thing you knew about Azriel was that he had centuries of habits and behaviours to unpack, so you did not mention it again for the rest of the night because Velaris was not built in a day.
Later that evening, you were on a balcony on one of the upper floors of the river house looking out over Velaris. Syrena and Feyre were either side of you, a comfortable silence permeating between you. Nyx had been put to bed awhile ago and now the three of you admired each other’s presence.
“I hope you know that I became your friend and only saw you for you. Not as the victim of any tragic event,” Feyre spoke softly after a while, a fond smile on her lips like everything was right in the world.
“I know that. I am proud to be your friend Feyre and your friend Syrena. I have never known companionship like it in all my years,” You said, grabbing each female’s hand and squeezing.
“I love you guys,” Syrena choked out. “I’ve never had a group of girl friends before. It’s nice.”
A more amused smile crinkled your eyes. “Me neither. I love you both too,” You said.
Feyre turned to look at both you and Syrena with tears beading alone her waterline. “I love you too.”
You pulled the both of them into a hug, allowing a few grateful tears of your own to slip out. “Any more of this and Feyre’s mate will think he has competition,” You joked causing both females to bark out a laugh.
When you all pulled away, hands still joined together you were all smiling, blubbering messes. “More wine?” You offered.
“More wine,” They both confirmed in unison and you went to the decanter you had snuck out here with you and refilled their glasses.
The three of you babbled about random things for the next hour, chatting about everything under the sun that was on your minds from the new restaurant near The Rainbow that you had vowed to visit together to some of the stories you had from your many lives in the different courts. It was only when someone cleared their throat behind you did you realise how late it was, the moon high in the sky. You did not need to turn to know who it was. Especially when a shadow kissed at your ankles.
“Apologies for the interruption, ladies,” Azriel said, addressing each of you with his eyes before zeroing in on you. “Do you mind if I speak with you alone for a moment?”
Feyre and Syrena glanced at you for approval and nodded a second later before taking their leave, and the wine decanter with them. Azriel joined you at the edge of the balcony, stopping just before your legs where you were sitting on the edge facing inwards. Azriel looked a bit lighter than he did at dinner, like he was letting himself believe what you and his brother had told him.
“You okay?” You asked curiously, not at all surprised by his request for privacy. That was just you and Azriel.
“Yeah...” He trailed off, weighing his words. “I wanted to ask what you meant by earlier? When you asked about my partner?”
Heat rushed to your cheeks, the feeling that you had overstepped rising fast. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I was just expecting to see her here and all.”
“No, it’s not that-,” Azriel started but your anxiety battled on.
“No, please don’t explain yourself. I shouldn’t have commented. Forget I said anything,” You continued on, the wine making your tongue a bit loose, but you wanted this moment over with quickly.
“I was only-,” Azriel started again, but to no avail.
“I overstepped and I’m sorry. I’m sure your partner has other plans and all-.”
You only stopped when Azriel placed both of his hands on your shoulders and shook you gently, your name on his lips. Not loud or stern but soft and endearing. “Let me talk,” Azriel said, entertainment on his face.
“Sorry,” You mumbled, scolding yourself even more for talking again but Azriel chuckled it off.
“I was only going to ask why you think I have a partner?” Azriel finally asked, his wings spread comfortably around you, making the moment feel even more private.
“Because you said you did? Do you not?” You asked, mortification creeping up your neck.
Azriel furrowed his brows, hands still sitting warmly on your shoulders. “When did I- you know what, never mind. No, I don’t have a partner.”
“Oh,” You said, sure your face was as red at Lucien’s hair. “Apologies for the assumption.”
Azriel, realising he still he had hands on you, pulled them down to his sides, a more teasing smile on his face. “Don’t apologise. Just thought I’d clear that up. I don’t recall mentioning a partner…”
“Well when I first asked to meet with you again, you said you had to run it by someone?” You asked but even as the suggestion left your lips, the cogs in your brain started turning.
“Yes, I ran it by someone,” Azriel continued, lowering his wings a bit. “My therapist.”
The tidal wave of realisation left an even bigger wave of embarrassment in its wake. But instead of wishing you could leave, you burst out into a fit of giggles. “Gods, I’m such an idiot!” You laughed.
Azriel stared at you, eyes widened a little with awe. His shadows danced between you and around his ears, but he stared you down.
“What? Sorry, I am not laughing at you,” You said, suddenly feeling self-conscious.
“You have a beautiful laugh. Without ruining the mood, I was just thinking that I am glad we can laugh together,” Azriel stated, a grateful smile on his face.
You stared at him back, smiling widely with pink dusted cheeks. “Well,” You said softly. “So am I, Az. Even when we are laughing at my stupidity.”
Azriel relaxed a bit more. “Well, if that’s what we can laugh at, we can laugh all night long.”
“Oh fuck you!” You joked back, swatting him on the arm.
“Hey, I am a Spymaster, I must say what I see,” Azriel continued, catching the next arm you swung his way.
“No you don’t,” You answered back. “That’s the literal point of your job. To know what to say and what not to say.”
Azriel snorted, holding your arms to prevent your assault. “Well I’ll never be able to keep anything from you.”
Softness and quiet took hold you of at his words this time, both of your arms still in his hands. You stared at each other for a moment, his hand sliding down your arms until your fingers were interlocked. Azriel’s golden eyes studied you with an intensity you couldn’t look away from. Like he was the centre of your whole universe. Like despite everything that had happened, you always found your way back to him. Those eyes were like a shining beacon home.
Golden eyes the same heat and colour as the thread in your chest unravelled itself and found its way to him.
A beacon home indeed.
It wasn’t so much of a snap like you heard some others refer to it. It felt more like stepping into a hot bath after gruelling in the cold. Like the first hug after a period of solitude. Like truly opening your eyes for the first time and seeing the beauty that surrounded you.
“You’re my mate,” Azriel said breathlessly, chest heaving up and down in shock. The hands in your own trembled slightly.
“I wondered,” You replied, less shocked.
“You did?” Azriel asked incredulously.
“Yes, I did. Did you not?” You asked, squeezing his hands gently.
“I hoped. But I did not think The Mother would grant me the privilege after what I did to you,” Azriel confessed, tears of pure relief spilling from his eyes.
Pulling his hands from your own, you cupped his face and wiped the tears as they came. “Azriel,” You said softly, tears of joy falling down your cheeks.
“Do you want this?” He asked suddenly like the thought sobered him, like the possibility of you accepting the mating bond was out of the question.
“I do, Azriel. I have known for a while that I love you. That my path would always lead back to you,” You admitted, nudging on the thread in your chest.
Azriel’s eyes fluttered a little at the sensation, like he had forgotten it was there. “How can you?”
“Because I healed on my own. And so did you. Because we are better together than apart. Because I know I would never be truly happy so long as I knew you were out there somewhere,” You reassured, squeezing his cheeks when his wings drooped.
“I can’t believe it,” Azriel said, looking at you as though you’d evaporate the next time he blinked.
“You better,” You teased, earning yourself a smile from him. “But I want to go slow. I want us to grow together like we have been and have a mating ceremony later. The last thing I want is for us to feel like we’re not the same. Because we are Azriel. I am still me and you are still you. I love you.”
“Say it again,” Azriel said, a hopeful smile on his face.
“I love you,” You repeated, with more conviction.
“Again,” He mimicked, his smile widening.
“I love you, Azriel.” Your cheeks were beginning to ache from your smile. You did not care.
“Again.”
“I love you.”
“Again,” Azriel asked.
“Are you going to say it back at any point?” You asked, placing your hands on his chest.
“Say it one more time and you’ll find out,” Azriel teased.
“I love you, Azriel,” You stated softly, hoping he heard the way you said it with your entire heart and soul.
Azriel leaned down, wrapping his arms around you tightly. Like it would be illegal for him to let you go. He took your lips between his own and kissed you with a tenderness you had never experienced from anyone in your life before, male and female. The kind of kiss you read about in the fairytale books you stole as a youth. When he pulled away, his cheeks were rosy, and he looked happier than you had ever seen him. “I love you,” Azriel said. “I love you and I am honoured to be your mate. Whatever our relationship comes to in the future, I will die a happy male because there is no greater privilege in this lifetime than being your mate, your companion, your friend. In any capacity.”
This time, you leaned in to kiss Azriel, pulling his shirt towards yourself. The kiss only lasted a few seconds before cheers at the door behind you ripped apart from each other. When you both looked, Feyre, Rhys, Syrena and a very much awake Nyx were smiling and clapping.
***
“So,” You began watching Azriel from your seat at your favourite café. “What is you wanted to talk about?”
“Who said I wanted to talk about anything specifically?” Azriel asked, settling himself in his chair, sliding a plate of pastries over to you.
“You look like you do,” Was all you offered as an answer. You didn’t want to tease him too much; tiredness was clearly evident on him. His face was paler than usual, darkness underscored his eyes and his wings drooped ever so slightly, in a way that was subconscious. It was the equivalent of someone slouching in their chair with exhaustion.
Azriel didn’t say anything right away, instead brewing both his and your tea. When your cup slid in front of you, the liquid still sloshing gently in the cup, you reached across and placed your hand over his. “Azriel, what is it? You can say anything to me.”
“We found out who was responsible for yours and Nyx’s abduction,” Azriel began. He knew it was a sore spot for you, he had witnessed your nightmares in the days following.
A pang of dread pulsated all over your body, the urge to look over your shoulder in search of the skinwalker so strong you could barely resist… you are safe. “Oh,” You whispered, a little disappointed. You had hoped Azriel was here to let you know he wished to take your relationship further. It had been a year after all.
“Yes… It was part of Beron’s last attempts at regaining control of Autumn.” That did not surprise you in the slightest.
“But why me?” You asked before taking a sip of your tea, the question had been burning in your mind for a very long time. Since before the skinwalker attack.
“As a way to get close to me and this court. While Beron has no real proof that we have been assisting Eris in undermining his father, he acted as though we had in order to undercut his son’s objective,” Azriel continued, looking a little more nervous.
“Why does it feel like you haven’t told me everything?” You asked.
“Because there’s more,” Azriel added. “It seems as though you have been the target of these attacks specifically because Beron enlisted the help of an ancient being that is a servant to Koschei.” That name sent fear barrelling down your spine. You. Koschei. In the same sentence. It did not bode well at all. “That servant, somehow, knew we were mates and Beron instructed Elijah to frame you.”
Your mind was moving a million miles a minute. How did he know all of this? What did your torture do to serve Beron’s goals? What did it mean now?
“Az…” You croaked lightly, letting him see the dread on your face. What little sliver of the bond that was in your chest would reveal it all anyways, even while the bond was still unacknowledged in an official sense.
“I know,” Azriel said with what could only be explained as raw shame tugging his feature. Like somehow this was all his fault.
“But I don’t understand. How do you know all of this? What purpose does any of this serve?” You asked, reaching over to place your hand over his, the evidence of Beron’s scheming reflected in the gaps along your knuckles. Azriel looked around, like he was suddenly regretting his public choice in meeting. “We can go back to my apartment if you would like?” You offered and his eyes sobered with gratitude. Azriel had visited your apartment a handful of times since you both acknowledged your unfinished business, but every time you extended the invite to him, he looked as though he did not quite believe it.
Azriel curled his hand around yours and within moments of smoke and shadow, you were both within the open-plan living room of your apartment. Azriel the first, and only, person you granted winnowing rights to. “Thank you,” Azriel said quietly, settling himself on your couch while wiping his palms on his leathers.
You shook your head at Azriel, lowering yourself to the cushion beside him, patiently waiting for him to continue with what he was saying.
“Koschei’s servant could only see that we are mates, but the blind spots in their magic meant it did not know that we did not know,” Azriel began, the picture already beginning to clear considerably. “Beron knew you worked under me from Elijah, so he believed that if you were accused of being a spy in the other direction then it would make me lash out against Autumn and it would then have been grounds for Beron to claim war.” Your body shivered at the facts being unveiled, at the realisation that all you thought to be true about your terrible ordeal barely scratched the surface of the truth. “Beron knew that we would either torture you for the information, driving me insane as your mate, or denounce it as a lie which would have allowed Beron the ability to use it as a bargaining chip to garter favour with the other courts. It was a lose, lose.” Azriel’s wings had wound themselves tighter and tighter the more he spoke, eyes distant like he was remembering how he discovered all this information… of which you were sure you were about to find out too. “He did not account for the idea that Elijah would be sloppy and reveal his motives to you. But that did not matter in the end. Even with his scheme revealed, Beron got what he wanted.”
Unease filtered through your dread and your frowned at Azriel. “What do you mean?”
Azriel’s expression quickly went from tense to outright ashamed and embarrassed. “I… did not behave well in the direct aftermath of Rhysand discovering the truth.”
It was so quiet in your apartment, you knew Azriel could hear the steady thumping of your heart. “W-What do you mean?” Even still, those moments right after Rhys had rifled through your mind were blurry.
Azriel’s amber gaze remained fixed on your coffee table. “Once you were transported to the medics, I killed four Autumn soldiers that were near our border. They had been there for about two weeks and we let them,” Azriel said. If you hadn’t once been a spy, you might have asked why the soldiers were left to snoop at the borders, but you knew it was to disprove any suspicions. Sometimes to react was to throw fuel onto the flames. “I winnowed to where they were last reported to be and I hunted them. It took me about three hours to catch up with them.” Azriel paused, like he was debating on the words to use next. “I sent them back to Autumn in pieces that would have been unrecognisable only for the emblem of their court that I left.”
The gravity of what Azriel had revealed settled onto your chest like a weight. In a strange way, you felt guilty because it had been about you – despite your overall lack of consent to be part of the whole ordeal. “Azriel -.”
“No,” Azriel cut in. “Don’t comfort me. What I did was wrong. I was livid with myself for being so easily fooled and for subjecting you to torture that I’m not sure I would have survived,” Azriel said, looking up at you finally. However, his face was twisted with sadness in a way that made you felt helpless to fix. “And I took it out on four foot soldiers who were merely following orders to scope out our borders and wards. Four males did not go home to their families that day. If that didn’t already make me scum, then I landed Rhys and Feyre in it and we barely avoided a declaration of war.”
“Azriel, you weren’t to know what would happen. You were just as much a pawn in this as I was,” You said and you meant it. Even if you had the worse time physically, you knew that the mental anguish could not be ignored.
Azriel scoffed, not believing you. “I’m not a victim,” He spat slightly. “I’m just an idiot who does exactly what others think I will.”
You wanted to say something to comfort him, but you knew the male in front of you enough to understand when he was going to listen. This was not one of those times. “So,” You said, moving on but not before curling your arm around his. “How have you found out all of this?”
“Eris succeeded in killing Beron and gaining the High Lord’s seat for himself,” Azriel stated simply and you could not help the gasp that ripped from you.
“When?!”
“Yesterday,” Azriel answered, resting his hand on top of your own.
“What does this mean for us?” You asked.
“For the Night Court, it means we have a stronger relationship for Autumn… even if Eris is… Eris,” Azriel began and you chuckled a little. “For Prythian, I reckon a few feathers will be ruffled at the news. We expect Tamlin to be the most vocal, given his barely recovering control on Spring. But, overall, there should be a relative peace over Prythian again.”
That last statement lifted a weight off your shoulders you hadn’t know had been there. For many years now, there was an anticipation building for whatever was brewing with Autumn. On whether or not any of it would involve the Night Court directly and lead to all out war again or something different. Now that the worst of it had passed, for now, you felt lighter than you had in a long time.
“So you can rest,” You said by way of reply.
Your answer cracked Azriel’s guilty walls just enough for an endearing smile to stretch across his lips. “Not quite yet… but I won’t be as busy going forward.”
You tackled Azriel so he was splayed out beneath you, wings spread. Planting frantic kisses all over his face, you muttered small thanks to the gods and The Mother for the news you received all while Azriel laughed beneath you, resting his hands on your arms.
“I won’t be completely free for another few months yet,” Azriel reminded you.
“Yes, but,” You said, kissing his cheeks. “I am,” another kiss to his forehead. “Glad that,” A chaste kiss to his lips and you paused over him. “That you are one step closer to being all mine.”
“And you really want that?” Azriel asked shyly. “You want me?”
“More than you will ever understand,” You said, bringing one of his scarred hands to your lips. “I love you,” You said. It had been the first time since that moment a year ago that you uttered those words.
Azriel’s breath whooshed from him, like it was a surprise to hear that statement. “I love you too.”
Your heart beat faster in your chest, heat creeping onto your cheeks not in embarrassment, but in pure bliss. “Does this mean that you are ready?” To accept the bond together, you were too afraid to say fully. Like if speaking the words would spook him and ruin the moment.
Their gravity landed either way and Azriel’s smile relaxed a little. “Almost. I want the perfect mating ceremony for you, my love. At the right time when I don’t feel like I’m drunk from lack of sleep.”
A smile broke across your face, despite the small stab of disappointment that it wasn’t going to happen right away. “I will wait for as long as you need,” You stated with another kiss to the hand that was still in your grasp.
Azriel pulled you down into a tight, near bone crushing hug. He whispered pleas of his love and adoration into your ear like he was counting sheep and drifted off on your couch, clutching you close like a stuffed bear.
***
“Are you ready?” Feyre asked excitedly, fluff the skirt that billowed from your waist.
Looking up at her and Syrena in the mirror, you wrung your hands together – a conscious change from wiping them on your clothes. You were sure your palms would leave damp prints on the sapphire gown the moment they touched it. “Nervous.”
You expected your two closest friends to scold you and remind you of that this was a happy moment, but like always, they knew better. They knew that you weren’t nervous of the events happening, they had watched you built to the summit of your joy from day one. Watched as you learned to love yourself, your surroundings and the male that occupied your thoughts in both good and bad times.
“I get it,” Feyre said, and part of you felt a little bad for Syrena who had not found a mate. “I was terrified when I accepted the bond with Rhys.”
A small kernel of relief washed over you at her words.
“That’s not what it sounded like from your stories,” Syrena teased and the three of you erupted into giggles.
“What you are about to do is big and scary. You are handing yourself and your well being over to someone else. Letting that last bit on control go. You’d be silly if you weren’t a little nervous,” Feyre said, coming wrap her arms around your shoulders and Syrena joined on your other side.
“It’s not even that,” You admitted quietly. “I just feel like at any moment I am going to wake up in that cell and realise that none of this was real. That this is some hallucination my mind played on me while I died.”
There was an unmistakable damper put on the mood.
“That is understandable,” Syrena said. “I think when you have been through the hardships you have, it would be a miracle if you did not feel like that. But in just a few minutes, you will come face to face with your mate to have your bond recognised by a priestess, and later you will offer him food and embark on a journey that many of our kind will never experience. Believe in that.”
Tears gathered along your lash line, and you squeezed your girls closer together. “I love you both,” You said to them. “From the moment we all fell asleep at the waterfall, I knew that I had found my people.”
The two females uttered their love for you in return before Gwyn knocked on the door to let you know it was time. Just on the other side of the door, there was a small crowd of people waiting for the ceremony to begin. They were the last thing you cared about. All you could focus on was the beating heart that thrummed in tandem with the bond glittering in your chest. Azriel was just as nervous as you.
“Okay?” Syrena asked, taking your hand into her own.
Nodding at her and giving her a simple ‘yes’ was the simplicity you needed in that moment to know that you were more ready than you would ever be for anything else in your life. Feyre and Syrena both said a quick goodbye, allowing you a moment alone to gather yourself. In the silence, you reminded yourself again that this was real and that nothing was going to ruin this moment for you. Nothing could ruin this moment. You glanced back at the mirror behind you, and for a moment you caught a glimpse of the female you had once been looking back at you. Sad, scared and alone. You smiled at her. She did not know it, but things would get so much better than she ever thought possible. You walked yourself through that door, a strong and free female making the best choice possible. As you passed through the threshold of the door, the room turned to watch you all full of warm supportive smiles. Elain. Mor. Rhysand. Alina. All faces you had come to be grateful for. But they faded in comparison to the male that stood at the end of your path. Whose wings were pulled in tight, shadows snaking along the floor to make contact with you, amber eyes zeroed in on you like were the only thing in all of Prythian that mattered. And that sentiment was reflected in your gaze to him. Even more so when, the closer you got to Azriel, you could see the tears bubbling along his waterline creating a red rim around his golden irises. A clamp tightened around your throat as you neared the beginning of your future. Azriel was clad in a suit, tailored to his body was what could only be described as perfection, his hair laid perfectly, and his face was as bright as anything you had ever seen. It was like he was standing before the open arms of The Mother. When you finally reached Azriel, there was a steady stream of tears trickling down your cheeks and a big smile stretching so far across your face that your cheeks ached.
“Hello,” You whispered to him before you dipped your chin to the priestess standing before both of you.
“Hey,” Azriel said in return, his voice warm and honeyed.
The ruffling and shuffling let you know that your guests had sat down followed by the Priestess clearing her throat. It all faded into the background in comparison to the magnetic pulse the male before you gave off. Every fibre of him attracted every fibre of you.
“We are gathered here today to celebrate and officiate The Mother’s blessed bond between Azriel and (F/n),” The Priestess began, smiling heartily at the fact that the words barely registered with you and Azriel. You were both still standing, hand in hand, looking at each other like moths to a flame. But you did hear her words, and you couldn’t wrap your head around how it was you she was talking about, and Azriel. More tears slipped from your cheeks at the raw, unfiltered joy barrelling through you at breakneck speed. From the look on Azriel’s face, you knew he was feeling the same. “Many that know this couple closely will agree with me when I say that the trials and tribulations they have faced separately and as one have only led to them become an unbreakable, unmovable unit.” Those in the room knew just how true that sentiment rang. “But today is about celebrating the culmination of their challenges, strengths and weaknesses and blessing their bond so they can embark on a journey that The Mother chooses only a few of her children to walk.”
The next few moments of the ceremony passed in a blur, beautiful words and prayers passing from the Priestess’ lips speaking into existence your union. Admittedly, you were becoming skittish, eagerly awaiting the moment the blessing was placed down upon you and Azriel so you could officially call him your mate.
“Now we will welcome young Nyx, who bears the matching necklaces to signify the bond between them.” Azriel’s grin widened impossibly as your brows raised in shock. For the first time since you walked into the room, you tore your eyes from Azriel’s. Just as promised, Nyx appeared at the bottom on the aisle with a box. The young boy was in a suit that matched his father’s with the tie neatly knotted around his neck the same colour and fabric as his mother’s dress. An excited gasp ripped from your chest and Nyx wasted no time in walking, almost speed-walking, up to you.
“Here’s your present, Aunty!” The room erupted in laughter, and you took the box from his little hands and wrapped your arms around him in a warm hug.
When you stood before Azriel again, you realised he set this up as a surprise for you.
“Open it,” He whispered to you.
When you opened the box there was two necklaces sitting inside. There were two gold chains sitting within the box, with a pendent that took your breath away. The pendent depicted the waterfall at the Sidra, like an image that had been captured within the glass.
The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur and the only proof you had to yourself that it even happened was that the necklace placing a light but steadying weight on your chest. Azriel lingered close by, half heartedly talking with some of the guests. His eyes remained on you for the majority of the time and only strayed when Cassian and Rhys’ teasing broke through his shield. You could not judge much, there was someone whose name you had forgotten not two seconds after they started yapping your ear off about something you also could not recall. Whiskey maybe? You could vaguely remember the word flowing between you.
The sound of silverware off glass silenced the room and when you peeled your eyes from your mate, you could see Feyre standing in front of the grand fireplace you were sure you would appreciate another time. She smiled at you knowingly, like she knew exactly where you mind was going.
“Thank you all for coming. I will only take a moment of your time. I want to highlight the importance of what has happened here today. Two of the most loyal and loving people in this court have officiated their mating bond. They have both taught and guided me in ways that make me wonder where I would end up without them,” Feyre said with a warm smile and a laugh in her tone. You and Azriel chuckled lightly, though you had not realised you had gravitated towards him while Feyre spoke. Or maybe he gravitated to you. Or both. “Judging by the looks of the happy pair’s faces, they are rather keen to complete the rest of the mating bond, and I think we have made them all wait long enough. Unlike other ceremonies, the food will be offered in a private ceremony so now I want us to all raise a glass to the happy couple.” Every glass in the room went up and you leaned your head on Azriel’s shoulder as the reality finally sunk in and a beautiful calm settled over you. “To Azriel and (F/n). May your happiness never end.”
The room erupted in well wishes and cheers. When it all settled, you and Azriel wasted no time in winnowing away. Far away. To the house you owned along the early stages of the Sidra. The same house you and Azriel spent the last few months cleaning and making your own. The memories of before did not haunt the space, nor where they eliminated completely. Instead, they coexisted with the new versions of yourselves. Like how the sun and moon coexisted in the same sky. The sun knows the moon is there but does not encounter it. The window was cracked just slightly, letting the cool evening air kiss your skin. Azriel stepped away from you, giving you a little space. When your eyes met his, you saw something raw and vulnerable shining back. His lips were in a thin, timid line and he eyed you as though you were about to rip away his happiness.
“I love you, Azriel,” You reminded him, smiling at him softly.
You did not wait to hear his answer or watch the way his face would remain unchanged. Instead, you turned your back and reached into the cupboard behind you. The pastry you had baked earlier sitting covered in its container. It was the same pastry Azriel had ordered, but not eaten, at the café the day you asked to start seeing more of him. The meaning behind it alighted at once in Azriel’s face. The basic, buttered croissant sitting on the plate in your hand was about to ignite the bond between you and Azriel was staring at it like it was the finest delicacy in the world. You wanted to draw the moment out and walk slowly toward him. But your patience had been spent in the last hour of your ceremony and now all you cared about was shoving the pastry into Azriel’s mouth.
“Azriel,” You said, standing right in front of him with the plate in hand. “I am offering you this food to accept the mating bond between us.”
You ripped a piece of the croissant away and held it up to Azriel’s lips. His chest was heaving slightly, the sound of his heart thumping audible in the room. Shadows created a shield around the two of you, like they were determined to protect this moment. Azriel’s hand absentmindedly came to clasp around your wrist, cradling it as your fingers hovered in front of his mouth waiting for him to accept your offering.
“You’re sure?” Azriel asked for what had to have been the millionth time in the last few weeks.
“You know the answer to that already, my love,” You replied softly, pink dusting your cheeks. The need to kiss him threatening your resolve.
“I know… I just…” Azriel stuttered lightly, eyes boring into yours trying to find even the slightest doubt. He would never find such a thing.
“You just what?” You questioned. “I am here for you, Az. Here for you and here to be with you. For better and for worse. Until the end of time.”
Unable to find any crack in your demeanour Azriel opened his mouth and took the torn pastry from your grip and chewed on it twice before swallowing it. The thread that flowed between you both snapped taut, like it had been clad in steel and armour forever. Both you and Azriel gasped collectively and all those feelings and sensations the bond had given you before paled in comparison the raw emotions you could feel on the other end of that string. You stared into Azriel’s eyes, seeing him in a light that you never had before, and you knew he thought the same thing.
A smile stretched across your lips. “Mate.”
“Mate,” Azriel replied a little breathlessly. The sound of his own voice seems to spur him into action because within fractions of a second, Azriel pulled you to him and planted his lips on your own. Not only could you feel how good it felt for you to kiss him for the first time as his fully fledged mate, you could also feel how good it felt for him as well. Tears of joy pricked at your eyes as your hands settled on Azriel’s face, holding him to you as though he was the air you breathed. Azriel’s wings curled around you and his fingers snaked into your hair. Your lips moved in tandem until your lungs burned and even still, you did not break apart. You couldn’t. It was a real possibility you could die kissing this male.
Your mate.
Your hands began to wander as a fire kindled deep within you. Kindled in the way dry brush did. Wild and untameable. You traced the contours of his biceps, the muscle hard from centuries of training sending electricity shooting down your body and fuelling that flame. Shivers ripped down your body as your hands moved to his chest, palms flat against his pecs. A soft moan escaped your lips, the slight bit of air you got from the movement making your head spin deliciously. Azriel groaned into your mouth, and it sent heat raging in your core. Suddenly, his spine straightened and his lips ripped from your own and a shuddered groan escaped him as he rested his forehead against your own. It was then you realised your hands had found their way to his wings, fingers brushing lightly near the top of them. You knew the thing about Illyrian wings.
“I can stop,” You whispered, even though the way Azriel was reacting turned you on more than you ever had been before.
“That is,” Azriel took a moment to gulp down a breath or two. “The last thing I want.” With that, he crashed his mouth against yours again and the violence of the movement made your hand brush against his wing even harder. Azriel growled and held your waist tight against him, the effect of your ministrations clear from the pressure pressing against your midsection. Azriel backed you toward your bedroom, though you weren’t too conscious of the changing scenery. You were wholly invested in swallowing this male whole. The arousal was burning a hole through your very being and you weren’t sure you would ever be able to quell the thirst for this male ever again. Your back was against the bed and now Azriel’s hands were wandering. They roamed and squeezed wherever they could find purchase. Where your moans started and Azriel’s ended would remain a mystery until the end of time. You clutched each like nothing else mattered, rubbed against each other like you had been starved. And you had. In all the time you had decided to explore the relationship between you, you both agreed that sex would not happen until you accepted the bond. Now that you thought of it, with Azriel’s tongue tangled in your own and his cock pressing against you, you weren’t sure it had been a good idea. Not with the waves of ecstasy rolling over you. Of course, there had been some intense make out sessions in the interim but nothing like this and you felt like you had deprived yourself for a fad reason.
“I will never get used to this,” You heaved out between pleasured breaths.
“I hope to become more than used to it,” Azriel replied, tucking his face into your neck to feast upon the skin there.
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before,” You babbled, mind struggling to keep up with the situation. You were losing cognitive ability by the second, almost completely melting when his lips met a particularly sensitive part of your neck causing your hips to buck up, though they did not need to go far with Azriel’s hips firmly digging into yours.
“Like what, my love?” Azriel asked, although he was also barely conscious of the words leaving his lips.
“So in love… so in need of someone…” The heat rising onto your face did not stop your brain from forcing the words. “So wanting for someone to swallow me whole.”
That statement seemed to snag Azriel’s attention just enough for him to pull away with the cheekiest grin on his face.
“Not like that,” You scolded playfully before you planted your lips on his again.
“I know exactly what you meant,” Azriel said, voice smooth and sultry but also serious. “I thought I knew what it was to yearn for someone, to think that I needed them.” Who he was referring to was not lost on you and your newly recognised bond with your mate caused a spike of jealousy to rear its ugly head within you. “But,” Azriel quickly added, the amused smile on his face reminding you that your bond with him was wide open, emotions were not only your own anymore. “When you came into my life, it wasn’t anything like before. I went from one point to just being your boss to counting down the days until I could see you again… until I realised that even though I had nearly destroyed you, The Mother thought it was appropriate to bond us together.” Your heart was thumping wildly in your chest, the arousal and desire somehow being amplified by Azriel’s charged words, the pain that laid beneath them slightly. “At first, I’ll admit I thought it was a punishment. A way for me to never be too far from what I had done. But then, as the time passed on, I realised that you were genuinely serious about being with me. About leaving it all behind and beginning a new chapter. I have never been in the presence of someone stronger than you, I have never burned for another soul the way I burn for yours. A lot of people describe their love as something they would die for, that they would die for their mate. And while I would fall on a sword for you in a heartbeat, I think a better way to describe what I feel for you is that I will live for you. Not just by breathing air or waking up every day, but by being better. To be the male you see me as.”
Tears were streaming down your cheeks as Azriel finished his speech, the weight of his words creating a grounding force beneath you. Like it tied a double knot in the bond you shared, even if that was at all possible. “I will live for you too, Azriel. To be the mate you see me as.”
Azriel initiated the next kiss, and it did not take long for the burning desire to ramp up once again. It wasn’t just lust or arousal, that was a rather large part of it, yes. But it was love. Love that was so strong that it you felt like you could conquer the world in a single night.
“Now,” Azriel said between kisses, chest heaving. “Let’s move onto the part where I swallow you whole.” Despite his joke, Azriel began to move down your body, his face right in front of your clothed sex and you realised.
He was not joking.
And swallow you whole he did.
***
Thank you all for waiting the year and a half it has been since part one! I want to start by apologising for the delay, I've had a rather turbulent year and a half. I wrote a first draft of my very own book which I am proud of and edited it and now I'm gearing up to write Draft 2. Then, I left my job and ended up working in construction. I'm not sure about the rest of the world, but here in Ireland the construction sector is extremely toxic and male dominated. In my time there (which was only one month) three young men committed suicide that worked for my company so I made the decision to leave that place too. The one friendship I have in my life outside of my relationship with my partner is coming to an end as I have realised I can no longer put up with her manipulation along with many, many other things happening. I decided to lean into my mood and write this, which is sort of fitting given the journey of the main character. With that, I want to let you know that this does get quite dark, there were times during my writing that I truly felt hopeless and like I wasn't strong enough to walk the path of life ahead of me. Well, not even about having the strength but that I didn't want to walk it. I just wanted to take my hands off the wheel and just let life happen to me. That being said, I am walking it and though I'm still struggling, I wanted to take this opportunity to let anyone who is reading this and feeling a similar way to me or the main character in this story that the path is worth walking. I truly believe that happiness will be found, for myself and everyone if you are just willing to get help and truly work on your own behaviours. It is tough, but life is far more fulfilling when you can truly tell yourself that you tried. That you did what you had to do to become the best version of yourself. That being said, please reach out to local resources to help you, access whatever help is available to you, remember to be kind to yourself and to build that evidence for yourself that you can do it.
PS I always wanted to explore a scenario where the acotar character went to therapy ahahah
exit wounds 𐙚 b.b
pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x reader
warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, choking, hairpulling, rough sex, degradation, overstimulation, unprotected sex, rough sex, creampie, possessiveness, dom!bucky, angst
summary: after you put yourself in danger once again during a mission, bucky finally snaps.
word count: 3.2k
author's note: hello my loves, i hope you enjoy this fic! also, i am currently looking through all the requests i've received and am excited to say i got started on a few! so please, keep sending them, fresh ideas always helps me write better! love you guys and please stay safe out there!
want him so badly
The storm broke before the mission did.
Rain pelted the shattered rooftops, thunder cracked above as you darted through the ruined alleyways of Bucharest, your pulse hammering in your ears. The objective was simple, get in, extract the intel, get out.
“Left. Take the left,” Bucky’s voice crackled through your comms, taut with command.
“I see the target,” you shot back, breathless. “I’m going in.”
“You go in alone, and I swear to god—”
You cut the line.
Not because you were being reckless. You knew what you were doing. You had spent hours upon hours studying the building’s layout, the guards’ rotations, and the window of opportunity that was already closing.
You didn’t need him barking orders in your ear. And you especially didn’t need your boyfriend second-guessing you when you were this close to securing the objective.
But then, behind you—boots pounded on wet concrete, close, fast, and furious.
“Fuck—(y/n)!”
Too late.
The intel was secured. The flash drive sat warm in the lining of your suit, pressed against your sternum. On paper, the mission was a success.
But the cost?
Three injured agents. A building engulfed in fire. And Bucky’s silence on the jet ride towards the nearest safehouse, the tension was thick enough to choke on. He hadn’t looked at you once.
Not when you handed Val the drive. Not when she nodded coolly and dismissed you without a word of praise. Not when the soft hydraulic hiss of the safehouse doors opened and when the rest of the team shuffled in like ghosts.
Now it was just the two of you. The others had scattered quietly, retreating to their temporary rooms for the night. The rain still dripped from your suit's collar, blood clung dry beneath your fingernails, and the silence between you and Bucky pulsed like a second heartbeat.
You peeled your damp tactical vest from your shoulders and tossed it onto the table. Every breath you took felt too loud in the stillness. Your skin was still buzzed with leftover adrenaline and heat, you didn't know if it was from the mission of the confrontation you knew was about to come.
You heard the final set of footsteps retreat, then the soft click of the outer door.
Still, you didn’t turn around.
“I had it,” you said calmly, your voice flat but controlled. “You didn’t need to come after me.”
He didn’t respond at first.
But you could feel him. The tension radiated off him like heat off an engine block. You didn’t need to look to know his jaw was clenched, his hands curled into fists at his sides. You could already feel his glare burning through your back almost as if it was trying to set you aflame.
You met his eyes—cerulean, but sharper than usual. Tense. Controlled.
“I got the drive, didn’t I?”
“That’s not the fucking point,” he snapped, the steel in his voice sharp now. “Three agents could’ve died (y/n). You could’ve died.”
“I didn’t,” you bit out. “And I wasn’t going to.”
His mouth twisted, his chest heaving once before he spoke again, voice splintering. “You think I give a shit about your stats? Your little field heroics?” His voice cracked then, just slightly.
“You think I want to scrape you off the concrete one day just because you were too stubborn to follow the damn protocol?”
You barked a bitter laugh. "Funny. You’ve been quiet up until now.”
He moved fast.
One moment, he was across the room. The next, he was inches from you, towering, taut with anger, fist clenched so tight you could see the veins straining in his forearm.
“You wanna say that again?” he asked, low and dangerous.
You squared your shoulders, refusing to flinch. “I said—”
“Don’t,” he cut in sharply. “Don’t test me tonight.”
“Why not?” you hissed. “You’ve been dying to explode since we landed Bucky. Go ahead. Yell. Blame me. Do what you always do when you don’t get your damn way—”
He didn’t yell. He didn’t move.
He just looked at you. And somehow, that was worse.
The silence that followed crackled with heat. His jaw tensed, eyes burning into yours like he was holding back with everything he had.
Then, slow and deliberate, he stepped forward, closing the space between you. His body radiated heat, tension rolling off him in waves.
“You think this is about me?” he whispered, dangerously quiet now.
“You think I give a fuck if I look bad in the debrief? I don’t care about orders, (y/n). I care about you. And you made the call without backup, without thinking. Again."
“I knew what I was doing,” you murmured, but it came out thinner now.
“And if you were wrong?” he snapped. His breath hit your cheek—damp, hot, ragged. “If I hadn’t gone in after you?”
You couldn’t answer. Because you didn’t know.
And suddenly the room felt too small. Too close. Your heart pounded against your ribs like it wanted out.
He was so close you could smell the rain still clinging to his skin, see the soaked-through fabric of his black shirt clinging to every line of muscle. His hair was still damp, curling around his jaw as his chest rose and fell with heavy, measured breaths.
He looked frayed at the edges, barely holding it together, and burning with fury.
“You scared the shit out of me,” he said, voice rough. “You think I care about the mission? You think I care about what Val thinks?”
Your breath hitched.
“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered. “I was just… I needed to prove I could handle it.”
He took another step forward. “To who?”
You blinked.
“To Val? The team?” He shook his head, eyes narrowing. “Or to me?”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Your silence said enough.
Bucky’s hand came up, not fast, not aggressive, but deliberate. It hovered near your jaw, then gently ghosted along the column of your throat. Two fingers settled over your pulse, barely there. Feeling it. Reading you.
“You think I don’t see you?” he murmured. “Think I don’t know what you’re trying to prove every time you run headfirst into danger like you have nothing to lose?”
“You don’t have to be reckless to be worthy of standing next to me,” he said, and something broke in his voice then. Softer. Almost broken. “You already are.”
Your breath stuttered.
You hadn’t meant to move. You hadn’t even noticed your body leaning forward until your chest brushed his. Until you felt the ragged breath he caught against your cheek, until your eyes met his, and everything stopped.
He looked at you like he was drowning in everything he hadn’t said, rage, fear, hunger, all of it right there in his eyes, barely held back.
His thumb brushed your jaw, tilting your chin up. His touch was light, barely there, but it felt like the only thing tethering you to the ground.
“You keep pushing me,” he said, voice low and quiet, the kind of quiet that carried weight.
His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Always testing. Always toeing the line.”
Your throat tightened as you swallowed, pulse fluttering beneath your skin. A slow ache bloomed between your thighs, the kind that only got worse when you held his gaze.
“And what if I’m doing it on purpose?” you murmured. “What if I want you to snap?”
Something shifted behind his gaze, a flicker of heat barely restrained, and the air between you crackled like a live wire. His jaw flexed, his body unmoving, and then, the corner of his mouth lifted. Slow, measured, anything but kind.
“You really want to see what happens when I do?” he gritted out
“Maybe I like seeing how far I can push you.”
You didn’t get a second to breathe.
His hand clamped around your throat, not hard enough to cut off your air, but firm enough to remind you who was in control as he shoved you backward.
You stumbled, caught off guard, and then—without warning, he turned you. One arm braced across your shoulders, the other sliding between your thighs. You barely had time to gasp before he was behind you, chest flush to your back, hips grinding into your ass.
His body pinned you in place, unforgiving and close, and suddenly there was no space, no air, nothing except the burn of him against you and the way your body reacted, fast, instinctive and shameless.
“You want to push me?” Bucky snarled, the words like gravel dragged through his teeth. “Then take it. Don’t you fucking run from it now.”
Your pulse throbbed wildly beneath his fingers. He felt it—you knew he did—because he smiled against your neck. It wasn’t kind. It was the smile of a man barely containing the storm underneath, teeth bared like a wolf on a leash.
You tried to turn your head, to spit something sharp, something defiant, but his metal hand was there in an instant, pinning your cheek to the wall with a ruthless kind of tenderness. Cold vibranium fingers spread across your jaw, holding you still like he was lining up a shot.
“Don’t move unless I tell you to,” he growled. “You don’t get to talk back. Not after the fucking stunt you pulled.”
Then—he tore your suit open.
The front zipper split with a vicious rip, teeth dragging down your sternum, and then the fabric was shoved roughly off your shoulders. Your bra came into view, your skin prickling in the open air, exposed and vulnerable and throbbing with anticipation.
He didn’t hesitate.
His mouth latched onto the side of your neck, sucking hard enough to bruise, and your body reacted instantly, arching toward him, heat coiling low in your belly, wetness pooling between your thighs before you could even think to stop it.
It was humiliating how fast he had you soaked.
“Fucking wet,” he hissed, voice sharp with satisfaction. His flesh hand slid down the front of your suit. Two fingers pressed through your panties and straight into your slit, finding you hot, drenched and needy. “You’re dripping, sweetheart. All that mouth and you still want me this bad?”
You moaned—shameless, high-pitched and he growled like it offended him.
“Pathetic.”
Your suit hit the ground in a heap, shoved down carelessly around your boots. He didn’t bother to strip you completely, he didn’t need to. He just yanked them down far enough to spread your thighs apart, leaving you open, exposed, and trembling.
Then you heard it—the heavy clink of his belt, the hiss of his zipper. Your body jolted at the sound.
“Look at you,” he muttered, low and mean. “Begging to be fucked like a slut after risking your life like a dumb little brat.” The words hit you hard and god, they made your pussy throb.
You clenched around nothing, slick dripping down your thighs, and the worst part was how much you loved it. How much you needed more, needed him.
Your breath stuttered, your hips tilting back instinctively, shameless in how fast you were unraveling for him. You didn’t care what he called you. As long as he didn’t stop. As long as he fucked you like he meant every filthy word.
He pumped his cock once—twice—right behind you. You could feel it already, flushed and hard and heavy, the tip brushing the curve of your ass as he lined himself up.
“You wanted this,” Bucky rasped, voice dragging low and dark. “You pushed me on purpose. You knew exactly what would happen.”
You whimpered, cheeks burning.
And then he laughed, low and cruel and knowing.
“You like it when I’m like this, don’t you?”
His cock dragged through your folds—slick with your arousal, bumping your clit before dipping lower, teasing your entrance with maddening pressure. You nearly sobbed.
“Y-yes… I like it,” you breathed, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs trembled. “I wanted it. I wanted this. W-wanted you like this.”
He slammed into you.
You cry out, the stretch splitting you wide open in one unrelenting thrust. No warning. No mercy. Your nails scraped against the wall as your body spasmed around him, pussy clenching instinctively around the thick length now buried to the hilt.
“Oh my fucking—”
He slapped a hand over your mouth.
“Be quiet,” he gritted out, breath hot on your ear. “They’ll hear you.”
You moaned into his palm, the sound muffled and desperate, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes as he began to move—long, deep thrusts that rocked your entire body.
Each snap of his hips sent you forward, your chest jolting against the cold wall with every brutal push. Your legs shook beneath you, barely able to hold you up under the weight of him, his rhythm, his heat, the relentless way he claimed every inch of your body.
His cock hit every spot inside you—deep, relentless, perfect in its punishment. Each thrust drove you harder into the wall, your palms flattened against the cold surface, fingers splayed like you were holding on for dear life.
The air was thick with the sound of slick skin and broken moans, the wet slap of him pounding into you again and again until all you could do was whimper, body shaking, needing more.
He was ruthless.
“You feel that?” he grunted, fucking into you harder. “You feel how deep I am? Fuck, princess, your pussy’s squeezing me.”
You nodded, eyes rolling back. Everything was too much. Not enough.
He grabbed your hair and yanked your head back, lips brushing your ear.
“You gonna come already? Just from this? From getting fucked like you’re made for it?”
You tried to speak, tried to form a word, a plea, anything but your mouth refused to work. All that came out was a desperate, broken moan, choked off by the force of him inside you.
Every muscle in your body was strung tight, overwhelmed, aching, begging for release, but all you could do was let the sound of your need echo in the space between you, raw and strung out and wordless.
He let go of your mouth and slapped your ass—hard.
“Say it,” he snarled. “Tell me how badly you want to come.”
“I, god—I need it,” you choked. “Please, need your cock, need you to—”
He pulled out. Completely.
You cry, voice raw with frustration.
Bucky laughed, voice thick with dominance.
“Look at you. Falling apart already. And I haven’t even gotten started.”
Before you could respond, he seized your wrists and twisted them behind your back, pinning them there easily with his hand. The cool press of vibranium against your skin made your breath hitch, your chest rising in shallow gasps.
You barely had time to brace yourself before he drove back into you—harder, deeper, with a force that knocked a strangled sound from your throat and sent sparks ricocheting through your core.
Your body jolted. Your mouth dropped open in a silent cry. His flesh hand wrapped around your waist, fingers finding your clit again—rubbing tight, relentless circles in time with each brutal thrust.
You were unravelling, your legs burned and your body trembled. You were a babbling, incoherent mess as your orgasm built again—rising like a fucking tsunami.
“Don’t you dare come,” he growled. You tried. Fuck, you tried.
But he was everywhere—his cock driving into that sweet spot deep inside you with ruthless precision, his fingers working your clit in tight, relentless circles that had you trembling. His voice, low and filthy, poured into your ear like sin itself, each word pushing you closer to the edge.
“Say it,” he rasped. “Say who owns you.”
You sobbed.
“You do, Bucky! You do—”
“Good fucking girl.”
And then he snapped his hips again, slamming into you so deep you felt it in your throat.
You came with a strangled cry, body seizing as pleasure tore through you like a live wire. Your cunt clenched around him in tight, desperate pulses, milking every inch as wetness spilled down your thighs, slicking his cock and coating both of you in heat and ruin.
You slumped forward, forehead pressed to the wall, barely able to hold yourself upright as your orgasm wracked through you.
But he didn’t stop, he kept going—kept fucking you through it like he was trying to brand you from the inside out.
You sobbed, body trembling uncontrollably.
“That’s it,” he snarled. “Take it. Cry if you want princess, I’m not stopping.”
Your knees gave out, barely holding you upright and then the second wave hit. He slammed into you hard, tearing through your body before you had a chance to catch your breath.
You clenched around him again, tighter this time, a cry ripping from your throat as you came all over his cock. Everything blurred, your vision, your thoughts, until all that was left was the sharp pulse of pleasure and the rough sound of him still moving behind you.
“Gonna fill you up,” he muttered, pounding into you with short, broken thrusts. “Stuff you full, just like you deserve. Let it drip down those pretty thighs. Let everyone see who fucked you like this.”
He groaned—loud, rough—and then shuddered, cock twitching as he spilled inside you. You felt the warmth of it, the pulse of his release, the way his entire body seemed to collapse into yours.
The only sound was your wrecked breathing, the whine of your body, and the soft drip of his cum sliding down your thighs.
You were trembling, undone in every possible way—mind blank, body limp, pleasure still echoing through your nerves. Your knees wouldn’t hold you, but he didn’t let you fall. His arms were around you instantly, strong and steady, pulling you into his chest like he could anchor you there, like he needed to.
His breathing was still ragged, chest rising and falling against your back. His lips pressed to your temple, slow and soft, and you felt the way he lingered, like he was grounding himself, too.
“You okay?” he whispered.
You nodded, barely able to speak. Tears still clung to your lashes, not from pain, not even from the intensity, but from the overwhelming ache in your chest.
He kissed your temple again. Then your jaw. Then the corner of your mouth.
“Don’t ever fucking do that again.” he murmured.
You blinked, surprised by the tremble in his voice. He wasn’t angry. Not now.
“I can’t—” he swallowed, brow pressed to yours. “I know you’re capable, I know you’re smart. But I can’t watch you walk into something like that again.”
Your throat tightened.
“I thought I could handle it,” you whispered.
He shook his head. “No. No more of that. If something happened to you out there—”
He cut himself off. Pulled you closer. One hand cradled the back of your head. The other still wrapped around your waist, like he was afraid you would slip through his fingers.
“You don’t get to scare the shit out of me like that,” he rasped, voice cracking. “I’ve lost so much—and, fuck, I can’t lose you too.”
He looked away, just for a second, like the words hurt to say.
“I wouldn’t survive it.”
You nuzzled into his chest, heart hammering. His scent, his warmth, the rasp of his voice in your ear, it was all too much and not enough.
“I’m sorry,” you said, small and hoarse.
Bucky didn’t say anything right away. He just held you tighter, kissed the top of your head.
“I know”
requests are open!
Midnight Sun
Oscar Piastri x astrophysicist!Reader
Summary: for the first time, the girl who studies stars becomes someone’s sun
You are not built for this.
Not the headphones clamped too tight on your ears, not the sterile studio lighting that hums faintly overhead, and definitely not the bright-eyed producer trying to coax a smile out of you like it’s some quantum equation.
“You’ll be great,” she insists, bouncing on her toes like the floor’s electrified. “Just … a little looser, yeah?”
You blink. “That sounds like medical advice.”
She laughs too hard, probably to cover up the silence on the other side of the glass where the sound engineer sits. You glance toward him, but he’s preoccupied adjusting levels. You consider making a run for it.
“You said the guest was from Doctor Who,” you say instead, squinting at the notes you scribbled on the back of an old star chart. “I prepared for someone who at least pretends to know physics.”
“Close,” she chirps, already halfway to the door. “He’s dealt with time — just at 300 kilometers an hour.”
You don’t process that fully before the studio door swings open and someone breezes in with the kind of easy, unhurried energy of a man who lives without traffic or consequences.
“Hi,” he says, and it’s almost apologetic. His accent curls around the syllables like it’s trying to make them less obtrusive. “Sorry I’m late. Cab driver took us to the wrong building. Twice.”
You look up.
And you blink.
“That’s Oscar Piastri,” someone whispers into your headphones — probably the producer, definitely smiling — and suddenly you understand the joke. He’s not from Doctor Who. He’s from McLaren.
You stare at him. He notices.
“I know,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “not exactly Neil deGrasse Tyson.”
“No,” you reply, slowly peeling off one headphone. “But he also hasn’t won Baku.”
“Yet,” he grins.
You’re not smiling. Not exactly. But you’re no longer glaring either, and he seems to take that as a win.
***
They mic him up quickly. He sits across from you, spinning a pencil between his fingers like he’s back in school, half-listening to the rules being rattled off in his ear. When the producer gives the signal, the red recording light blinks on.
“Welcome to Stars Between Us,” you say into the mic, voice steady, clipped. “I’m Dr. Y/N Y/L/N. I study black holes, gravitational waves, and all the strange ways time can bend and fold. Joining me today is — unexpectedly — Oscar Piastri.”
He laughs. “Unexpectedly is fair.”
You glance at your notes. They're useless. None of your questions about the TARDIS or relativity in sci-fi apply now.
“So,” you say, pivoting, “what brings a Formula 1 driver to a podcast about astrophysics?”
He leans in, suddenly serious. “Honestly? I’m curious. There’s a lot about racing that feels … surreal. Like time moves differently when you’re in the car. I wanted to know if that’s just adrenaline or if there’s something real behind it.”
You narrow your eyes, reluctantly intrigued. “You’re asking about time dilation?”
“Is that what it’s called?”
You nod. “Special relativity. When you approach the speed of light, time moves slower for you compared to someone standing still.”
“Sounds useful in a race.”
“Only if you’re traveling at 299,792 kilometers per second. You’re just … fast.”
He smiles. “Thanks, I think.”
There’s a beat of silence. Not awkward, but considering.
“What does that feel like?” You ask, almost against your better judgment. “Driving that fast?”
He pauses, and something shifts in his face. He doesn’t reach for a joke.
“It’s quiet,” he says. “Everything else fades. The noise becomes background. It’s just … instinct and motion. Like the world slows down and speeds up at the same time. You’re nowhere and everywhere.”
You stare at him.
“That’s … poetic.”
He looks startled. “Wasn’t trying to be.”
“That’s worse.”
He laughs again. It’s warm, low, not forced. The producer signals something behind the glass, but you wave it off.
Oscar rests his elbows on the table, eyes fixed on yours like the room’s contracted around the two of you.
“What about you?” He asks. “What’s your version of being in the car?”
You pause.
There’s a constellation blooming behind your ribs now, hesitant and bright.
“I watch stars collapse,” you say finally. “And try to make sense of why they do. I teach, late at night. I go home. I draw them, sometimes.”
He raises his brows. “Draw them?”
“In a notebook,” you mutter. “It’s not important.”
“No, it is.” His eyes flicker. “Why draw them if you already know what they look like?”
You don’t have an answer for that. Not really.
“To remember that they’re real,” you say after a while. “That they’re not just data. That they existed.”
He nods, slow.
“That’s the thing about fame, too,” he says. “People think it’s this massive, burning light. But it’s only a flare. It burns out quick.”
“Like a supernova.”
“Exactly.”
You both sit with that for a minute.
Then he glances down, sees your fingers resting on a battered leather notebook, and grins.
“Let me guess — constellations?”
“Mostly. Sometimes nebulae.”
“You ever draw racetracks?”
You snort. “No.”
He looks disappointed in the theatrical way, like you’ve just told him Santa isn’t real.
“Guess I’ll have to bring my own then.”
You roll your eyes, but you don’t tell him to leave.
The red light on the mic blinks off. You both pull off your headphones. The studio suddenly feels smaller.
He stands, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves, and stretches like he’s been sitting still for too long.
“Thanks for not kicking me out,” he says, half-teasing.
“I considered it.”
“Yeah, I could tell.” He smiles. “But seriously. That was cool. Weirdly calming.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who needs calming.”
He gives a little shrug. “That’s ‘cause I’m good at pretending.”
You should say something polite. Professional. You don’t.
Instead, you ask, “Do you ever wish you’d done something else?”
He looks genuinely surprised by the question. But he doesn’t brush it off.
“Sometimes,” he says. “I don’t know what. But sometimes I think about it. Especially when I’m not sure who I’m doing this for anymore.”
You nod. Quiet understanding passes between you like an electrical current.
“Maybe you should draw more racetracks,” you murmur.
He smiles, opens his mouth to respond-
Then his phone buzzes. A sharp interruption.
He checks it, winces. “I’ve got to go. Team thing.”
You nod, already pulling your thoughts back into your chest like a turtle retreating into its shell.
“Good luck,” you say, casual, a little too clinical.
He hesitates, then starts to walk to the door — stops, spins back.
“Oh. My water bottle-” He looks around. “Did I leave it?”
You glance at the table. “No idea.”
“Damn. Well, no worries.”
He waves, one last flash of a smile, then he’s gone. The door clicks shut.
You exhale, sit for a moment, then begin to gather your things. The headphones. Your notebook. A pen that’s run dry.
And there, tucked just beneath the edge of the table, almost hidden-
His water bottle.
Plain. Scuffed. You reach for it, about to set it on the counter for someone to return, when you see it:
A small sketch drawn in Sharpie.
It’s crude, but deliberate. A racetrack — one you recognize from the way the corners loop, the way the chicane bends back on itself. Monaco.
You pause.
Your thumb runs gently over the linework.
Then, without really thinking, you slide it into your bag.
Later, when the lights are off and the stars are out, you’ll press your fingers to that curve again and try to understand why your heart is moving like it’s found some new orbit.
***
The message arrives two days later.
It’s early evening and your phone buzzes as you’re halfway through transferring rough calculations from a whiteboard to your notebook, elbow-deep in chalk dust and equations about stellar death. You glance at the screen.
Instagram DM from oscarpiastri
Your first thought is why do I even have notifications on for this app?
Your second thought is oh no.
You stare at it. Don’t open it. Just … look.
You’ve barely touched your Instagram account since undergrad. It’s a digital graveyard of telescope selfies and star trail experiments. You don’t even know how he found you. You consider not opening it at all. But curiosity — that wretched, shimmering thing — wins.
The message is short. Innocent.
oscarpiastri
Thanks for the chat the other day. Really enjoyed it.
You don’t reply.
You tell yourself it’s not personal. You’re just not someone who does casual messaging. You don’t like small talk, and Oscar Piastri feels like small talk. Fast cars, bright lights, the occasional philosophical tangent — but none of it rooted in the quiet gravity you orbit.
You close the app.
And then, three days later — another ping.
This time, it’s 2:17 a.m. You’re on your balcony with a mug of tea, too wired from class to sleep and watching Orion climb over the skyline like he owns the place.
oscarpiastri
What’s the name of that star you mentioned? The red one near the edge of Taurus?
You stare at it, baffled.
He remembers. He listens.
You type. Delete. Type again.
Then finally, you send.
yourusername
Aldebaran.
The response comes in less than a minute.
oscarpiastri
That’s the one. Looked it up, but your way of describing it was better.
You bite your lip. He’s probably just being nice. But something flickers inside you anyway — soft and unsettling.
You should leave it there.
But then you type:
yourusername
It’s often called the “eye” of the bull. It’s not actually part of the Hyades cluster, it just looks like it is from here.
oscarpiastri
So it’s a loner pretending to be part of the group?
You pause.
yourusername
Something like that.
***
After that, it unspools gradually. Almost imperceptibly.
Not a flood of texts or calls. Nothing loud or demanding.
Just … voice notes. Little ones. Scraps of sound tossed across time zones.
The first is from him. Late. You can hear hotel AC in the background and the faint rumble of a distant elevator.
“Hey. I’m in Suzuka now. Couldn’t sleep. Watched this video about neutron stars you mentioned in the podcast and my brain hurts. Did you really say one teaspoon of that stuff weighs four billion tonnes?”
He pauses.
“I think that’s the weight of my eyelids right now. Good night. Or good morning. Or whatever it is where you are.”
You listen to it twice.
Then you send one back.
It’s short. You’re walking home after a night lecture, boots crunching over salt-stiff pavement. Your voice is low, breath visible in the cold.
“Technically, it’s about a billion tonnes, not four. But the number’s less important than the idea. Density like that — it defies everything we understand. Anyway. Hope you got some sleep.”
You almost don’t send it. But then you do.
And after that, it becomes a habit.
A quiet ritual.
***
“Have you ever felt like time changes depending on the country?” He says one day. “Like, I landed in Australia and my brain reset to childhood. Haven’t been here in ages. The stars are upside-down.”
You laugh into your phone.
“They’re not upside-down. You just never learned the southern sky.”
“Then teach me.”
And so you do. Piece by piece. Over fragmented voice notes and links to star charts. He sends photos from hotel windows — night skies dulled by light pollution, but earnest in their effort.
One day, you’re in the lab, cleaning equipment after a lecture, and a colleague walks past your open laptop.
“Is that Oscar Piastri quoting you?”
You glance up. “What?”
She points at the screen. A muted interview is playing on auto-repeat from a motorsport feed. You hadn’t realized the tab was still open.
The caption underneath reads.
“We think of time as constant, but it stretches and shrinks depending on your frame of reference. It’s wild.”
— Oscar Piastri, in an interview from Jeddah.
You stare at the screen.
You don’t breathe.
Because that line — that exact phrasing — is yours. You said it to him. Offhand. At 3 a.m. in a voice note while explaining why GPS satellites have to account for relativity.
You sit down.
Hard.
Your heart’s doing something very stupid in your chest. And the worst part?
You don’t hate it.
***
Later that night, he sends you a photo from a Melbourne airport bookstore.
It’s a star map. Rolled up, rubber-banded, creased in one corner.
oscarpiastri
Thought of you. Bought this while flying back from visiting family. Gonna hang it above my bed.
You grin despite yourself.
yourusername
That’s the northern sky. You’re in the southern hemisphere, genius.
oscarpiastri
… Shit. What if I hang it upside down?
Then, a follow-up photo.
It’s blurry. The lighting’s terrible. But the subject is clear.
A tiny telescope. Child-sized. Plastic. The kind you buy in the “educational toys” aisle.
It’s perched on a hotel windowsill.
oscarpiastri
Bought one. Fix it?
You laugh so hard you drop your phone.
***
By the time you realize what’s happening, it’s too late.
You’re used to him now.
To the unpredictable pings of his name across your screen. To the long silences followed by sudden outbursts of curiosity. To the way he says “your stars” like they belong to you.
You don’t tell anyone. Not because it’s secret, but because it’s yours. And that — somehow — feels rarer than anything.
And it’s not romantic. Not exactly.
But it’s also not not romantic.
You’re standing in a grocery store one evening, half-reading a list off your phone when your screen lights up with a new message.
oscarpiastri
What’s the name of the star that’s always behind you?
You frown.
yourusername
Behind me when?
oscarpiastri
When you’re walking home. I see it in your stories sometimes. The one that flickers near the rooflines. Looks stubborn.
You blink.
You hadn’t realized he watched those.
You scroll through your own stories. Grainy footage. A lamppost. A shimmer.
yourusername
Altair. Part of the Summer Triangle.
oscarpiastri
Sounds like a spaceship.
yourusername
It kind of is. It’s spinning so fast it’s not even round anymore.
There’s a pause.
Then another photo comes through. His telescope again, now perched next to a hotel room cup of tea and a very rumpled travel pillow.
oscarpiastri
Gonna find it tonight.
You reply before you can stop yourself.
yourusername
You won’t. It’s not visible from where you are.
Another pause.
oscarpiastri
Then tell me what is. I’ll watch your stars tonight instead.
You freeze.
The message sits there. Not loud. Not pushy. Just … real.
You stare at it for a long time.
Then you record a voice note. Your voice is soft, uneven.
“Look due west. About thirty degrees up. You’ll see Canopus, it’s one of the brightest. You’ll know it when you do. It doesn’t twinkle as much.”
You hesitate.
Then add, almost inaudibly. “It’s always made me feel less alone.”
You hit send.
And the night moves on. But something else stays.
***
A few days later, you receive a package at your office.
No note.
Just a Southern Hemisphere star map — this one beautifully illustrated — and a sleek black journal with faint constellations etched into the cover.
You trace the lines.
And in that moment, for the first time in your measured, structured little life, you let yourself fall just a little bit out of orbit.
***
You’re not supposed to be watching the race.
You’re supposed to be prepping slides for your 6 p.m. lecture on stellar nucleosynthesis — the chart on the evolution of elemental abundances still half-finished, your notes scattered like meteor debris across the desk.
But your laptop, traitorous and gleaming, is open to a livestream. The race is in its final laps.
Oscar is leading.
Your heart is misbehaving in ways you’ve tried to intellectualize and failed. It pounds — not like something mechanical, but like something alive, startled and pacing.
You adjust the volume and pretend this is just … scientific curiosity. A physics-enthusiast’s idle interest in speed, aerodynamics, G-forces. But when his name flashes across the top of the leaderboard, glowing in white against black, you make a sound — soft and involuntary — that doesn’t belong in any academic setting.
When he crosses the line first, fist raised, team yelling in the background, you press a hand to your mouth.
And then, quietly, you whisper to no one, “You did it.”
You don’t message him.
You know his phone’s probably a furnace of alerts. It’d be ridiculous. Presumptuous.
Still, you keep the window open, watching the post-race interviews unfold like a dance you’re learning in reverse.
At one point, he smiles — really smiles — and it’s like the stars blink out for a second, jealous of the attention.
You close the laptop.
Then you do something completely uncharacteristic.
You open your camera.
Not the front-facing one. Never that.
Instead, you aim it upward, from the park bench outside the department building. The sky tonight is low and smeared with a watercolor wash of indigo and silver. There’s a crescent moon tucked behind the clouds like a secret. Your notebook is open on your lap, constellations half-sketched in pencil. A tea flask beside you. Your coat wrapped around your legs like armor.
You take the photo.
And, after five full minutes of hovering over the send button, you DM it to him.
yourusername
Congratulations.
That’s it.
No emoji. No overthinking.
You shut your phone off and go back to your lecture slides, trying not to hope.
***
He calls two hours later.
Not with a voice note.
A video call.
You freeze when you see his name blinking on the screen.
The rational part of your brain — mildly frantic, deeply British — screams, decline it, for god’s sake, you’re not even wearing proper socks.
But your hand moves of its own accord.
You answer.
The screen goes black, then flickers to life.
He’s on a rooftop.
Lit by golden streetlamps and distant city noise. His hair’s damp, curled a little from the shower. He’s wearing a hoodie and eating something out of a paper bag.
“Hi,” he says, like it’s not 3 a.m. in London. Like this isn’t completely insane.
Your mouth opens. Then closes.
“Hi,” you manage. “You won.”
“I did.” He grins, mouth full. “Thought about you.”
You blink. “Sorry?”
“During the cooldown lap. I was thinking about that thing you said. About time. How it stretches.”
“Time dilation.”
“Yeah. It felt like that. Like I was moving through something slower than everyone else. It was … quiet. Clear.”
You stare at him through the screen, barely breathing.
“And then,” he adds, grinning again, “I saw the photo.”
You look down, cheeks hot.
“I wasn’t going to send it,” you mutter. “It’s not even of me, not really.”
“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “But it is you.”
You don’t say anything.
He shifts the camera. Shows you the skyline — soft orange lights, a tower blinking red in the distance.
“I’m on the team hotel roof,” he explains. “It’s quiet up here. I wanted to see stars but there’s too much light. Still nice though.”
You smile without meaning to. “I can tell you which ones are behind the clouds.”
“I’d like that.”
And just like that, you fall into orbit again.
The conversation stretches.
From the sky to the race to the taste of churros from a street vendor (“Life-changing,” he says, waving the bag at the screen). He asks about your students, and you tell him about the undergrad who thought neutron stars were “just edgy white dwarfs.”
He laughs so hard you worry he’ll drop the phone.
Time dilates, just like you said it would.
You only realize how much of it has passed when the sky behind you turns pale.
“Is that dawn?” He asks, blinking.
You glance behind you. “Looks like.”
He rests his chin on his fist. “Should we sleep?”
You consider it. “Probably.”
But neither of you ends the call.
Instead, you both sit there.
Watching a world shift toward morning.
***
You don’t mean to let him in.
Not like that.
But three nights later, it all breaks open.
You’re supposed to be asleep. You’ve got your departmental review the next morning — a committee of stone-faced academics armed with funding reports and agendas.
But you wake up in a cold sweat. Palms tingling. Heart galloping like it’s trying to outpace the past.
You sit on the bathroom floor, knees pulled to your chest, and try to breathe through it.
It’s not your first panic attack. It is your first in months.
You try every trick: grounding, counting, reciting star names like prayers.
It’s not working.
So — on a reckless, breathless impulse — you call him.
He picks up on the second ring.
Doesn’t say anything.
Just listens.
You don’t speak either. Not for a full minute. All he hears is your breathing — ragged, shallow, afraid.
Finally, you whisper, “I’m okay. I just … I didn’t want to be alone with it.”
Still, he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.
He’s there. Solid and quiet as gravity.
After a while, your breathing evens out. You wipe your face. You lean back against the cold tile.
You don’t even realize you’re speaking until the words are already halfway out of your mouth.
“My mother died when I was seventeen,” you say.
Oscar’s breath catches faintly on the other end.
“She was sick for a long time. I’d just gotten my first telescope. She used to sit outside with me, even when she was too tired to stand. Said the stars helped her forget her body was failing.”
You close your eyes.
“After she died, I stopped going outside for a while. But eventually … I came back to it. Because it was the only thing that still made sense. The only thing that felt big enough to hold it all.”
You swallow.
“Stars are all I have left.”
Silence.
Then, his voice — rough, certain.
“You have more than that now.”
You don’t reply.
You can’t.
Because if you speak, you’ll cry again.
But you don’t hang up.
And he doesn’t go anywhere.
***
The next day, your departmental review passes without incident.
Your pulse is steady the whole time.
When you get home, there’s a message waiting for you.
oscarpiastri
I found Canopus again. Still stubborn.
You smile.
And for the first time in your life, the space between stars doesn’t feel so lonely.
***
You say yes to the awards ceremony because saying no would have drawn more attention.
That’s the irony, isn’t it?
You’d rather drink comet dust than be in a room full of polished people and flashbulbs. But this is for a science outreach grant, and your department is quietly ecstatic. You’ve become a reluctant poster child for “brilliant and relatable,” thanks to the podcast and your stargazing voice notes that somehow got repurposed for a university social media campaign without your permission.
You try to laugh it off.
But it feels like your insides are folding.
Because Oscar will be there.
McLaren’s a sponsor of the initiative. Something about youth engagement and STEM and sleek orange backdrops. He texted you about it with the kind of emoji-free confidence you’ve come to recognize as his version of enthusiasm.
oscarpiastri
Looks like we’re both on the guest list. Wear something with stars.
You hadn’t replied.
You couldn’t.
***
The night before the event, you ghost him.
Delete your Instagram account.
Turn your phone off and shove it into the bottom drawer of your desk.
You spend the evening in the astronomy lab with the lights dimmed low, pretending to fine-tune your lecture notes while your chest caves in by the hour. Your email inbox piles up. Your hands tremble.
You try to picture yourself standing next to him. In public. Under bright lights, photographers shouting names you don’t even want to be called.
But the picture won’t form.
Not fully.
Not without a fight inside your skin.
So you stay.
Safe.
Invisible.
***
You don’t expect him to come.
You definitely don’t expect him to show up in person.
But the next day, mid-afternoon, you’re walking across the stone quad on your way back from a student meeting, notebooks clutched tight, trying not to overanalyze a second-year’s strange interpretation of gravitational lensing.
You see the hoodie first.
Then the cap, pulled low.
Then the boy underneath it, standing awkwardly beside the bench under the cherry tree that never quite blooms properly in spring.
Oscar.
Your breath stops.
He’s holding nothing. No bag. No sunglasses. No shield.
Just his hands jammed into his hoodie pocket like it’s the only armor he’s got.
You freeze mid-step. The wind kicks at your coat.
He sees you.
And it’s over.
He walks toward you, slowly. Not fast. Like you’re a scared animal and he doesn’t want to startle you.
“I was going to wait,” he says, voice low and wrecked and somehow still gentle. “But I figured if I waited, I might not get the chance.”
You glance behind you. Around. Anywhere but directly at him.
“Why are you here?”
He doesn’t answer at first.
Then-
“You disappeared.”
“I had to.”
“No, you didn’t.”
You hug the notebooks closer to your chest. “You don’t understand. I’m not built for that world.”
“It’s just an event-”
“No.” You cut him off, shaking your head. “It’s not just an event. It’s cameras. It’s questions. It’s people looking at me like they know who I am because they watched a five-minute clip. It’s being asked to perform a version of myself that I don’t even recognize.”
He steps forward, slow again.
“I wasn’t asking you to perform.”
You’re already unraveling, you can feel it — the tightening in your throat, the heat behind your eyes.
“You don’t get it,” you say, voice cracking now. “You live in the spotlight. You’re seen. All the time. You get parades and podiums. I survive by disappearing.”
He stares at you. Really stares. Not like he’s judging. Just … taking it in.
Then he exhales.
Hard.
“I didn’t come here to drag you into anything,” he says, quieter now. “I just wanted to say one thing.”
You say nothing.
He takes one more step, and you don’t back away this time.
He lifts a hand — carefully — and cups your face like it’s something fragile and familiar all at once.
“Then I’ll find you in the dark,” he says, his thumb brushing just under your cheekbone, “every time.”
The words hit you like gravity.
Your breath shudders out.
And for a moment, it’s just the two of you in that pocket of the world where time bends — somehow still, somehow heavy with the weight of everything you’ve been afraid to say.
“You shouldn’t have come,” you whisper.
He smiles, barely.
“I couldn’t stay away.”
***
The conversation that follows isn’t neat.
You cry. Not in some cinematic, graceful way — your nose runs, your eyes puff, and at one point, your voice cracks so hard you almost don’t recover it.
But you tell him.
You tell him about the version of yourself you’ve had to build over years — quiet, professional, unobtrusive. A woman of data and precision and folded-back emotions, so she couldn’t be mistaken for weak or needy or out of place in a room full of men.
You tell him about being seventeen and seeing your mother’s name etched into a hospital form the day she stopped responding to treatments.
You tell him about watching friends peel away in the aftermath. About learning how to be okay alone.
And then, at the end, you say it again.
“I don’t want to be seen.”
His hand is still on your cheek.
“Too late,” he says.
***
Later, somehow, you end up sitting beside him on that same campus bench, your shoulder brushing his.
He offers you half a chocolate croissant from a paper bag. “Bribery,” he says.
You take it.
Only because your hands are shaking less now.
He nudges you gently.
“I didn’t come here to pull you out of hiding,” he says. “I came here to be wherever you are.”
You look down.
“Even if where I am is nowhere?”
He tilts his head, considering. “Then I’ll make nowhere feel like home.”
***
You stay up all night. Thread between your teeth and needle in hand, stitching constellations you know will be beyond the clouds tomorrow onto the hem of your sleeves.
You only poke your finger twice.
***
The next morning, you show up at the awards ceremony.
Wearing a dress with tiny embroidered constellations along the sleeves.
Oscar’s already there, talking with someone from the foundation, looking infuriatingly calm. He spots you and stills completely.
Then smiles.
It’s not for the cameras.
It’s for you.
And just for a second, you let yourself smile back.
Even if you still want to disappear.
Even if you’re still afraid.
Because maybe you don’t have to do it alone anymore.
***
You don’t speak for weeks.
Not after the ceremony. Not after the photos. Not even after you sat beside each other in a quiet car on the way home, his pinky brushing yours like a question you never answered.
It starts with silence.
Then continues because neither of you knows how to break it.
You think about texting him every day.
You draft a hundred different messages.
Delete them all.
Because what would you even say?
“Sorry I panicked?”
“Sorry I don’t know how to be someone people look at?”
“Sorry I don’t know what you want from me?”
No version sounds like enough. Or safe.
So instead, you disappear again.
But this time, the quiet isn’t comforting. It’s suffocating. You don’t retreat into stargazing or sketching or soft evenings with tea. You just fold inward. Disappear even from yourself.
You cancel two nights of lecture Q&As. You stop checking your work email. You ignore your friends’ texts, your supervisor’s concerned voicemails. You walk home in the rain without an umbrella, letting it soak through your coat, because maybe that’s what it takes to feel something right now.
You convince yourself it’s over.
That you ruined it.
That he must’ve realized what a terrible idea it all was — that you’re too much, or too little, or just too you.
You sit at your desk one night, chin in your hand, staring at the mug of cold tea beside your notebook, and whisper, “You idiot.”
Not to him.
To yourself.
Because why would someone like him wait for someone like you?
***
The package arrives on a Thursday morning.
No sender listed. Just a small cardboard box with a Woking return address you don’t recognize. It’s light, padded, taped up neatly.
You hesitate before opening it.
Then tear the seal.
Inside is a mug.
A simple white ceramic mug with a black line printed around the side.
You stare at it, blinking, because it’s the track.
That track. The one from his water bottle. The one you held in your hands months ago, running your fingers over the tiny, smudged Sharpie lines like they meant something.
And they did.
Now, they’re printed clean and perfect on the mug’s curve, looping around like a silent orbit.
Underneath the track, in unmistakable handwriting:
Still orbiting.
You don’t mean to cry.
But your throat tightens instantly.
You press a hand to your face. Sit down hard in your desk chair. Stare at the mug like it just cracked open a part of your chest you’d buried deep under logical layers.
And then — without thinking — you pick up your phone.
No hesitation this time.
No drafts.
You dial.
He picks up on the first ring. “You got it?”
You close your eyes. “Yeah.”
Another beat. You think maybe he’s holding his breath too.
“I didn’t want to crowd you,” he says. “But I didn’t want to disappear either.”
“I thought you were done,” you say, voice thin. “I thought I pushed you too far.”
He exhales, low and rough. “You could push me into another galaxy, and I’d still find a way back.”
Your hand tightens around the mug. “Oscar …”
“I missed your voice,” he says. “Even when it’s telling me about gamma-ray bursts at 2 a.m.”
You let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“I’ve been a coward.”
“No,” he says. “You’ve been surviving.”
You don’t reply.
You can’t.
Not until your voice steadies.
Then, softly, like the words are being born as you say them. “I want to come to you.”
Silence again.
But this time, it’s charged with something electric.
“You sure?”
“No,” you say. “But I want to try.”
***
You book the ticket that night.
Direct to Nice.
Your first time flying in years.
You don’t tell anyone, not even your department. Just leave a sticky note on your office door that reads back soon, not quitting and hope no one panics.
The airport is chaos. The flight is worse. You nearly turn around three times, your heart hammering at the gate, in the bathroom, mid-air turbulence over the Channel.
But then Monaco.
Sunlight. Sea. Heat.
And him.
He’s waiting just outside arrivals.
Baseball cap. Hoodie. Trainers. A bouquet of white daisies in one hand.
No cameras.
No entourage.
Just him.
When he sees you, his whole face lights up. Not in a dramatic, movie-star kind of way. Just quietly. Completely.
Like the sun came out of him instead of above.
You walk toward him, suitcase wheels humming.
Neither of you says anything at first.
You stop right in front of him.
His hands twitch — like he wants to hug you but isn’t sure if you’ll let him.
So you make the first move.
You step in, press your face to his shoulder, and wrap your arms around his middle.
He exhales against your hair.
And holds you like he’s been waiting a lifetime.
“Hi,” you murmur.
“Hi,” he says, kissing your temple. “You’re here.”
“I am.”
You don’t cry.
But you want to.
***
His flat is all sun-washed wood and minimalist lines.
Too clean. Too quiet.
He tosses his keys on the counter. Offers you a bottle of sparkling water and a blanket, in that order. Like he knows your order of priorities.
You curl up on his sofa, legs tucked under you, mug of tea he made (with sugar, but not too much — he remembered), and your notebook open in your lap.
He sits beside you, one leg folded, body angled toward yours.
You start to read. An old favourite — Sagan or Leavitt or something soft and scientific and laced with poetry. You lose your place halfway through a sentence when his fingers brush your shoulder.
You pause.
“Keep going,” he says.
So you do.
And his hand moves gently — tracing constellations down your back with one finger.
Scorpius. Orion. Cassiopeia.
“Is this creepy?” He murmurs, lips close to your ear.
“No,” you whisper. “It’s … perfect.”
More silence.
“You know,” he says, “I never cared about stars before you.”
You glance sideways. “And now?”
“Now,” he says, his finger drawing a spiral just above your spine, “they remind me of your voice.”
You swallow. Hard.
He leans in closer, forehead nearly resting against yours.
“You’re not just my sun,” he whispers. “You’re the whole damn sky.”
You close your eyes.
Breathe in.
And let yourself believe it.
***
It’s been six months.
Six months since Monaco. Since a rooftop and daisies and a too-clean flat you made imperfect by shedding your cardigan on his floor and your doubts in his bed.
Six months of airports and voice notes and the soft click of your toothbrush beside his.
He still lives fast. You still live quietly. But the distance doesn’t feel as dangerous as it used to. He finds you in every city. You follow him in the night sky, even when you can’t be there.
You leave him notes in his luggage — tiny Post-its with sketches of constellations he hasn’t learned yet.
He sends you blurry pictures of hotel ceilings and titles them missing you, probably upside down.
Neither of you says “forever.”
But you both say “soon.”
And that’s enough.
***
Now it’s September, and you’re standing backstage at the Barbican, adjusting the mic clipped to your collar, trying not to vomit.
The TED Talk team is bustling behind the curtain. Someone hands you a bottle of water. Someone else adjusts your lighting.
You’re dressed in black, simple, classic. Hair tucked behind one ear. Notebook in hand — not to read from, just to hold. A small anchor.
The talk is on entropy.
You’ve practiced it a hundred times.
But it doesn’t stop your hands from shaking.
Not until you glance out past the curtain, eyes scanning rows of shadowy heads, and spot him.
Front row.
Oscar.
No cap. No hoodie. Just a dark jacket and that stupid, perfect grin.
He’s sitting with one ankle crossed over a knee, hands folded in his lap, like he’s never been more at home in his life.
You mouth, you came.
He winks.
You don’t remember walking out onto the stage.
You just know you’re there.
***
“I want to talk to you about decay,” you begin. “And about love.”
A few eyebrows raise.
You smile.
It’s a soft, self-deprecating thing.
“The second law of thermodynamics tells us that entropy always increases. That systems move toward disorder. That heat dissipates. That structures break down. It’s a law. Not a suggestion.”
You let the words settle.
“There’s a strange comfort in that. That the universe doesn’t make mistakes. That even our undoing follows a pattern.”
You shift on your feet, fingers brushing the edge of the podium.
“But I think about how stars collapse — how they burn through all their fuel and still find a way to shine brighter, just once, before the end.”
Pause.
“And I think about love. How it, too, can feel like entropy. Unpredictable. Messy. Disruptive. We spend so much time trying to contain it. Understand it. Prove it won’t fall apart. But maybe …”
You glance down.
Then up again.
Right at him.
“Maybe it doesn’t need to be controlled. Maybe love is beautiful because it follows its own physics.”
You take a breath.
“In my own work — mapping dark matter, tracing invisible currents through the universe — I’ve learned that the things we can’t see often shape us the most. And that some constants are worth holding on to.”
You close your notebook.
And smile directly at him.
“Even if it breaks the rules.”
***
Backstage is a blur of applause and champagne flutes and someone from MIT asking for your slides.
But Oscar is waiting just beyond the wings, hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall like he’s been standing there his whole life.
You spot him the second you exit.
He lifts an eyebrow. “So, entropy and love, huh?”
“Don’t.”
“What?” He says, holding his hands up in mock innocence. “I was just wondering if I’m the heat loss or the unpredictable variable.”
“You’re the interruption,” you say, smirking, stepping into him. “The system disturbance.”
“I’ll take it.”
He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes still full of something that makes your stomach twist in that dangerous, lovely way.
“You were brilliant.”
“I was terrified.”
“You didn’t look it.”
“I was staring at you the whole time.”
He kisses you before you can say anything else.
Quick. Certain.
Like punctuation.
Like gravity.
***
That night, back at your flat, you’re the one who’s quiet.
You’re lying across your bed in your TED Talk outfit, heels kicked off, toes brushing the duvet, hair spilling across the pillow like you forgot you’re not supposed to be the disheveled one in this dynamic.
Oscar is sitting beside you, his shirt wrinkled, tie loosened. He’s holding your hand absentmindedly, like he doesn’t want to forget it’s there.
“I’m proud of you,” he says.
You nod, but don’t reply.
He shifts. “Hey.”
You look up.
“You okay?”
You hesitate. “Yeah. Just … I don’t know. That felt like a before-and-after moment.”
“It was.”
You close your eyes. “What if people expect more of me now? What if that was the peak?”
“Then we climb another mountain,” he says, completely serious.
You laugh.
Then sigh. “It’s stupid. I should be happy.”
“You’re allowed to be scared and proud at the same time.”
You squeeze his hand. “Thanks, Professor Piastri.”
He chuckles. “Please. I’d be a terrible professor. I’d forget to assign homework and bring everyone donuts.”
You nudge him. “You’d be great at it.”
“Only if I taught a class on you.”
“That’s creepy.”
“Is it?” He says, standing suddenly and walking to the window.
You sit up. “What are you doing?”
He draws the curtain back.
“Come here.”
You stand, wary. “It’s midnight.”
“Exactly.”
He opens the window wide. The city air rushes in — cool, sweet, a little smoky.
“Lay down,” he says.
You glance around. “On the floor?”
“No,” he says. “On the windowsill.”
You stare at him.
He raises a brow. “Trust me.”
You do.
God help you, you do.
You climb onto the wide windowsill — an old Victorian flat, stone ledge cool beneath you — and lie back, careful not to knock over a half-dead succulent.
Oscar settles beside you, shoulder to shoulder.
Above you: stars.
Scattered faintly, blurred by the city glow, but still there.
He points.
“That’s Orion.”
You smile. “I know.”
“That’s the one with the belt, right?”
“Yes.”
“And over there …”
He squints.
You wait.
“… is the one I’m naming after you.”
You blink.
“Me?”
He nods solemnly. “Yep. It doesn’t have a name yet, so I’m calling dibs.”
“That’s not how astronomy works.”
He shrugs. “Sue me.”
You turn your head. He’s still looking up, eyes tracking some invisible pattern across the night.
“You don’t even know which one it is,” you say.
“I do,” he says. “It’s the one that’s always there. Even when the others fade.”
Your heart lurches.
He turns to you then, face barely lit by the city lights.
“I don’t care about the physics,” he says. “Or the rules. Or entropy.”
Pause.
“I care about this. You. Right now.”
You close your eyes.
His hand finds yours on the windowsill.
And somehow, that’s enough to make the whole sky feel closer.
this blog is my most favorite one on this entire dumpster fire of a website
the way you write and bring your stories so beautifully to life actually makes me feel like im in it
i always cry without fail
you're absolutely stunning and i think im in love w u
Part 10: Golden, At Last
Author’s Warning: This is the final chapter. Prepare your tissues, your emotional support bunny, and possibly your will to live. Enjoy, and sob responsibly. 🖤🐇🔥 Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader
Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)
Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.
Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.
You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.
Between Two Fires - Masterlist
The crown of the High Lady rested on a velvet cushion beside your bed, a physical manifestation of power that needed no adornment.
Unlike Beron's flame circlet, your crown was simpler.
Twisted copper branches studded with amber gemstones that glowed with inner fire. You hadn't worn it since the coronation three days ago.
You stood at the window of what had once been Beron's chambers, now yours by right of power and blood.
The Autumn Court stretched before you, eternal flames painting the landscape in crimson and gold.
Beautiful, undeniably. But was it home?
The bond within you remained muted but present, a dull ache where once golden light had flowed. You'd tried to sever it completely, but some connections transcended even the strongest will.
Ember and Sizzle materialized on your desk, their tiny flame forms nudging a stack of reports toward you: diplomatic communications from other courts, updates on rebel strongholds, casualty counts from skirmishes still flaring at the borders.
"Later," you told them, turning back to the window. "I need a minute to process... everything."
A knock interrupted your thoughts.
"Enter," you called, straightening your shoulders.
Eris stepped inside, his injuries from Beron's torture still evident in the careful way he moved. His face bore half-healed cuts, but his eyes were sharp, alert.
"The Dawn Court delegation has arrived," he said without preamble. "Thesan came personally."
Your heart stuttered. "I thought they weren't expected until tomorrow."
"Apparently Dawn Court operates on its own schedule," Eris replied dryly. "And... there's another report about the shadowsinger."
You didn't need to ask.
The guards had been bringing reports for days about Azriel's presence at the borders of your territories, watching, waiting, sending shadows to gather information about your wellbeing.
"What is it this time?" you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral and failing miserably.
"He's made camp at the western border," Eris said, studying your reaction. "The guards say he looks... haggard. Like he hasn't slept in days."
The bond twisted painfully at the information, a golden thread pulling taut beneath your breastbone. You'd left his charm behind in Velaris, deliberately creating distance between you. But the connection remained, a constant awareness that transcended physical tokens.
"Tell the guards to maintain the perimeter," you said, the words costing you. "No entry without my express permission."
"This is the fifth day," Eris noted, no judgment in his tone, merely observation. "How long will you keep him at the borders?"
"As long as necessary," you replied, turning back to the window. "I have a court to stabilize. Rebels to pacify. I can't afford distractions."
Eris made a noncommittal sound that somehow conveyed disbelief without directly challenging you. "The eastern rebellions have been contained," he reported, changing the subject. "Lucien's efforts have been... surprisingly effective."
Lucien had left the Night Court temporarily to help after Beron's death, his diplomatic skills honed through years of navigating complex political landscapes proving invaluable in bringing rebel factions to the negotiating table.
"He has a talent for mediation," you agreed.
"And for avoiding topics that need addressing," Eris added pointedly. "Like your apparent disinterest in actually ruling the court you now control."
You bristled at the accusation. "I've attended every council meeting. Signed every decree."
"With the enthusiasm of someone awaiting execution," Eris countered, his gaze unwavering. "The court needs more than a figurehead, sister. It needs a leader."
"I'm doing my best," you said finally, the admission costing you.
Eris's expression softened fractionally. "I know. But we need to decide what happens next. The court is stabilizing, but your... reluctance... creates uncertainty."
Before you could respond, another knock came, this one lighter, more musical somehow.
"That will be Thesan," Eris said, moving toward the door. "Shall I tell him you're indisposed?"
You straightened your informal robe, wishing you'd worn something more appropriate for receiving a High Lord. "No, I'll see him. Just... give me a moment."
Eris nodded and departed, leaving you alone to collect yourself. You moved to the small mirror, assessing your appearance with critical eyes. The High Lady of Autumn looked back at you, familiar features that still sometimes surprised you, golden light occasionally pulsing beneath your skin when emotions ran high.
Who was she, really? The cruel Lady of Autumn from before? The human nurse whose body lay in a hospital bed? Or someone new entirely, forged in the crucible of trauma and healing, of two worlds colliding within one soul?
You had no answer yet, but the question itself felt important, a compass pointing toward something true.
Thesan entered with the quiet grace characteristic of Dawn Court, his copper-gold skin catching the flame-light from nearby sconces.
"High Lady," he greeted, bowing slightly. "Forgive the unexpected visit. The roads were clearer than anticipated."
"High Lord Thesan," you replied, inclining your head in return. "Dawn Court is always welcome in Autumn territories."
His smile was genuine as he straightened, eyes taking in your informal attire and the scattered reports on your desk with knowing sympathy. "The early days of leadership are always overwhelming," he observed, no judgment in his tone. "Even when the transition is more... conventional... than yours was."
You gestured to the sitting area near the hearth where flames danced in ever-changing patterns. "Please, join me. I can offer refreshment if you'd like."
"Just your company is refreshment enough," Thesan replied, settling into one of the copper-inlaid chairs. "My court has been following your progress with great interest. The reforms you've implemented in just a few months, quite remarkable."
"Necessity more than vision," you admitted, taking the seat opposite him. "Beron's approach was unsustainable."
"Perhaps," Thesan acknowledged. "But identifying necessity and acting upon it, that is leadership, whether you recognize it as such or not."
Something in his tone, in the quiet confidence of his assessment, eased a tension you hadn't realized you'd been carrying. Unlike Eris's pointed observations or the court's watchful speculation, Thesan's words carried no agenda beyond recognition of shared experience.
"How did you know?" you asked, the question emerging before you could consider its wisdom. "When you first became High Lord, how did you know you were making the right choices?"
Thesan's expression turned thoughtful, fingers absently tracing the copper inlay on his chair's arm. "I didn't," he admitted candidly. "No one does, not really. We act based on the best information available, guided by whatever moral compass we possess, and hope the consequences align with our intentions."
"That's... not especially reassuring," you replied, a hint of your former human humor surfacing despite the gravity of the conversation.
He laughed, the sound warm and unexpected. "No, I suppose it's not. But it is honest. And honesty has been in short supply in Prythian's courts for far too long."
The flames in the hearth danced higher, responding to your emotional state without conscious direction. You'd been working on control, but moments of genuine connection still triggered your power in ways you couldn't always predict.
"May I speak freely?" Thesan asked, his gaze following the flame patterns with understanding rather than concern.
"Of course."
"The shadowsinger at your borders," he began, careful but direct. "His presence creates... speculation... among the other courts."
You tensed, the bond flaring briefly beneath your skin. "Azriel's actions aren't my responsibility."
"No," Thesan agreed. "But they are connected to you nonetheless. The mating bond between you is evident to those with eyes to see such things."
Your hands fisted in your lap, knuckles whitening. "I have responsibilities now. A court to rebuild. People who depend on me. I can't allow personal attachments to interfere with duty."
"An admirable position," Thesan acknowledged. "And yet... in my experience, denying such connections rarely results in greater clarity or focus. Quite the opposite, in fact."
"What are you suggesting?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.
"Speak with him," Thesan said simply. "Not as High Lady to shadowsinger, but as yourself, whoever that may be now, to one who sees you clearly across that divide."
The bond pulsed at his words, golden warmth briefly spreading through your chest before retreating to that muted, distant ache. "It's not that simple."
"Few worthwhile things are," Thesan replied, rising with fluid grace. "But consider this, I have witnessed dynasties rise and fall, courts evolve and dissolve, power exchange hands countless times. The one consistent truth I've observed is that those who lead from connection rather than isolation ultimately create more lasting change."
He moved toward the window, gazing out at the eternal autumn that painted your territories. "Your court reflects you, whether you intend it or not. If you remain divided within yourself, so too will your lands, your people."
The insight struck with uncomfortable precision, naming what you'd felt but couldn't articulate, the sense of operating half-present, caught between worlds, between identities, between paths diverging before you.
"I'm still figuring out who I am in all this," you admitted, the confession easier with this High Lord who radiated compassionate understanding rather than political calculation. "Human nurse or High Lady of Autumn. Both seem equally impossible and equally real."
Thesan turned from the window, copper eyes gentle but direct. "Perhaps that's your strength, not your weakness. The ability to see from both perspectives, to bring human compassion to Fae politics, to recognize that power need not corrupt if wielded with awareness of its cost."
The words settled deep, a truth you'd sensed but hadn't fully claimed. Your hands unclenched in your lap, flames in the hearth settling to steadier patterns that reflected growing calm within.
"Thank you," you said simply. "For seeing me. The real me, whoever that turns out to be."
"Dawn Court specializes in transitions," he replied with a small smile. "In the spaces between darkness and light, between what was and what might be. Your path is uniquely your own, but not one you must walk in isolation."
Before you could respond, another knock interrupted. A guard entered, bowing deeply. "Forgive the intrusion, High Lady, High Lord. Reports from the western border require immediate attention."
Your heart skipped. "What's happened?"
"The shadowsinger, my lady," the guard reported, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered. "He's... well, he appears to be constructing something. Our scouts report it resembles the beginning of a small dwelling."
The bond flared painfully at the information. A dwelling. A cabin. The dream you'd shared of a place between mountains, with windows facing sunrise and a porch for watching storms.
"Is he within our borders?" you asked, voice carefully controlled.
"No, my lady. He remains just beyond the boundary, in unclaimed territory. But his presence has drawn attention from neighboring courts. The Summer Court has sent observers."
Thesan exchanged a glance with you, understanding passing between you without words. The political implications of Azriel's actions extended beyond personal connection, creating potential complications you couldn't ignore regardless of your feelings.
"Thank you," you told the guard. "Double the patrols but maintain distance. No engagement without my direct order."
After the guard departed, Thesan moved toward the door. "I've taken enough of your time," he said. "But consider what we've discussed. True strength sometimes lies in acknowledging connection rather than severing it."
"You've given me much to think about," you acknowledged, rising to escort him properly. "Dawn Court's wisdom is appreciated in Autumn territories."
His smile warmed. "We are neighbors, after all. And I, for one, am pleased with the changes in leadership at our borders." He hesitated at the threshold, then added, "Should you need neutral ground for any... conversations... you might wish to have, Dawn Court stands ready to offer sanctuary."
The offer hung between you, significant in its generosity, in its recognition of both your official position and your personal dilemma.
"Thank you," you said again, meaning it more deeply than the simple phrase could convey.
The night terrors started three weeks before Winter Solstice.
You woke screaming, sheets twisted around your limbs, fire erupting from your fingertips to scorch the bedding. Guards burst through your chamber doors, weapons drawn against invisible threats, only to find you alone, trembling, sweat-soaked and wild-eyed.
Night after night, the pattern repeated.
Images haunted your sleep.
Cold stone corridors, hands pinning you down, laughter echoing off walls, pain beyond bearing.
"You need to speak with someone," Lucien insisted after the fifth consecutive night of screams that echoed through the palace corridors. He had returned to the Autumn Court temporarily, taking leave from his position in the Night Court to help stabilize territories in rebellion. "This isn't normal exhaustion or stress."
You sat in your private sitting room, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders despite the fire blazing in the hearth. You couldn't seem to get warm, the chill settled bone-deep regardless of external heat.
"I'm fine," you insisted, the lie transparent even to your own ears. "Just court pressures manifesting in dreams."
"Lies don't become a High Lady," Eris commented from the doorway, his entrance silent as always. He studied you with calculating precision, missing nothing. "Particularly not when they're this poorly constructed."
You hadn't invited him to this conversation, but you lacked the energy to send him away. "What do you want, Eris?"
"Answers," he replied simply, crossing to pour himself a measure of wine. "The entire court is whispering about their High Lady's nocturnal disturbances. Some suggest madness. Others, possession."
"And what do you suggest?" you asked, exhaustion making the words sharper than intended.
Eris settled into the chair opposite yours, swirling the wine thoughtfully. "I suggest you're remembering."
The simple statement hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. Lucien shifted uncomfortably, his mechanical eye whirring faster as it darted between you and Eris.
"Remembering what?" you asked, though dread pooled in your stomach, a certainty you weren't prepared to face.
"The Winter Court corridor," Eris replied, his voice gentler than you'd ever heard it. "The night your soul shattered."
Cold swept through you, so intense you gasped with it. The fire in the hearth dimmed, responding to your instinctive retreat from heat, from flame, from sensation itself.
"I don't know what you're talking about," you insisted, but your voice trembled, betraying the lie.
"You do," Eris countered, setting his wine aside untouched. "You've carried the memories since returning to this body, but they were dormant, disconnected, until recently."
Lucien moved to stoke the fire, avoiding your gaze. His discomfort was palpable, confirming what you already suspected. He knew what Eris was referencing. He'd known all along.
"What changed?" you asked, the question directed to neither brother specifically, perhaps not even to them at all. "Why remember now?"
"The Winter Court emissaries," Lucien supplied reluctantly, still focused on the flames rather than your face. "They arrive tomorrow for pre-Solstice negotiations."
Horror washed through you in a nauseating wave. "Winter Court," you repeated, the words ashen in your mouth. "Here. In Autumn territory."
"Diplomatic necessity," Eris confirmed, watching your reaction closely. "The first official delegation since before Beron's death."
A memory flashed, unbidden. Pale hands against your skin, frost magic creeping through your veins, voices whispering terrible promises while you struggled against restraints both physical and magical.
"No," you said, the word emerging as a plea. "I can't, I won't see them."
"You must," Eris replied, no cruelty in his tone, only cold realism. "You're High Lady now. Diplomatic relations cannot be avoided based on personal history, no matter how... significant."
"Personal history," you echoed, a hollow laugh escaping you. "Is that what we're calling it? Thirteen nobles. My soul literally torn in half. Just 'personal history'?"
Lucien flinched at your words, finally turning to face you. "We didn't know," he said, voice rough with what might have been guilt. "Not until later. Not until it was too late."
Another memory surfaced. A palace guard finding you at the border, body broken beyond recognition, frost magic still lingering in your veins. The guard's horror, his hesitation, his eventual decision to bring you back rather than leave you to die. The bitter knowledge that nothing could be done, no justice sought, not without risking open war with Winter.
You rose abruptly, blanket sliding from your shoulders. The cold had vanished, replaced by rage that burned hotter than any Autumn flames.
"Who were they?" you demanded, each word precise despite the fury coursing through you. "I want names. All thirteen."
The brothers exchanged a glance laden with centuries of silent communication, of shared survival beneath Beron's rule.
"Most are already dead," Eris finally said. "The war with Hybern claimed several. Others fell during earlier conflicts."
"How many remain?" you pressed, fire dancing at your fingertips unbidden.
"Two," Lucien answered reluctantly. "Lord Heatherson and Lord Gaius."
"Lord Kieraven was the leader," Eris added, his voice hard. "But Azriel killed him during the war with Hybern. The shadowsinger selected him specifically from the battlefield, though none knew why at the time."
A chill ran down your spine at this revelation. Had Azriel somehow known? Had his shadows whispered secrets about the male who had orchestrated your suffering?
"And are they among the delegation arriving tomorrow?" you asked, already knowing the answer.
"Both of them," Eris confirmed, watching your reaction with calculating eyes. "As Kallias's appointed representatives."
Your knees buckled. You sank back into your chair, trembling returning despite your efforts at control.
"I can't face them," you whispered, the admission costing you. "Not yet. Not while these memories are still fragmentary."
"You must," Eris insisted, leaning forward. "Not just as High Lady fulfilling diplomatic obligations, but as yourself, the self you were before, the self you're becoming again."
"Why?" you challenged, tears threatening.
"Because some wounds don't heal until the blade is removed," he replied, surprising you with unexpected wisdom. "Because your soul will never be whole while pieces of it remain lost in darkness."
Silence fell between you, heavy with implication, with possibility both terrible and necessary.
"I'll be with you," Lucien offered unexpectedly, his voice firm despite the discomfort evident in his posture. "Every moment. They won't have access to you without witnesses."
"As will I," Eris added, something approaching protectiveness in his tone. "The time for allowing Winter Court transgressions has passed. Beron may have valued politics over family, but we do not."
The declaration, spoken with such certainty, broke something open inside you. These brothers, complicated, difficult, damaged in their own ways, were offering something you'd never experienced from them before: unequivocal support, protection without condition or expectation.
"Family," you whispered, testing the word, its weight, its truth.
"Vanserra Siblings," Eris confirmed, no hesitation in his voice. "Whatever came before, whatever may come after, that much remains constant."
You nodded once, decision crystallizing. "I'll meet the delegation. I'll face Heatherson and Gaius." Resolve hardened your voice, straightened your spine. "But on my terms, in my court, with my power."
"As is your right," Eris agreed, satisfaction evident in his expression. "High Lady."
The title no longer felt foreign, no longer sat uncomfortably on your shoulders. It felt like armor, like identity, like the person you had been and were becoming again.
That night, after leaving your brothers, you made a decision. Before you could face the Winter Court delegation, there was something else you needed to do. Someone else you needed to see, even if just from a distance.
You donned a simple, dark cloak, evading the palace guards with ease born of centuries living in these halls. The night embraced you as you slipped beyond the castle walls, magic carrying you swiftly toward the western border.
The bond in your chest pulled stronger with each mile, the carefully constructed barriers weakening with proximity. You followed that golden thread through forest and field, until finally, you stood at the edge of Autumn Court territory.
And there he was.
Azriel.
Your breath caught at the sight of him. He sat before a small fire, his wings folded tight against his back, shadows swirling restlessly around him. Even from this distance, you could see the changes in him. His face was gaunt, cheekbones sharper than before, as if he hadn't eaten properly in weeks. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, testifying to sleepless nights.
Before him, the foundation of a cabin was taking shape, stone by stone. Windows positioned to catch the sunrise, just as you'd dreamed. A porch that would someday face the storms rolling across mountains. A home built by hand rather than magic, each stone placed with deliberate care, with hope, with patience.
The bond throbbed painfully in your chest, golden light briefly illuminating your hands before you forced it down again. You took a step forward, drawn by something beyond conscious thought, beyond reason.
Azriel's head snapped up suddenly, as if sensing your presence. His shadows froze, then surged forward, testing the air, seeking confirmation of what his instincts already knew.
You retreated behind a tree, heart pounding. His face in that brief moment of awareness had been transformed, hope and longing replacing exhaustion in an instant. It would be so easy to reveal yourself, to cross that border, to let the bond between you flare back to full strength.
But you couldn't. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
As long as your human body lay in that hospital bed, as long as part of you longed for a world beyond Prythian, you couldn't give Azriel what he deserved.
A mate fully present, fully committed, fully his.
With a final glance at the cabin rising stone by stone, you turned away, tears streaking silently down your face. The bond protested, a physical pain in your chest that echoed with each step back toward your court, your responsibilities, your throne.
Tomorrow you would face the Winter Court delegation. Tomorrow you would confront those who had shattered your soul. But tonight, you allowed yourself to mourn what might have been, what still might be, if only the worlds would align, if only your fractured self could become whole again.
The Winter Court delegation arrived precisely at midday, when Autumn Court's eternal sunlight blazed at its brightest, a deliberate choice that didn't escape your notice. Winter Court preferred twilight and dawn, times when light and darkness balanced. By forcing them to arrive at noon, you established dominance from the first moment.
You sat upon your copper throne, crown gleaming with inner fire, as the delegation entered the great hall. Eris stood at your right hand, Lucien at your left, both brothers radiating cold vigilance despite the formal occasion.
Lord Heatherson entered first, his pale skin almost translucent under autumn light, veins like blue shadows beneath the surface. Lord Gaius followed, silver-white hair bound in traditional Winter Court braids, his steps deliberate and measured.
Your breath caught in your throat as they approached, memories threatening to overwhelm you. Cold hands. Cruel laughter. Pain beyond endurance.
"High Lady," Heatherson greeted, bowing with precise formality. "Winter Court brings greetings and congratulations on your ascension."
"Indeed," Gaius added, his voice as brittle as his name suggested. "Your coronation marks a new chapter in relations between our courts."
You studied them, these males who had once torn your body apart, who had fractured your very soul. They showed no recognition, no awareness that you might remember. To them, this was merely diplomacy, politics as usual.
"Winter Court is welcome in Autumn territories," you replied, the formal words tasting like ash in your mouth. "So long as all agreements are honored."
The diplomatic discussions began, trade routes and border policies debated with careful precision. You participated with cool detachment, signing what needed signing, agreeing where agreement served your court's interests.
Through it all, the memories simmered beneath the surface, threatening to break through at any moment. Lucien noticed your tension, his hand occasionally brushing yours in silent support. Eris watched the Winter Court representatives with predatory intensity, missing nothing, cataloging every reaction for future reference.
As the formal negotiations concluded, Lord Heatherson requested a private audience "to discuss matters of historical significance between our courts."
The implication was clear, a discussion of past grievances, policies established under Beron's reign.
"Of course," you agreed, your voice steady despite the rage building beneath your calm exterior. "My brothers will join us, as is tradition when discussing matters of historical record."
Disappointment flickered across Heatherson's face, so brief you might have missed it if you hadn't been watching carefully. "As you wish, High Lady."
You led them to a smaller council chamber, where wine had been prepared in advance. As the Winter Court representatives sipped from copper goblets, Lucien engaged them in conversation about border policies, his diplomatic skills creating a facade of normalcy.
But something had changed in the atmosphere.
Tension crackled beneath the polite exchanges, a current of awareness building with each passing moment. You could feel it, the sense of a trap about to spring, though who had set it remained unclear.
"I must say," Lord Gaius remarked, swirling his wine thoughtfully, "you seem remarkably... different... from when we last encountered you, High Lady."
The words hung in the air like an icicle about to fall. Eris tensed beside you, his hand drifting casually to the knife at his belt.
"Different how, Lord Gaius?" you asked, voice deceptively mild.
"More controlled," he replied, his eyes never leaving yours. "More... present. As if pieces of you that were once missing have been returned."
The deliberate provocation sent ice through your veins. He knew. They both knew. This wasn't diplomatic small talk; this was calculated testing of boundaries, of memory, of power.
Lucien's control snapped first. "How dare you," he snarled, his mechanical eye whirring furiously as he set his goblet down with enough force to slosh wine across the table. "How dare you stand in our court, drink our wine, and make such insinuations?"
"Insinuations?" Heatherson's face arranged itself into a mask of innocent confusion. "I believe Lord Gaius was merely complimenting the High Lady's composure."
"We all know what you meant," Eris said coldly, his voice all the more threatening for its quietness. "Just as we all know what happened two centuries ago."
The temperature in the room dropped several degrees as both Winter Court nobles froze, composure briefly cracking before masks slid back into place.
"I'm afraid I don't recall any significant events from that time," Gaius said carefully, but his eyes betrayed him, darting nervously between you and your brothers.
"Don't you?" You finally spoke, rising from your chair with deliberate grace. Fire danced at your fingertips, responding to your emotions without conscious summoning. "Thirteen nobles. A female bound with frost magic. Hours of torture. Does none of this sound familiar, Lord Gaius?"
Heatherson's face drained of what little color it possessed. "High Lady, these accusations—"
"Are not accusations," you interrupted, your voice calm despite the inferno building inside you. "They are statements of fact. Facts we all know to be true, though some have spent centuries pretending otherwise."
Power flowed from you in waves, the High Lady's magic responding to your righteous fury. The fires in the wall sconces blazed higher, shadows dancing across the faces of males who had once believed themselves untouchable.
"What happened that night was a diplomatic incident," Gaius said, his voice betraying a tremor despite his attempt at composure. "One that both courts agreed to put behind them."
"Both courts?" Lucien echoed, incredulity and rage making his voice shake. "You mean Beron agreed to silence in exchange for continued alliance. The victim was never consulted."
"The victim?" Heatherson's laugh was brittle. "You speak as if she remembers. As if part of her didn't flee that very night, leaving behind a shell we simply... helped reshape."
The casual cruelty of his words, the dismissal of your suffering, the pride still evident in his tone—it was enough.
More than enough.
"I remember everything," you said, each word precise and heavy with power. "Every hand. Every voice. Every moment."
Golden light flared beneath your skin, the High Lady's magic merging with the bond, with your human consciousness, with the part of your soul that had fractured and fled. For the first time since your coronation, you felt truly whole—human compassion and Fae power united in perfect clarity.
"High Lady," Heatherson began, rising from his chair, fear evident now. "Perhaps we should return to diplomatic matters—"
"This is diplomatic," you replied, flames now wreathing your hands in controlled, deadly beauty. "I am informing Winter Court representatives of new policy regarding those who harm Autumn Court citizens."
With a gesture, fire encircled the chamber, cutting off any escape. Not attacking, not yet, but a demonstration of power, of control, of boundaries that would no longer be crossed.
"You can't do this," Gaius protested, frost magic gathering defensively around his fingertips. "This violates every diplomatic protection—"
"As you violated me?" Your voice remained steady, though the fires burned hotter. "As you violated the most basic tenets of decency, of honor?"
"That was different," Heatherson insisted, backing away as flames licked closer. "That was politics. That was—"
"That was rape," Lucien said, the word dropping into the room like a stone into still water. "That was torture. That was an act of war disguised as politics."
Silence fell, heavy with centuries of unspoken truth finally given voice.
"Here is the new policy of the Autumn Court," you announced, your power filling the room until the very air shimmered with heat. "Those who harm our citizens answer with blood and bone. Those who tortured their High Lady answer with their lives."
Gaius made a desperate move, frost magic surging toward you in a futile attempt at self-preservation. The ice melted before it reached you, evaporating in the heat of your rage.
"High Lady, please—" Heatherson began, but it was far too late for pleas.
"I, as High Lady of the Autumn Court, find you guilty of crimes against this court, against its lady, against its future," you declared, the formal words binding, irrevocable. "The sentence is death."
Fire answered your command, precise and purposeful. It did not burn wildly or cause unnecessary suffering. It simply consumed, reducing the two Winter Court nobles to ash where they stood, their screams brief before silence fell once more.
As the flames receded, Eris moved to your side, assessing you with new respect in his eyes. "What of Winter Court? They will demand explanation."
"They will receive one," you replied, your voice calm as the fire within you settled to embers. "The full truth, documented and witnessed, will be sent to Kallias. He may choose war if he wishes, but I suspect once he knows what his nobles did in Winter's name, he will choose justice instead."
Lucien's mechanical eye whirred as he studied the piles of ash. "And if he doesn't?"
"Then Autumn Court stands ready," you said, turning toward the door. "We will no longer sacrifice our own to maintain false peace."
As you walked from the chamber, power still humming beneath your skin, you felt lighter than you had in weeks. The memories remained, the pain not erased, but facing those who had hurt you, delivering justice long delayed—it had changed something fundamental within you.
For the first time since your coronation, since waking in this world, you felt not torn between identities but unified. Human compassion and Fae power, merged into something new, something stronger.
That night, standing on your balcony, you gazed westward once more.
The vial of Ash Tea rolling between your fingers. The dark liquid caught the amber light of the setting sun, its potent magic a silent promise of temporary peace.
The tiny pinpoint of Azriel's fire still burned at the border, a beacon in darkness. The cabin would continue rising, stone by stone, window by window.
And perhaps, when you were truly ready, when your court was secured, when your soul was fully healed—perhaps then you would cross that border. Perhaps then you would let the bond flare to full strength once more.
But for now, you had a court to rule. Justice to deliver. A future to build, brick by brick, just as he built that cabin stone by stone.
For now, that was enough.
The wind whispered through the pines like it knew you wouldn't stay, mourning before you spoke a word.
You stood at the threshold between Autumn territory and unclaimed land, taking in the cabin Azriel had built with his own hands. It was more beautiful than you had imagined - sturdy logs fitted perfectly together, a welcoming porch wrapping around one side, windows gleaming in the afternoon light.
Azriel appeared at the doorway, shadows twisting anxiously before settling around his shoulders. When he saw you, hope flared in those ancient eyes - too much hope, a brightness that would only make the darkness to come more devastating.
"You came," he said, voice rough from disuse. His shadows stretched toward you before he pulled them back, a habit of restraint he couldn't break even now.
"I wanted to see it," you replied, gesturing to the cabin.
"I thought—" he hesitated, shadows twitching, "—maybe you were ready to come home." The fragile hope in his voice made your heart splinter.
You couldn't meet his eyes. "It's exactly as you described."
He stepped onto the porch, movements careful, measured. "Windows facing east," he confirmed, a tentative smile touching his lips. "For the sunrise."
"And the porch for watching thunderstorms roll across the mountains," you added, remembering your conversation from what felt like a lifetime ago.
You followed him inside. The interior was simple but beautiful - pine furniture he must have crafted himself, a fireplace of river stones, bookshelves already filled with volumes. A home built for two, with every corner yearning for a presence it had never known.
You turned to face him fully. "I know the whole truth now," you said. "About what happened in Winter Court. About why my soul fractured."
His face softened with understanding. "Your memories returned?"
"Not all of them," you admitted. "But enough. Enough to understand why part of me fled to another world, why I woke up in a hospital bed with a family who'd never heard of Prythian."
Azriel moved to the window, looking out at the mountains. "You were too gentle for what was done to you," he said. "Too kind for the cruelty they inflicted."
"I was broken," you acknowledged. "And now I'm whole again. But I still have to choose."
He turned back to you, and something in your face must have given it away. The shadows around him stilled completely.
"That's why you're really here, isn't it?" he asked softly. "Not just to see the cabin."
"I had to come," you said. "To say goodbye properly."
The light in his eyes dimmed. "Goodbye?"
The bond between you didn't just throb—it screamed, a golden cord pulled taut enough to snap, singing with the agony of a love denied.
"I've made my decision," you forced yourself to say. "I'm going back. Back to my world."
"Of course," he said softly, staring past you. "Why would you stay?" You opened your mouth to speak, but he shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "Don't lie to make it easier."
"Azriel—"
"Was it ever real?" he asked suddenly, voice breaking. "Any of it? Or was it just the bond?"
The question hung between you, raw and bleeding. The hearth looked cold despite the fire. The books seemed too untouched. The walls too thin to hold the ache left behind.
Instead of answering, you crossed the distance between you. After a moment's hesitation, you wrapped your arms around him.
He remained still, unyielding, before slowly, painfully embracing you in return. His arms encircled you with restrained strength, as if afraid you might shatter. The bond between you wailed in golden agony as his wings folded around you both, creating a sanctuary of shadow and starlight.
"I understand," he whispered against your hair, his voice breaking. "If it brings you happiness, I would never stand in your way."
Tears spilled down your cheeks as you clung to him. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." His arms tightened, memorizing the feel of you. "These moments with you have been worth centuries of solitude."
You felt tears dampen your hair as he pressed his lips to your crown.
"I love you," he confessed, the words torn from somewhere deep and vulnerable. "I've existed for five hundred years, but I only began living when I found you."
A sob escaped you, muffled against his chest. He smelled of night-chilled stone and cedar, of safety and sacrifice.
"I'll wait for you," he promised, voice thick with emotion. "If there's even the slightest chance you might return... I'll wait centuries more."
His scarred fingers tilted your chin up, hazel eyes memorizing every detail of your face. "The cabin will remain. This life I've built will remain. Whether you return tomorrow or in a thousand years."
You reached up, brushing tears from his beautiful face. "Live for yourself, Azriel. That's all I ask."
"I will try," he whispered. "But part of me will always be yours."
You stayed locked in each other's arms as the sun began to set, casting the valley in amber light that matched the golden bond pulsing between you. Neither willing to be the first to let go, to end what might be your last embrace.
"Be happy," he murmured against your temple. "That's all I've ever wanted for you."
When you finally pulled away, both your faces were streaked with tears. He let his wings unfold reluctantly, the cold rushing in where his warmth had been.
You turned away as he whispered your name like a prayer he'd never say again. The door didn't close behind you. Neither of you had the strength to end it.
Beeping.
That's the first thing you notice. A steady, mechanical rhythm cutting through darkness.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy. Your mouth is dry, with something hard and plastic between your lips. A tube. You can't speak.
With monumental effort, you crack your eyes open. Fluorescent lights, harsh and clinical, burn your retinas.
White walls. Machines with glowing numbers and lines.
"Oh my god." A familiar voice breaks through the fog. Your aunt. "She moved! Doctor! Nurse! Someone!"
Hurried footsteps approach as her face appears above you – lined with exhaustion and hope. Tears immediately well in her bloodshot eyes.
"You're back," she whispers, clutching your unresponsive hand. "You're really back."
More faces appear. A doctor in a white coat. A nurse adjusting something on the machines. They speak in quick, clinical bursts.
"...unexpected return to consciousness..."
"...extraordinary after this duration..."
"...need to run tests immediately..."
The breathing tube is carefully removed, leaving your throat raw and aching. Someone holds a straw to your lips, and you take a small sip of water.
"Can you hear me?" the doctor asks, shining a light in your eyes. "Can you blink once for yes?"
You manage a slow, deliberate blink.
Your fingers unconsciously reach for your chest, seeking something that should be there. A warmth. A pulse of gold beneath your skin. Nothing. Just the steady beat of your ordinary human heart.
Hours later, after the initial medical frenzy subsides, the door opens. Your grandmother enters slowly, leaning on her cane, your aunt supporting her elbow. Your grandmother's face, deeply lined and framed by silver hair, crumples at the sight of you awake.
"My girl," she whispers, her voice wavering. "My precious girl."
Your aunt helps her to your bedside. With trembling hands, your grandmother cups your face, studying you as if memorizing every detail. Her tears fall onto your cheeks, mingling with your own.
When she embraces you, fragile arms holding you with surprising strength, something breaks inside you. The dam holding back your emotions crumbles completely.
You sob against her shoulder, great heaving cries that shake your weakened body. The tears come from somewhere bottomless, somewhere that knows what you've lost, what you've gained, what you've left behind.
"I'm here, my darling," she murmurs, her voice cracking. "I'm here."
Your aunt joins the embrace, her arms encircling you both. They hold you as you cry, mistaking your tears for relief and trauma from the attack.
They don't understand you're mourning a life they can never know about. A bond severed. A cabin in a valley. A shadowsinger with scarred hands who promised to wait forever.
"We kept the light on for you," your aunt says, stroking your hair. "Every night. We knew you'd find your way back to us."
Fresh tears spill down your cheeks. The guilt of wanting to be elsewhere when they've waited so faithfully for your return. The gratitude for their unwavering love. The grief for what can never be explained.
As night falls and they reluctantly leave, promising to return at first light, you lie awake, staring at the ceiling. The machines continue their vigilant beeping.
You close your eyes and try to reach across the void. Try to feel that golden thread that once connected you to a world of magic. To him.
But there's nothing.
In the silent hours before dawn, you whisper his name, the sound barely audible even to your own ears.
"Azriel."
No shadows stir in the corners of your room. No wings unfurl from darkness.
The bond is severed. The connection lost.
You are home.
But in your dreams that night, you smell night-chilled stone and cedar. You feel the ghost of wings enfolding you. You hear a voice promising to wait, even as it fades into memory.
"Until we meet again, my heart."
Five years, and the world still doesn't fit right.
Five years since you woke in a hospital bed with hands that remembered magic and a heart that had forgotten how to beat without him.
Medical school consumes your days and nights. The transition from nursing student to medical student raised eyebrows, but your near-death experience provides a convenient explanation for your sudden change in direction.
What you can't explain is how anatomy comes to you like breathing, how you can identify trauma patterns with uncanny precision, or why you instinctively reach for moonleaf or frostroot—plants that shouldn't exist here, but live vividly in your muscle memory.
"Your spatial reasoning is exceptional," your neurosurgery professor remarks after watching you practice sutures. "It's like you've been doing this for centuries."
You flinch at his words, a memory fragment flickering—your hands wreathed in golden light as you healed a wounded faerie in Dawn Court. You smile tightly to hide the tremor. "Just good with my hands."
You specialize in trauma surgery. Each life you save feels like redemption for the one you abandoned. Each scar you repair reminds you of wounds you couldn't heal across worlds.
Two albino rabbits sit in the pet shop window, twitching their noses. Their eyes are wrong—not quite red, but a soft, gleaming pink.
You freeze. The world blurs.
You don't notice you've sunk to your knees until someone asks if you're alright. You aren't. You haven't been, not since two glowing shadows with cotton-flame tails hopped through fallen leaves, and someone with a voice like dusk laughed beside you.
You wake some nights gasping, hand clutched to your chest, sure the bond has snapped back into place—only to find yourself alone in the dark, throat raw with his name half-spoken.
During thunderstorms, you sit on your apartment balcony, watching lightning split the sky. Sometimes the shadows seem to reach for you, comforting and familiar.
In those moments, you unconsciously reach for your chest, searching for a golden warmth that no longer pulses beneath your skin.
Autumn becomes your season. You collect fallen leaves that shimmer copper and gold in certain light, pressing them between book pages like precious memories.
Your apartment fills with candles scented with cedar and pine, though they never smell quite right—never like night-chilled stone and forest.
Your grandmother notices these peculiarities but never questions them. "You came back different," is all she says, squeezing your hand during Sunday dinners. "But you came back. That's what matters."
Your aunt is less philosophical. "You need to start dating again," she insists regularly. "That surgical resident keeps asking about you."
You nod and make vague promises you never keep.
How could you explain that you left your heart in another world? That you loved someone with wings and shadows and scars who offered to wait centuries?
In your final year of residency, you join a research trip to Scotland.
The program pairs physicians with historians to study ancient healing practices.
While your colleagues are excited about the medical aspects, you're drawn by a different hope—one you barely acknowledge even to yourself.
The museum sits nestled in the highlands, a small stone building housing local artifacts.
Your group filters through the first exhibition hall, examining crude surgical tools and herbal remedies. You lag behind, something pulling you toward a separate gallery.
And then you see him.
Not his face, not truly.
But the silhouette, the posture, the wings—etched into you so deeply no time or world could ever wear it away. And your soul answers. Fiercely. Immediately.
Azriel.
A tapestry, ancient and faded, stretches across the far wall.
Your breath catches in your throat. The air tastes like lightning. Like cedar. Like home.
The weaving depicts a forest of perpetual autumn, trees burning with colors that never fade. Figures with pointed ears move through the scene, and at the center stands a male with a crown of living flame.
"Fascinating piece, isn't it?" The curator appears beside you. "Local legend says it depicts 'the autumn people' who live beyond the forest. Fairytales, of course, but the craftsmanship is remarkable."
You barely hear him, your eyes fixed on the tapestry's border. There, nearly hidden in the woven scene's edge, sits a small cabin with east-facing windows. A figure stands before it, wings folded against its back, staring at mountains as if waiting.
The curator moves on. Your colleagues drift toward the next exhibition.
You remain rooted, trembling.
You step closer, fingers brushing against the woven silhouette. Golden light flickers beneath your skin—then flares. It burns like resurrection.
The bond, asleep but never gone, seizes your chest in a silent scream of recognition.
"Azriel," you whisper, the name both foreign and familiar on your tongue after years of silence.
Tears spill down your cheeks as you trace the winged figure.
Something inside you breaks open—grief you've suppressed for five years flooding to the surface.
"I'm sorry I left you alone," you sob quietly, fingers pressing against the tapestry. "I'm so sorry."
You collapse to your knees, forehead pressed to ancient threads, sobbing like a soul unmoored. Your tears fall into a forest woven in legend, into a promise that never died.
And somewhere—across stars, across centuries—he lifts his head.
He's still waiting.
Ten years pass in rhythms of healing and work.
You try dating—a surgeon from your hospital, a literature professor who quotes poetry, a kind veterinarian with gentle hands.
Each relationship ends the same way. "You're never fully here," they eventually say. You can't explain the hollow space in your chest where golden light once pulsed.
The nightmares still come, though less frequently.
Cold hands holding you down. Mocking laughter echoing off stone walls. You wake gasping, drenched in sweat, reaching for shadows that aren't there.
These experiences shape your medical practice—you specialize in trauma recovery, creating a program for assault survivors that combines medical and psychological care. Your colleagues marvel at your intuitive understanding of trauma's physical manifestations.
"It's like you've lived through it yourself," a psychologist comments.
You smile tightly. "I just listen carefully."
At forty, you're respected, successful, alone.
Your apartment fills with more autumn leaves, more candles that never smell quite right. You volunteer weekends at an animal shelter, drawn especially to the rabbits with their twitching noses and watchful eyes. Your coworkers call you the "rabbit whisperer" when traumatized ones calm at your touch.
"You understand them somehow," the shelter director says.
If only she knew how you sometimes whisper to them in a language that shouldn't exist, how you occasionally catch yourself looking for pink flames that never appear.
Your fiftieth birthday arrives with honors from the medical community. You've pioneered trauma-informed surgical protocols now implemented nationwide. Your sister hosts a celebration dinner, her grandchildren clambering for your attention.
"Tell us a story!" they beg as the adults clean up.
You settle in your favorite chair, children gathered at your feet.
"Once," you begin, "there existed a world where autumn never ended, where trees burned with colors that never faded..."
Your stories grow more elaborate over the years—tales of courts governed by seasons, of creatures with powers tied to natural elements, of shadows that whispered secrets.
Your family assumes they're born from your imagination rather than memory.
"You should write these down," your great-niece suggests on your sixty-eighth birthday. "These stories about the shadowsinger and the flame lady are beautiful."
You smile, throat tight. "Perhaps someday."
At seventy-two, retirement brings contemplative quiet. Your hands, once steady in surgery, now shake slightly as you press another autumn leaf between journal pages.
The cabin with east-facing windows haunts your dreams more frequently now—so vivid you can almost smell pine needles, almost hear wings rustling in pre-dawn darkness.
Your eightieth year brings pneumonia that never quite resolves.
Hospital corridors feel strange from the patient's perspective. Family gathers, whispering consultations with your former colleagues.
"It's my time," you tell your great-nephew when you catch him crying. "Don't be sad."
"We can't lose you," he insists, clutching your fragile hand.
You smile, peace settling in your bones. "I'm not being lost. I'm going home."
The night your body finally releases you, golden light flickers beneath your skin for the first time in decades.
The monitors flatline as nurses rush in, but you're already gone—crossing between worlds on a bridge of light that never truly broke.
You wake with a gasp, heart hammering against your ribs.
Sunlight filters through amber-stained windows, casting warm patterns across your nightgown. For a moment, you're disoriented—the transition too abrupt, too complete.
"I'm back," you whisper, touching your face in disbelief. "I'm actually back!"
Without thinking, you leap from bed, nearly tripping over the nightgown that tangles around your legs. You catch yourself on a bedpost, already running toward the door.
"Eris!" you shout, flinging open your chamber door. "ERIS!"
Briar, who was carrying fresh linens shrieks as you barrel past, dropping her basket. Sheets flutter to the floor like startled ghosts.
"My lady!" she calls after you. "You need proper attire! My lady!"
You ignore her, bare feet slapping against cool marble as you race through familiar corridors. A guard nearly drops his spear as you round the corner.
"The Lady is awake!" he shouts, voice cracking in surprise. "The Lady is awake!"
The cry echoes behind you, rippling through the castle like wildfire. Servants peek from doorways, eyes wide with shock. More guards join the chorus, their disciplined decorum crumbling at the sight of you—the Lady of Autumn Court—sprinting through hallways in a nightgown with your hair flying wildly behind you.
"My lady, please!" calls the housekeeper, clutching her chest as you leap over a small decorative table. "Your slippers! Your robe!"
"Where is Eris?" you demand, not slowing.
"The war room, but—"
You're already gone, leaving the poor female sputtering in your wake.
You skid around another corner, nightgown billowing. A young noble steps directly into your path, and you collide with enough force to send him sprawling. His papers scatter like autumn leaves.
"So sorry!" you call over your shoulder, already back on your feet. "Royal emergency!"
Behind you, the noble stares open-mouthed at your retreating form. "Was that...?" you hear him ask a nearby guard.
"Indeed, Lord Ramel," the guard replies solemnly. "After eighty years... she has returned."
"In her nightclothes?"
"Apparently so, my lord."
The war room doors loom ahead—massive oak panels carved with battle scenes from Autumn's history.
Two stone-faced guards stand at attention, their expressions flickering with shock as you approach.
"My lady," one begins, "perhaps you would like to—"
You don't let him finish. With a strength that surprises even you, you slam both doors open, the bang echoing like thunder through the chamber beyond.
Silence falls instantly.
A dozen lords in autumn finery turn as one, mouths agape. Maps and tactical markers cover the massive table between them. And at its head—
Eris.
He stands frozen, quill suspended over parchment, amber eyes widened in disbelief. A flame crown burns atop his head—smaller than Beron's had been, but undeniably the mark of High Lord.
"Sister?" he whispers, face draining of color.
You beam at him, suddenly aware of your nightgown, your bare feet, your hair that probably resembles a bird's nest after eighty years of disuse. "Surprise!"
No one moves. No one breathes.
Then Eris, the terrifying High Lord of Autumn Court, drops his quill. Ink spatters across ancient maps and generations-old treaties. Without a word, he vaults over the table—literally vaults, one hand pressed to the wood as he leaps—sending markers and figurines flying.
"It's really you?" he asks, approaching cautiously as if you might vanish. "Both parts of you?"
You nod, tears and laughter mingling. "All of me. Every memory. Both lives."
A strangled noise escapes him as he pulls you into a fierce embrace. Over his shoulder, you see the assembled lords exchanging glances of utter bewilderment.
"My lords," Eris says, his voice suspiciously thick as he turns to face them. "Meeting adjourned."
"But the Winter Court border dispute—" one begins.
"Can wait another day," Eris cuts him off. "My sister has returned from the dead. In her nightclothes. Priorities, gentlemen."
The lords bow hastily, filing out with backward glances and poorly concealed whispers. The last one pulls the doors shut behind him.
Once alone, Eris holds you at arm's length, examining you with eyes that gleam suspiciously bright. "Eighty years," he says. "Eighty years, and you choose to return while I'm in the middle of the most boring border dispute in Prythian history."
"Your timing was always worse," you counter with a watery smile.
"Says the female who just crashed a war council in her nightgown." His gaze travels pointedly to your bare feet. "Nice entrance, by the way. Very dignified. Absolutely befitting a High Lady."
Once alone, Eris examines you with gleaming eyes. "You're truly back."
"What happened?" you demand. "Why am I here? I was eighty! I died!"
"Not exactly," Eris says, looking amused. "You never actually died."
"What?"
"The Ash Tea you took. It didn't just dampen your magic—it eventually put you into a death-like sleep. Your body remained here, perfectly preserved, while your consciousness..." He waves vaguely. "Went wherever it went."
You blink. "Like Sleeping Beauty?"
Eris stares blankly. "Like what?"
"Sleeping Beauty! The princess who pricked her finger and slept for a hundred years until true love's kiss woke her?"
"That sounds... highly improbable," Eris says diplomatically.
"Says the immortal faerie with fire powers," you retort.
He concedes with a tilt of his head. "Fair point."
"Does anyone else know I'm back? What about Azriel? The Night Court?"
"No one knows yet," Eris says, sobering. "And it should stay that way temporarily. You're vulnerable right now. Your magic needs time to stabilize."
"Vulnerable to what?"
"Assassins, power-hungry nobles, that sort of thing," he says casually, as if discussing the weather. "The usual court politics."
"Lovely. Just what I needed after eighty years of human medicine—fairy court murder plots."
Eris smirks. "Welcome home, sister."
"But wait—if I've been technically alive all this time, why wake up now?" you wonder. "Why today specifically?"
Eris shrugs. "The Ash Tea finally wore off? Cosmic timing? Who knows how these things work?"
"Or maybe... the Charm..." You touch your chest, feeling the golden bond stir. "Maybe he called me back somehow."
"Speaking of your brooding shadowsinger," Eris says, "I assume you'll want to see him rather urgently?"
"Is he—"
"Still in that ridiculous cabin with the impractical east-facing windows? Yes." Eris sighs dramatically. "Eighty years, and he's still there, waiting. Immortals and their stubborn attachments."
"I need to go," you say, starting for the door before realizing. "But not like this! I need clothes!"
Eris looks you up and down, smirking. "I don't know. This look might be exactly what the shadowsinger has been waiting eighty years for."
"ERIS!"
"Fine, fine." He chuckles, guiding you toward the door. "Let's find you something suitable. Though fashion has changed considerably in eighty years."
"If you try to put me in anything with unnecessary feathers—"
"Wouldn't dream of it," he lies smoothly. "Though the current style does involve quite a lot of strategically placed autumn leaves..."
Your horrified expression sends him into a fit of laughter as he leads you down the hall. Behind you, servants whisper excitedly:
The Lady has returned—in her nightgown, no less—and she's headed west, to a cabin with east-facing windows, where a shadowsinger has waited eighty years for Sleeping Beauty to finally wake up.
You crest the last hill just before sunset, your boots crunching over the forest floor. The path winds familiar but strange—wider than memory, the trees newer, as if time itself tried to soften the edges of what you left behind.
You pause at the treeline.
The cabin waits below.
Except—it isn't a cabin anymore.
It's a home.
Two stories of weathered wood and stone, a wraparound porch shaded by climbing vines. A garden spills out in vibrant rows of herbs and vegetables. Windows facing east gleam in the fading light, capturing the day's last embers.
Your chest tightens, the bond humming faintly beneath your skin.
"Azriel?" Your voice sounds small in the vast silence.
No answer. Just the hush of wind through pine.
You step forward, each footfall carrying the weight of eighty years. The door stands ajar, as though left that way for you. Inside, the air holds warmth but no presence. A stillness too reverent, too expectant.
The house is a reliquary. A shrine to a love he never abandoned.
Your fingers trail across a workbench where wood shavings still curl, fresh and fragrant. A half-finished flame bunny waits patiently beside carving tools.
The pink glass eyes gleam, unfinished but already alive. On the mantle above the fireplace, dozens of others stand in silent formation—each unique, each perfectly capturing some essence of Ember and Sizzle.
You turn slowly, taking in walls lined with bookshelves, maps of stars, sketches of landscapes you've never seen. The home feels thoroughly lived in yet meticulously organized. Everything has a place, a purpose.
A note lies on the kitchen table, pinned beneath a carved stone bunny:
Gone to settle matters with Rhysand. Return in three days. —A
Three days. After eighty years of waiting, you've missed him by hours.
A laugh breaks from your throat—wet and trembling—as you sink into the kitchen chair.
Not from humor. From disbelief.
The sort of cruel irony only fate could orchestrate.
Your fingers tighten around the carved bunny. Its tiny ears tilt slightly left, just like Ember's did when she was curious. He remembered.
Of course he did.
As you explore further, you notice something strange about the land surrounding the cabin. Boundary stones mark a perimeter that belongs to neither Court.
He's carved out a territory—a small realm between worlds, belonging to no High Lord.
"He's created his own little realm," you whisper, touching the stones etched with unfamiliar symbols. A place outside court politics. A sanctuary.
On a lower shelf, tucked between histories of Prythian, you find a collection of journals bound in midnight-blue leather. Your hand hesitates, fingers hovering over the spines.
Is this too private? Too personal?
But the need to understand these missing decades overrides your hesitation.
The first entry is dated exactly one day after you took the Ash Tea.
The writing is tight, controlled, betraying nothing of emotion.
She is gone. The bond remains, but muted. I will wait.
Just three sentences.
But the pressure of the pen has nearly torn through the paper.
You trace the words with trembling fingers, feeling the grief preserved in careful script.
Your tears fall, smudging the ink before you hastily wipe them away.
You turn pages, decades passing between your fingers.
Year 5: Began construction on the second story. The sunrise is better viewed from height.
Year 12: Rhysand has conceded territory around the cabin. Cassian calls it folly. Perhaps it is.
Year 20: Found pink crystal in the mountains today. Captured the exact shade of the flame bunnies' eyes. Have begun carving again.
Year 37: The garden produces more than enough now. I've started leaving the excess at the border village. They still fear the "shadowsinger" but the food disappears by morning.
Year 53: Feyre visited today. Asked if I regret my choice. I do not.
Your fingers press against your chest, and for a moment—just a moment—you swear the bond hums.
Soft and golden. Waiting.
As the decades progress, the entries grow longer, more detailed.
More...hopeful. The words of a male who has chosen patient waiting over despair.
Year 68: I felt the bond flicker today. Stronger, then gone. Is she thinking of me across worlds? Is she near windows facing east?
Year 79: Dreams of her return have increased. The shadows whisper of changes coming. I dare not hope, yet find I cannot stop myself.
The final entry, dated just days ago.
Rhysand has requested my presence. After all these years, a summons I cannot ignore. I go reluctantly, but perhaps this is the Cauldron's design. I leave signs of my return, should the impossible happen while I'm gone.
Three days. I will be back in three days.
You close the journal, something breaking open inside you. Eighty years of patient waiting, of building and preparing, of never losing faith that somehow, someday, you would find your way back.
The day fades into evening as you explore further.
The upper floor holds a bedroom with that promised view of the sunrise. A smaller room adjoins it, filled with musical instruments and comfortable chairs—a room for leisure, for living, not just surviving.
You climb the stairs like you're in a dream.
The bedroom is beautiful—warm wood, east-facing windows painted with sunset. A reading nook nestled in the corner. A space made for two.
But it's the third room that destroys you.
A nursery.
Simple, practical, but unmistakable. A cradle carved from pale wood. Tiny clothes folded in a dresser, and a rocking chair by the window.
Your knees buckle.
You sink to the floor, sobs tearing from your throat—raw and wordless.
He hadn't just hoped for your return. He had prepared for a future.
A life.
Every dream you'd whispered together, every small detail you'd imagined for a life beyond courts and duty—he'd made it real. He'd built it, year by patient year, while you lived an entire human lifetime.
Night falls gently, like a blessing. You light the hearth, the candles. Shadows dance across walls that have waited for you. Outside, the forest seems to hold its breath, as if the trees themselves sense something momentous.
You could return to Autumn Court, wait in comfort, let Eris announce your return properly. The diplomatic, sensible choice.
But no. Not when he carved eighty years of devotion into every beam of this house.
"Three days is nothing," you whisper, settling into the chair by the fire with another journal.
You stay.
And somewhere, far across the courts, a shadowsinger feels the shift in the air.
The bond hums.
The fire rekindles.
The forest holds its breath.
Three days. After eighty years, what's three more days?
Light spills through east-facing windows, bathing the cabin in liquid gold. You've fallen asleep in his chair, his journal open in your lap, after two days of exploring every corner of the home he built for you both.
The door opens with barely a whisper.
Azriel stands frozen in the threshold, wings tightly folded, dawn painting his silhouette in fire and shadow. The package in his hands drops to the floor with a soft thud. His shadows always in motion go completely still.
Your eyes flutter open.
Time stops.
The space between heartbeats stretches into eternity as your gazes lock across the room.
Neither of you moves. Neither breathes.
The morning light wraps around him like a memory made flesh, illuminating the planes of his face unchanged by decades, yet somehow different.
His eyes widen, lips parting slightly, as if he's seeing a ghost.
Perhaps he is.
His name rises in your throat but gets caught there, trapped behind emotion too vast for sound. The bond between you pulses once, tentatively, like a bird testing broken wings.
"I'm finally going mad," he whispers, voice raw and reverent.
You rise slowly, journal sliding forgotten to the floor. The movement feels like swimming through honey, each second precious and thick with meaning.
"Azriel," you breathe, his name a prayer on your lips.
The sound shatters his stillness. His shadows surge forward, reaching you before he does tentative, trembling. They brush your cheeks, your hands, your hair, as if making certain you're real.
"How?" The word tears from his throat, rough with hope and fear.
"The bond never broke," you whisper, your voice trembling with the weight of truth. "It stretched across worlds, across time. My body lived there, but my soul was always anchored here, with you."
He takes one step forward, then another. His scarred hands hover near your face without touching, as if afraid you might dissolve like morning mist.
"Every sunrise for eighty years," he says, voice catching, "I've stood on that porch and whispered your name to the mountains."
"I heard you," you tell him, tears spilling freely now. "In my dreams. I always heard you calling me home."
When your fingers finally brush his cheek, he collapses. Not like a warrior falls in battle, but like a man finally allowing himself to believe. His wings fold forward, arms encircling your waist, and he buries his face against your stomach. You sink with him to your knees, your legs giving out from the sheer weight of finally being found.
"I'm here," you whisper into his hair, voice breaking, "I'm home."
His scarred hands cradle your face with such reverence it breaks your heart.
"Tell me you're staying," he pleads, voice raw with eight decades of longing. "Tell me I won't wake tomorrow to find you gone."
Instead of words, you take his hand and place it over your heart where the bond pulses golden beneath your skin.
"Feel that?" you whisper. "It never faded. It never broke. It only stretched between worlds until I could find my way back to you."
The bond flares between you, no longer muted by distance or dimensions, but blazing with renewed life. Golden light spills from beneath your joined hands, illuminating his face.
A single tear traces the sharp line of his cheekbone. "I built this home with my own hands," he says, voice breaking on each word, "plank by plank, stone by stone. Not because I believed you would return, but because I couldn't bear to stop waiting."
Your thumbs brush away his tears. "How did you survive it?" you ask, your own voice breaking. "How did you bear it alone for so long?"
"I wasn't living," he confesses, pressing his forehead to yours. "I was existing. Breathing because my body refused to stop. My soul has been right here all along, waiting for you to make me whole again."
As if summoned by the truth in his words, warmth blooms between you. Pink flame erupts in twin bursts of light and joyful squeaking. Ember and Sizzle materialize, hopping excitedly around you both.
"They remember," you whisper in wonder.
"Everything that is part of you refuses to forget," Azriel says, watching the flame bunnies with awe. "Just as I memorized every detail of your face, every sound of your laughter, every shade of light in your eyes."
Ember hops onto his shoulder while Sizzle circles your joined hands, leaving tiny scorch marks on the wooden floor.
"After you were gone," he says softly, "I kept feeling you everywhere—in the sunrise, in the autumn wind, in the spaces between heartbeats. They said I was mad to keep believing."
"I felt you too," you tell him, your fingers tracing the lines of his face. "Even across worlds, even across time. My soul never stopped reaching for yours."
His shadows curl around your joined hands, no longer restless but finally at peace. "When I felt our bond dim," he whispers, voice raw, "it was like watching the stars fade one by one until the night was empty."
"I thought I was setting you free," you confess, pressing your forehead to his chest. "I thought I was being merciful."
His arms tighten around you, wings creating a cocoon of shadow and warmth. "There is no freedom in half a soul," he says fiercely. "No life worth living without you in it."
You look up at him through your tears. "How can you still look at me like that? After all this time?"
"Like what?" he asks, his voice achingly soft.
"Like I'm everything."
"Because you are," he says simply, the words striking your heart like lightning. "You are dawn after endless night. You are the answer to prayers I was too broken to speak."
Tears stream freely down your cheeks as he lowers his forehead to yours.
His shadows curl around your face, tender and possessive. "My fierce, impossible mate," he breathes, voice rough with wonder. "My heart. My home."
And then his lips find yours, gentle yet desperate, a reunion and a promise in one.
His wings wrap around you both, shuttering out the world until there is nothing but this—his mouth on yours, his scent of night-chilled stone and cedar surrounding you, the bond between you singing like the first notes of creation.
When you finally part, both breathless, his eyes hold a peace you've never seen before—the look of someone who has finally, after endless searching, come home.
Your gaze falls to the forgotten package on the floor. "What's that?" you ask, voice still thick with emotion.
A different kind of warmth colors his cheeks as he retrieves the small burlough sack.
"I remembered how much you missed it," he says softly as you open it.
The rich, familiar aroma hits you immediately—coffee beans, perfectly roasted, their scent rising like a memory from another life.
"You remembered," you whisper, tears welling fresh in your eyes as you run your fingers through the dark beans.
"I spent eighty years trying to grow them," he admits, his shadows curling bashfully. "The first plants all died. Then the beans were too bitter. By the fortieth year, I could make something drinkable, but it wasn't right. It wasn't what you remembered."
A laugh bubbles up through your tears. "You spent eighty years learning to grow coffee beans? For me?"
His smile is small but reaches his eyes—perhaps the first true smile you've ever seen transform his face. "I would have spent eighty lifetimes learning."
Ember hops excitedly around the bag, leaving tiny scorch marks that curl into a heart shape. Sizzle bounces onto Azriel's shoulder, nuzzling against his cheek with fiery affection.
"I think they approve," you laugh through your tears, clutching the precious beans to your chest.
You rise together, his arm steady around your waist, the bond between you glowing like captured starlight.
"Show me," you whisper. "Show me everything you built."
Outside the window, dawn breaks fully over your valley.
Your home.
Bathing everything in golden light that feels, at last, like a beginning rather than an ending.
Author’s Note: And that’s it. That’s the fic. She died, she lived, she ran through a palace in her nightgown like a feral fairy princess, and she got her man (who, in case you forgot, spent EIGHTY YEARS building a house and practicing agriculture like a sad, winged Pinterest husband). 🐇💔🔥
Thank you for crying with me. Screaming with me. Whispering “oh my god just kiss already” with me.
This story was equal parts pain, pining, trauma-healing, and “what if Azriel just... stood outside her kingdom for decades like a Victorian ghost with a toolbelt?”
To those of you who made it to the end. I see you. I love you. I, too, would betray a High Lord for a coffee bean grown out of pure love.
BUT WAIT.
While the main arc has closed with a very dramatic, very deserved Happily Ever After, you didn’t think I’d leave you without some bonus content, did you?
Stay tuned for bonus chapters featuring:
1. The mating ceremony (someone cries, someone combusts emotionally and/or literally, everyone gossips) 2. Azriel trying to be a husband and a mate while quietly short-circuiting every time she kisses his cheek 3. Domestic arguments about mundane things like curtain color and whose turn it is to wash the flame bunnies 4. Azriel learning to cook without murdering a pan (he fails, but his arms look great while doing it) 5. Found family visits. Too much wine. Velaris bets. Rhysand regrets inviting himself. 6. Intense fluff. Devastating angst. Some smut that’s been aged like fine wine in my drafts 7. And yes, maybe babies, because listen... have you seen Azriel hold things gently? Of course we're going there
Basically: a mating bond is forever, but so is the chaos that comes with it.
Thank you for reading this soul-wrecking, hope-restoring, very dramatic tale of second chances and shadow-soaked love. You made it through. Go scream into a pillow and eat something carb-heavy. You’ve earned it.
—With all my love and possibly a flame bunny plush in hand, mahalachives 🖤
Taglist: @circe143 @lunarxcity @willowpains @messageforthesmallestman @lreadsstuff @evye47 @lovely-susie @moonfawnx @tele86 @moonlitlavenders @darkbloodsly @ees-chaotic-brain @smol-grandpa @auraofathena @lottiiee413 @minaaminaa8 @claudiab22 @moonbeamruins @shewolf1549 @crimsonandwhiteprincess @a-band-aid-for-your-heart @kathren1sky-blog @alimarie1105 @masbt1218 @topaz125 @falszywe @randomdumsblog @sophia-grace2025 @okaytrashpanda @thegoddessofnothingness @unarxcity @svearehnn @suhke3 @galaxystern08 @ivy-34 @hellsenthero @nayaniasworld @raccoonworld @bobbywobbby @evergreenlark @greenmandm @shinyghosteclipse @catloverandreader @the-onlyy-angie @bunnboosblog @i-like-boooks @ashduv @kayjaywrites @lovelyreaderlovesreading @badbishsblog @vera0124 @i-am-infinite @scatteredstardustt @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @chaotic-luvrs @etsukomoonbeam @justtryingtosurvive02 @dianxiaxiexie @annaaaaa88 @mortqlprojections @quiet-loser @shamelesswolftheorist @vanserrasimp @lovelyflower7777 @probendingwords @allthatisbuck1917 @thejediprincess56 @forvalentineboy @romwyz @plowden @jada-lockwood @traveling-neverland @wanderwithmex @magicaldragonlady @makemeurvillain @justswimm @saltedcoffeescotch @rafeecameronsbitch @sherhd @stainedpomegranatelips @ayohockeycheck @yourdarkrose @taurusvic @illyrianshadow @s-h-e-l-b-e-e @ly--canthrope @star-chaser1 @dormantzzzs
this was one of the most amazing stories i have read on this platform in a while.
the way you write is just absolutely amazing, i literally cannot wait to see more of your work
EVERYBODY NEEDS TO READ THIS
Reblog this if your cunt is wet and you need rape threats in your DMs.
good things will happen 🧿
things that are meant to be will fall into place 🧿
THIS ONE FUCKING WORKS. REBLOG IT.
this for real fucking works
Apparently this one fuckin works, and who am I to argue with the collective agreement of tumblr. Will report back if good things happen.
Fable - Consequence
Pairing: Azriel x Reader
Summary: Azriel understands how it feels to regret; he understands it most as he holds you and he prays.
Word count: 3.5k
Warnings: Angst, injury, violence, this has a lot of grief in Azriel's pov but also subtle pov shifts and memories
a/n: This is part of a mini-series with one part left <3 I've honestly been using this series as a way to explore angst and loss in depth so thank you all for being addicted to angst. Last part coming soon (but also considering doing an alt ending too). Thank you for reading ily!!
Series Masterlist (all parts ♡)
~~
Azriel was digging. His hands were raw and specked with blood, and it took him a moment, but he was faintly aware that his throat felt raw as well. He was digging and he was screaming.
The rubble of the cliff was unforgiving. Sharp rocks and misshapen twigs caught his skin and he pushed and pushed and pushed. His shadows had escaped him, weaving their way through the debris, slinking into the crevices Azriel so viscerally despised.
He had to get you out.
The bond was still there—still glowing in his chest.
Every morsel of time you had spent with him this past year was on a painful loop in his mind, reminding him of the progress you’d made, of the life that had settled back in your eyes. You were so perfect, had always been so perfect, and Azriel was hoping you’d find that truth in an existence without your wings.
He thought you might’ve been close.
But then you’d discovered what had been kept from you. You’d learned that he and the others knew where your remaining attackers were, and they hadn’t told you.
There had been a plethora of reasons.
For Rhysand, it was your continued safety in the face of the uprising camp. He was a leader, which meant keeping information from you to ensure what you could not. For Cassian, well—he was pissed off. Cassian wanted to kill the men himself, and it had been a battle with the rest of the circle to keep him tame. And Azriel. Azriel knew what the life returning to your eyes would mean in the face of such news. He knew it that first day in Rhysand’s office when the spies made them privy to that first bit of information, and he knew it when the weekly meetings began, his informants closing in on the vile men’s location.
So, he knew, with all certainty, that if you knew about these men, you would have gone after them. And then you did.
You had never been the most sly at eavesdropping, so Azriel knew you were listening in the second your unsteady gait closed in on the High Lord’s office door. He let you listen, and then he confronted you when you were preparing to leave. It had been a few months of you walking on your own, but he still caught the way your right foot fell too quickly in front of your left as you skirted around your room.
He had begged you. Gods, had he begged you to stay. To calm. To allow other people to take the lead on this. He had promised you would still have the final blow, but Azriel knew this had never been about your attackers simply dying. This had been about something else entirely.
Was it worth it now, he wondered, as your once broken body—now healed with time—was slowly uncovered by Azriel’s bleeding hands?
His throat stopped aching for a moment, a momentary reprieve as a sob soothed the ripping pain in his vocal cords. Some rendition of your name left his lips, slipping past the screams and the sobs that punctuated the guilt within him. He had been caught off guard, rendered unable to reach you when you needed him most. And he had had to watch you fall.
Eventually, the rubble cleared enough for him to pull you onto his legs. His shadows blocked his view of your body, but they were whispering to him. You were alive, they told him—alive but hurt hurt hurt. He couldn't parse out exactly what was broken about you, but his shadows had never been calm in the face of your danger.
That should have been a sign to him. He should have been protecting you far sooner.
“Y/n?” Azriel croaked once more, his hands, still ruined, brushing along your face. “You’re okay. You’re fine,” he whispered to no one, his forehead coming down to meet yours.
The scene was reminiscent of one he was quick to push from his mind, the blood and loss you had experienced in such a similar fashion something he wished not to relive.
His body was shaking, he realized. Adrenaline and fear wracked him, turning his nerves into live wires that would spark at the touch. Azriel watched the subtle rise and fall of your chest as you lay against him, cursing his inability to command his shadows to bring you home. Faebane still influenced the power in his veins. His shadows remained, if only for you, but he had less pull over them.
Azriel held you close and he prayed.
You would be fine. You had to be fine. He had a lifetime more of taking care of you, even if only peripherally, even if you never knew what you truly meant to him. Azriel had set that fate in motion from the moment he chose to believe you about the camps—from the moment your wings had been torn from you and your existence felt less than.
He knew you had been struggling with that. That the delicate furrow of your brow each time you passed a reflective surface was not a simple coincidence.
It was his fault. You were his mate, and this had happened to you while he was off living in some fallacy.
Azriel tugged you closer, watching the world go by through the small feats of movement on your face.
You had told him once, about a month ago, that life was different now. You had said that it made less sense, that you were trying to make meaning of things that had once come naturally, been intuitive. Azriel had chalked that up to your inability to fly; it was difficult, he presumed, to conceptualize such a thing being taken away.
But now Azriel realized what you meant. Breathing did not feel intuitive. How he positioned his body beneath yours did not feel natural. He did not know how to move, how to care for you, how to make this better. He kept passing over your face and body with his hands, but life felt different now—between an hour ago and now.
He had feared you would never return from the dark abyss that consumed you when you first lost your wings, but then you had healed and coped.
He had gotten too comfortable with the idea of you being okay.
He had foolishly believed that nothing bad would ever happen to you again. Not now. Not with the magnitude of what you meant to him.
You let out a small cough. Azriel’s breath sputtered.
“Angel?” he called, his gaze scouring every inch of you. His thumb rubbed along your hairline. “Tell me if you can hear me.”
A long pause punctuated the air between you. Your eyes fluttered but did not open.
“Please. Please, please,” Azriel pleaded, tears unknowingly falling from his cheeks and scattering on your skin.
He only needed a few moments. Rhys would come. He knew he would.
Right?
“This isn’t s-supposed to happen like this,” Azriel cried, his touch imprinted along your body. “I needed more time. I was supposed to tell you. I was supposed to—”
Azriel’s shadows were becoming frantic, swatting at his head and twisting along his dim siphons. Do something, they seethed into his ear, save her.
To an onlooker, Azriel would seem as though he were talking to no one as he stressed, “I can’t. I don’t know how. I don’t… I can’t…”
Azriel heaved you up into his arms as he stood. He was desperate, clinging to the thread that was growing fainter and fainter within him as he began taking steps to nowhere. He kept talking to his shadows, shouting to them when he knew that wasn’t necessary.
“Help me then!” he demanded, tucking your head into his shoulder as he kept an unsteady pace. “Take her, at least. Help her.”
As much as his shadows had an affinity for you, they would not take such large action without a direct command from their master. Azriel remembered his wings then. He had been refraining from using them for so long, not wanting their presence to deter your healing. They had been glued to his back for the better half of a year, and so he had forgotten them.
He was unpracticed as he unfurled them and shot into the sky, eyes racing down to your figure to catch any change in your expression as he went. There was still nothing, no indication that you were present in the living world other than the dim feeling of you within him. Azriel had the fleeting thought that he might be sick.
He pressed on.
“What, do I look weird?”
Azriel’s chest panged as another memory flooded him.
“No, of course not,” he had assured, brow furrowed at the obscene thought.
“You can tell me if I do. I’m trying out a new wardrobe now that… you know. And Mor’s always been a bit flashy.”
The dress was impressive, to say the least, a clear product of Mor’s eye. But it wasn’t the dress that made Azriel take a second look. He had seen you in much gaudier attire; the blue and white was saintly compared to what you wore in Hewn City.
To be frank, it was your posture that first caught his eye. You held yourself taller than normal as if a weight had been lifted. He hadn’t seen you with your shoulders pulled back since you lost your wings, and if it was the result of this damn dress he was going to kiss the ground Mor walked on.
“I think you look beautiful,” Azriel candidly replied.
You had blinked and looked away, giving Azriel some sarcastic remark that held no bite. Azriel gazed down at you in his arms and he regretted. He regretted so many things, but with the memories of the time after—of the time after you had been solidified as his—he regretted wasting so much time. He regretted ignoring the pull to you, being so quick to sign it off as familiar love. He regretted chasing after women he couldn’t have, didn’t even really want, and making you a spectator to his ridiculous failures.
You had always been so forgiving of it all.
“I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you,” Azriel spoke into the wind. He could feel tendrils of his power licking at his fingertips. A little bit longer and he could reach Rhysand. “Even if you never want to see me again.” His lips were salty as he spoke. “I’ll—”
His next promise was lost behind the whisper in his head, a fleeting echo of Rhysand’s voice like an answered prayer. Azriel searched for the inkling of power within him and surged it forward, creating a beacon with his mind. Azriel was weak, but there was enough.
He landed in the snowy dirt with a resounding thud. He viewed the world through watery, unseeing eyes as his High Lord usurped his vision. It was only a beat before Rhysand was there. Azriel watched as he took an unsteady breath in, taking in your form as Azriel held you close, and then steadying himself with outstretched hands.
Something inside of Azriel tensed.
Rhysand only shook his head, an argument clear in his eyes, his hands motioning for you to be transferred over. But Azriel’s jaw was quivering and there was no way he could let go of you. Not if it was going to be the last time. Not if the last time he felt the bond you were anywhere but his arms.
“I can’t,” Azriel whispered, and even though it wasn’t the safest means of travel, Rhysand’s defeated breath was followed by a hand on Azriel’s shoulder.
This was familiar.
Back in the House—back with you broken in his arms. Only you weren’t bleeding, not as you were the first time. He hadn’t taken stock of your injuries, too overcome with the shock of trying to get you out. He had grabbed you and ran and nothing else was clear in his mind.
“She looks stable,” a voice noted with urgency from across the room. Azriel looked up to find Feyre rounding a chair to meet where he was standing, you still firmly in his arms.
She had been hesitant last time, Azriel remembered. Someone had thrown up and the room had been in chaos.
“What happened?” Rhysand urged, catching Azriel’s eyeline as Feyre maneuvered herself around Azriel’s tight grip. “A healer is coming. You need to tell me what happened, Azriel.”
Azriel figured he was still in shock. Feyre attempted to tug you from his grip and he snapped at her, a nasty look shot in her direction and a wing coming around to push her away. Azriel’s shadows disapproved, weaving around your midsection and the disruption of your skin along your head.
You were bleeding, he realized.
Azriel choked on nothing.
“Azriel,” Rhysand tried again. “I’m not even sure where you both are coming from. You left with no explanation.”
“Just look,” Azriel gritted out, eyes unable to leave you.
And Azriel knew that with his power still dimmed from faebane Rhysand would see everything. He couldn’t put up the barriers that guarded the important, private moments of his life, and those moments were front of mind as you lay in his arms.
Rhysand sifted through them as he entered Azriel’s mind, but they were unavoidable. Rhysand passed the moment Azriel discovered you were mates, the first time he saw you out of your room after the incident, the first time you ate a full meal, when you fell asleep on his shoulder and didn’t look at him with distrust after you woke in his arms; Rhysand felt the overwhelming emotions that accompanied each of those moments and he pressed on.
He pressed on even as Azriel’s mind pushed forward memories of before. They were each tainted with regret and longing and Rhysand could see the parts Azriel highlighted. The blush on his face when you spoke to him; the urge to press closer to you as you sat on the couch after dinner; the light feeling in his chest as you laughed over coffee in that ridiculously small teahouse.
Azriel wished he could stop. He swallowed—hard—and attempted to quell the onslaught of memories that wouldn’t stop, but it was impossible as he stared down at you and continued to regret.
Finally, mercifully, Rhysand reached Azriel’s memory of just an hour before. He saw the way you packed on weapons in haste and the futile attempts Azriel made to get you to stay. He watched Azriel winnow you through his shadows and the near-instantaneous ambush that was waiting for you at the camp. They had gone after Azriel, pushing you closer and closer to the cliff’s edge as you tried to get to him.
He felt Azriel’s panic—watched the cliff disintegrate with you along with it. One last cruel lesson from the men of Illyira; women should not have wings, should not have independence.
Rhysand removed himself from Azriel’s mind, eyes flickering over you now.
“Do you still feel her?” he asked.
Azriel gave a short nod of his head, his cheeks glistening in the faelight of the room.
“Good. That’s good.”
From the depths of your mind, you could hear it all. You couldn’t register the words or the happenings of the space, but you knew you were somewhere. It felt safe.
There was pressure on your face at times, low murmuring that your brain was working overtime trying to interpret, and there were aches in your body that you weren’t sure of the origin. Wading through the confusion was one broad feeling that rose above the rest.
A tug at your chest, just below your heart, pulling you closer and closer to the sounds and the discomfort.
Someone was asking you for something but you couldn’t make out what.
You wanted to give in to the pull at your ribs. You knew it would bring more pain, but it was enticing and spelled every good thing you could conjure up in your muddled mind.
You must have made a sound, or moved, or made some indication that you were fighting for consciousness because the voices became louder, more direct. You were moved slightly, pain radiating at the motion, and several apologies followed.
You tested the path to your eyelids, blinking once and then twice to get used to the light assaulting your retinas. It wasn’t bright, you noted, but everything felt like too much. It felt like too much to be working this hard, but you needed to see something. You weren’t sure what it was, but you needed to before…
“Y/n?”
Your eyes slid towards the voice.
Azriel.
Your senses knew him before you did, tugging you toward his presence. Only—only this time something felt different. His hands kept your face steady as you fought past the pain to get a better view of him. You needed to see before…
Something shifted. Aligned. The pull in your chest sprung to life.
In your delirium, the muscles in your mouth twitched into a smile.
“Angel?” Azriel called. He tapped a hand against your cheek, thumb brushing the upturn of your mouth.
This felt final. You took in the deepest breath you could manage.
“My mate,” you whispered.
You caught the shaking of Azriel’s chin before your eyes closed once more. The answer you wanted was just there, and the world made more sense as you chased the exhaustion that lingered ahead of you.
You forgot about your wings. You forgot about the cliff, the men, the months of healing that hurt.
The peace that blanketed your face was not comforting to Azriel. Panic seized him instead. You were bleeding, yes, but not like last time. He didn’t know where you were hurt the most and you only stayed awake long enough to whisper those two words.
His life was slipping away.
This was not supposed to work this way.
With dread threaded through his fingers, Azriel’s trembling touch moved across every inch of your face. “Yes,” he choked out, nodding to your closed eyes. “Yes, I am yours. And you are mine so you have to stay awake.”
He had moved to a couch, leaning over your figure. “We can… we can fix all of this.” Azriel moved his touch down to your chest, hand pressed to the plane. “You worked so hard to get here. You—life is different now but I’m here and I can help you make sense of it.”
Across the room, Rhysand stood with his hand over his mouth, feeling like an intruder in a moment that might not last. Feyre had fled the room in a desperate search for the healer.
“Okay?” Azriel asked. When you didn’t answer Azriel squeezed his eyes shut, his forehead coming to rest on your chest. This was somehow worse than the first time—more calm, more final.
The door opened, smacking against the back wall with a resounding bang that Azriel could not hear. He was pulled away from you, just as he was the first time, only this time he was not covered in blood or confused or desperate for answers.
He had answers.
He had you.
Well, in some ways—in the ways that mattered.
“I forgive you, you know,” you told him, thumb pressing into the page edge.
Azriel turned from his mission report, brows lowering over his eyes. “What?”
You kept your thumb on your page as you closed your book. “I know you blame yourself. I want you to know that I forgive you. That it’s not even your fault to begin with.”
“Y/n—”
“No, I’m serious,” you moved to your knees on the loveseat you shared with him, giving this conversation your full attention. “I made decisions that day. I knew you would have come with me if I told the truth. I chose to lie.”
Azriel abandoned his work on the end table, turning his body to face you fully. “Yes, but I made you feel that you should lie. I put my inconsequential desires over you. You—Y/n, you have experienced loss because of the choice I made. I always go with you. That’s my job—to protect you.”
“I don’t think they were inconsequential,” you whispered.
“What?” he said again.
You flitted your gaze between his eyes. The fire behind you was strong, reflecting orange on your skin. “You wanted to be in love. To be loved. I don’t think that’s inconsequential.” Azriel held your stare, chest caving in a way you couldn’t understand. “No,” he replied. “I suppose it’s not.”
why are you intent on fucking up my existence like this every time
i love it but still
Are We Still Friends? — Part Six
Pairing: Reader x Azriel
Summary: The night of the gratitude banquet arrives. Your life will never be the same after it.
Warnings: insecurity and overthinking, deep introspection, reader processing every feeling ever, IC friendship dynamics, Az is in his jealousy era, reader chewing him out, a kiss, a confession and more!!
Word Count: 12.6k (happy finale!)
Part Five | Series Masterlist
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
The days slipped by quickly. You spent most of them in your head, avoiding social interactions except for the ones you deliberately made time for—helping Adrin pick out his clothes for the banquet and shopping for a dress with Mor and Feyre. Azriel had been busy. You hadn’t seen him.
You felt guilty for being relieved. But you were. You couldn’t handle seeing him.
It hit you last night, after Mor dropped off your dress—neatly wrapped in its protective bag—and you crawled into bed. When your gaze landed on your wrist, on the hair tie still there, everything suddenly became clear. You couldn’t run anymore. You couldn’t ignore it.
You were in love with Azriel.
There was a certain discomfort that came with realizing you had been walking through your life half-blind. Like a fog had lifted, revealing a path you had already been traveling, except now you could see it for what it was. And you wondered—how long had this been true? How long had you been this blind?
All these years of knowing Azriel, of loving him in some way—platonically, protectively, whatever it was—you had never truly seen it. But now that you did, you couldn’t unsee it. And it ached. Deeply.
Your fingers pressed absently against your sternum, rubbing small circles over the bone as you made your way down the hall. Over and over, like it might ease it. Like you could massage the feeling away.
You knew better.
It didn’t subside. If anything, it settled deeper, curling into your ribs. Lingered. Even as you reached the kitchen—and faltered.
Because you heard him.
A quiet hum, soft and unhurried, the way he always did on slow mornings when he thought no one was listening. And his shadows—they slipped past the doorframe, curling like wisps of ink, reaching. They knew you were there. They always did.
You thought about leaving.
But before you could turn, the humming stopped. A beat of silence. Then—
“Y/n?”
You exhaled sharply, bracing yourself before stepping inside.
Azriel was already watching you, his expression unreadable for a moment before it shifted into something softer. Familiar.
“Good morning,” you murmured.
He smiled—small, easy, like nothing between you had changed. Like your world hadn’t tilted on its axis.
He lifted a cup in offering. “Tea?”
You accepted it with a quiet thanks, leaning against the counter as Azriel took a seat, his own cup cradled loosely between his fingers.
Silences like this weren’t unusual. They were often comfortable—the kind of quiet that settled when you were both still waking up and bracing for the day ahead. But this morning, it was different.
Azriel glanced at you. “You okay?”
You were almost tempted to laugh at the question, but you suppressed it.
You nodded, exhaling. “Yeah. Just… lots on my mind.”
He hummed in understanding. His gaze had yet to leave yours.
A beat passed. Another. You shifted your weight against the counter, eyes flicking down to your cup. “You ever feel like you have too many thoughts, and it’s just… disorienting?”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know exactly what you mean.”
Another stretch of silence. It wasn’t quite tense, but it wasn’t easy, either. Then, after a moment, he cleared his throat. “So, tonight…” He hesitated. “I was wondering if maybe you’d want to get something beforehand. I’m assuming the finger food will be too extravagant for us, like usual.”
You hesitated. His words were fumbling a little, but you didn’t think too much about it. You had been overthinking everything lately.
“I would, but I’m actually bringing someone tonight,” you said. “I’ll be waiting for him.”
Azriel stilled. “Oh.” His head tilted slightly. “You’re bringing a date?”
“It’s not exactly a date. I just asked him to come with me.”
Azriel nodded slowly. “Who?”
“Adrin. I invited him the other day.”
“Adrin,” he repeated, like he was testing the name on his tongue. “Madja’s apprentice?”
"That's the one."
You could practically see the wheels turning in his head, but he said nothing at first, just watched you, his shadows flickering across the floor like they knew something you didn’t.
He studied you like he was waiting for something more. When nothing came, he frowned, his voice turning cautious. “And he’s coming with you… tonight?”
“Yeah,” you replied, “I thought it’d be nice. He’s helped us before. He's nice.”
Azriel didn’t say anything, but you saw it—in the way his breath hitched, in the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. He had something to say.
You exhaled sharply. “Okay. What is it?”
His gaze shifted, like he was considering denying it.
“Hm?” he hummed, feigning innocence. “Nothing.”
You leveled him with a look. “Az.” A beat. “Just spit it out, yeah?”
A frown tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know. It just feels... strange, don’t you think? I mean, inviting him to something like this?”
You bristled at the words, at the insinuation that you needed a reason to bring someone. Needed to justify it to him.
“Az, it’s just a regular banquet, and I wanted to invite someone. That’s not a crime.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
"Then what is this judgmental look you have?" Your voice came out more defensive than you meant. “I’ve known him for a while. It’s not like he’s a stranger.”
“Yeah, but it’s not like it’s just some casual get-together, either.”
You hated that this conversation made you wish for something else. Made you wish it was a date. A real one. That tonight was light and exciting—the kind of night that made you blush, that made you feel wanted. The kind of night that made you feel like someone falling in love, not someone realizing they already had. So deeply, so entirely unreciprocated that you hadn’t even noticed it had happened.
“I’m not making some huge statement by inviting him. It’s just a banquet.” You swallowed, forcing the irritation down. “A banquet to show appreciation for those who help us. I thought it’d be nice. He’s helped us before, you know that.”
You thought back to what Azriel had said about not wanting to be the last one standing, like love, companionship, was a prize to win before someone else did. A race. And maybe, mentioning you were bringing someone made him defensive, made him feel like he needed to be looking again. The thought made something bitter rise in you. Something akin to embarrassment.
Azriel didn’t reply right away. When he finally spoke, there was a resignation in his voice. "Right. I do know that."
You couldn’t find the right words to reply, so you settled for silence once more. You finished your tea, rinsed out the cup, and set it in the sink. You felt his eyes on you as you turned and told him, “I think, for now, maybe we should stay out of each other’s personal lives. Not comment on any romantic prospects.”
It sounded like a good idea—like a boundary you could hold, something to protect yourself.
But Azriel’s expression flickered, a discomfort settling across his face. “So Adrin is a romantic prospect?”
You huffed, shaking your head. “Well, that's not–that’s not the point.” You pressed your fingers to your temples, willing away the irritation clawing at you. Then you dropped your hand, looking at him again. “Way to pick and choose what you hear, by the way.”
"I'm just clarifying."
"Look. I know I was right about Selene. But I think we have very different approaches to our personal lives.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
You tilted your head slightly, studying him. "Well, I do. It might be better for us to keep our opinions to ourselves."
Azriel blinked. Then, quietly—“I don't want you to keep your opinions to yourself.”
Your breath caught.
His voice was careful, his fingers curling slightly around his cup. “Your opinion is the most important thing to me.”
And then your chest tightened. Azriel couldn’t say things like that to you.
The words slipped out before you could stop them. “Maybe it shouldn’t be.”
Silence.
Azriel’s grip tightened around his cup.
You swallowed. “I should go.”
And with Azriel’s eyes still following your every movement, you left— the ache in your chest even deeper than before.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
The entrance to the banquet hall was a grand display of velvet-draped archways and soft golden faelight. You spotted Adrin just beyond the doors, hands tucked neatly behind his back, his casual, loose, linen clothes traded for deep navy formalwear. He looked up as you approached, a large, bright smile forming.
"You clean up well," you teased, stopping beside him. "I could’ve picked you up from your apartment. Like a proper date."
Adrin huffed a quiet laugh. "And risk making the citizens of Velaris burn with jealousy over how we look together? I’d never be so cruel."
You rolled your eyes and laughed. The lightness of the sound surprised you. "I suppose we do look rather stunning."
His gaze lingered for a moment before he said, softer, "You do. That dress is quite beautiful."
You barely resisted the urge to fidget, instead smoothing your hand over the fabric.
Mor and Feyre had helped you get ready at the river house, the way they always did before events like these. The three of you, despite everything—despite mates, despite growing older, despite how much life had changed—still made time for it. A tradition you refused to let go of. It was something sacred, in a way. The girlhood none of you had ever really gotten to experience, stolen by war or circumstance.
You suspected Mor had noticed you were in your head more than usual, that something about tonight felt different. She kept checking in, little glances through the mirror, hesitation when you’d asked her to help pin your hair up. Her fingers had lingered as she tucked the final strands into place, ensuring the hairpiece she used hid the infamous hair tie beneath it. She hadn’t asked, but you could feel the question lingering in the way she looked at you.
“Mor chose it for me,” you said, offering Adrin a playful curtsy. "I’ll let her know her taste is still undefeated."
A few more guests drifted past.
"This home is beautiful," Adrin murmured, his gaze sweeping over the high ceilings and intricate paintings covering the marble walls— all painted by Feyre herself. "I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Your High Lord and High Lady have elegant tastes. I must admit, I feel slightly out of place."
"It’s just another event," you said lightly. "Don’t let the elegance scare you. Most of the guests already know you, anyway. The ones that don’t will have the pleasure tonight. Nothing to stress about."
Adrin exhaled, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. "I wouldn’t say I’m stressed. Out of practice seems more fitting. I haven’t been to many events like this."
"Oh? Does Thesan not throw many?"
He tilted his head. "Some. But even then, I wouldn’t attend. Not everyone is as close to their High Lord as you."
You blinked. "I never thought of it like that."
Adrin smiled faintly. "It’s not a bad thing. It’s quite beautiful, really. It humanizes Rhysand—far more than the stories some might hear about Night."
For you, Rhysand had never been just High Lord—he was Rhys, the friend who stole the last pastry off your plate just to be an ass, who gave the best advice when you needed it most, who once drunkenly tried to shove more marshmallows into his mouth than Cassian. You knew he was powerful. Knew that the weight of his title was immense. But it was easy to forget. Easy to take for granted just how rare it was to have a ruler who felt like family. A ruler who was family.
“I appreciate your open mind. It’s not easy for many people to see past Rhys’s past.”
Adrin’s eyes softened. “I can see the heart beneath the power.”
You glanced around the hall, watching as laughter and conversation rippled through the guests. When you turned back, you caught Adrin scanning the crowd as well. You took the spare moment to examine him further.
Adrin had the kind of beauty that belonged to the quiet hush of morning. His golden-brown skin carried a softness—not kissed by the sun, but by first light, the gentle warmth before the world fully woke. Vitiligo traced around his right eye, trailing down his cheek, leaving a streak of white in his dark curls. Even his eyelashes and brow were dusted pale. There was nothing severe about him, nothing unreadable.
You wondered how many admirers he must have. How many people in the streets of your city turned to gawk when he passed. How many hearts he’d left broken when he left his home and moved to Velaris.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” you said, drawing his attention back to you. When his warm eyes met yours, you continued. “What made you come here? From Dawn?"
He titled his head, taking a moment to collect his thoughts.
"When I heard that Night and Dawn were fostering more exchanges—trade, apprenticeships—I jumped at the chance," Adrin said. "It seemed perfect. It’s been an honor to train under Madja, to learn from one of the most talented healers of all Fae alike." He shot you a look. "I have you to thank for that opportunity."
You raised a brow. "Me?"
"I heard it was your diplomacy that strengthened those relations between our courts," he said. "That made Velaris known for the oasis of opportunity it now is, rather than the secret gem of Night it once was."
You hummed, a smile pulling at your lips. Even now, after all these years, it still felt nice—validating—to be acknowledged for your work. For the vision you had continually strived to achieve for your court, for Prythian.
"Well then," you mused, "you’re welcome."
It was fascinating, really—how simple his answer had been. That he had made the choice to leave home with such certainty. You didn’t think you could ever do the same.
"Do you miss the Dawn court?"
Adrin exhaled, thoughtful. "Yes, but not how you might think. I rather love change." He glanced at you, curiosity flickering in his expression now. "Do you?"
"What—miss Dawn?"
He laughed. "No. Do you like change?"
The answer should have been easy. You’d never been afraid of new things—your entire life had been built on pushing forward, on carving out space where there was none. But lately, change felt like something different. Like something looming. Like something you weren’t sure you wanted.
You fought the urge to glance over your shoulder, to scan the crowd for a familiar figure wreathed in shadows. You hadn’t seen him since this morning.
"No, actually," you admitted. "I despise it. I know it’s necessary for growth, but… I like things the way they are. I don’t think I’d want to leave my court. Not for long."
Adrin nodded. "With a life like this, I’m sure I wouldn’t either."
You let the words settle between you for a moment before exhaling. "Come on. Let me introduce you around."
Adrin extended an arm, eyes gleaming with humor. "Lead the way, shepherd of change. I am your sheep for the night."
You chuckled, looping your arm through his as you stepped into the light.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
Adrin had slipped easily into conversation with Cassian and Nesta, asking them about their mating ceremony with a curiosity so good-natured even Nesta had warmed to him. You’d been content just standing there, watching as he made the connections you’d hoped he would.
When he left to get you both drinks, you lingered, half-listening to Cassian’s exaggerated retelling of something Nesta had told him from a recent book of hers. Your eyes drifted across the scene—the candlelit tables, the swirling gowns, the food laid out in delicate arrangements that looked more like art than a meal. Unlike most elaborate events Rhysand and Feyre threw, tonight had hors d'oeuvres that actually appealed to you. You made a mental note to try some of the rosemary and honey tartlets once your stomach felt less uneasy.
You let your gaze drift once more, scanning the crowd without much thought—until you saw him.
Azriel.
For a second, everything else faded. The music, the conversation, the clinking of glasses. The world narrowed to the space between you and him.
He looked good—unfairly so. He’d cleaned up well, the sharp lines of his suit making him look effortlessly put together, dark hair styled just enough to look like he hadn’t tried at all.
If Adrin had been handsome in a way that was warm, inviting, then Azriel was beautiful in a way that stole the breath from your lungs. It was gut-wrenching, disarming, the kind of beauty that felt borderline sacred.
And gods, the way he was looking at you. Not just looking. Watching.
Your stomach flipped, something deep inside you tightening painfully. The air between you stretched thin. Humming. Waiting. It made your fingers twitch at your sides, made your feet shift like they might carry you forward without your permission.
And yet, somehow, you couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—
“Here you are.”
The moment shattered. You blinked, the noise of the banquet rushing back in as Adrin reappeared at your side, pressing a glass of champagne into your hand. You took it with an appreciative smile, downing half of it in one go and ignoring the way your fingers trembled around the delicate flute.
Adrin turned back to Nesta, launching into another carefully respectful question, something about her Valkyrie training, but you barely heard it.
Not until Adrin nudged you, drawing you back. “Should I be concerned?” he murmured.
You blinked. “About?”
“That the Shadowsinger is currently glaring at me like he wants me dead. Have I offended him?”
Confused, you followed his gaze—
Azriel was still watching. Only now, the look was different. The sharpness of it, the intensity—it was aimed at Adrin.
A full glare.
You barely swallowed down the sound of disbelief that threatened to escape. What the hell was his problem?
Heat rose to your face. You forced yourself to breathe, to roll your shoulders back. “It’s nothing,” you muttered, waving it off. “Don’t worry about it.”
But when you turned back, Nesta was looking at you. A direct, knowing look. You glanced back at Azriel, still staring, then back at her. She knew.
You gently brushed your champagne flute back into Adrin’s hands. “Excuse me for a minute?”
"Of course," Adrin said easily, though concern flickered in his warm gaze. Nesta took the opportunity to step in, calling over Gwyn—a plan you’d both briefly gone over before the night began.
"Adrin," she said, "let me introduce you to my friend and fellow Valkyrie."
Adrin’s voice drifted after you as you stepped away.
“Oh, by the Mother, is that an Invoking Stone?” His breath caught, reverent. “Beautiful—I’ve only ever read about them.”
You didn’t need to turn to know Gwyn was smiling, could already picture the soft pink dusting her cheeks. But the moment barely registered, drowned out by the weight of the gaze still burning into you.
You had more pressing matters.
You didn’t spare Azriel a glance before grabbing his forearm and dragging him into the nearest empty room.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
Azriel barely moved as you pulled him in, letting you manhandle him like a bag of heavy rocks. His brows had only just begun to furrow when you spun on him, still gripping his wrist. His skin was warm beneath your fingers, the corded muscles of his forearm shifting under your grip—but you refused to let that distract you.
Not now.
It took you half a second to realize where you had dragged him. A library. A new one, judging by the scent of fresh wood and the pristine bookshelves lining the walls. You hadn’t even known this room existed. Your gaze flicked over the tall windows, the deep blue rug, the shelves still waiting to be filled. You hadn’t explored the house since the construction finished, too preoccupied with—
No. Focus.
You turned back to Azriel, finally letting go of his wrist. His wings twitched slightly, and his shadows curled at his feet like smoke, their edges sharper than usual.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” you demanded, crossing your arms.
Azriel blinked, his head tilting slightly. “What?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“No,” he said flatly. “Or else I wouldn’t have asked.”
A heavy breath caught in your throat as the words lodged themselves somewhere between your teeth and the pit of your stomach. Azriel’s voice was cool and even. It only made you angrier.
“Are you serious right now?”
His hazel eyes studied you. A flicker of something passed through them, quick as a shadow in candlelight, but then it was gone.
Fine.
You squared your shoulders. “I’ll spell it out. Why are you glaring at Adrin like that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I wasn’t glaring.”
You forced a breath out of your chest—through your nose, just to keep yourself from losing it. A sharp, humorless laugh left you. “If that wasn’t a glare, I’d hate to see what you classify as one.”
His expression didn’t change, but his wings tucked in a little tighter, hands flexing at his sides. You noted that his shadows had stilled, barely a ripple in the air now. They’d decided to be a quiet, unassuming audience, it seemed.
“I have known you long enough to recognize a glare, Azriel. Stop it.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
You huffed, your fingers twitching at your sides. “I don’t know what the hell your problem is, but you need to fix it. Now.”
Azriel’s jaw ticked, and for the first time, his expression hardened. He remained silent.
“If this is about me bringing someone and you being here alone, then you need to get over it,” you said.
“That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?”
Silence once more.
His shadows stirred again, coiling around his boots, floating across the ground beneath you two. You could see the muscle in his jaw tightening, but he didn’t speak.
You sighed, pressing your fingers to your temples before meeting his gaze again. “Okay, well, whatever it is, I need you to find the reason, and I need you to swallow it. And if you can’t swallow it, I need you to shove it so far up your ass that you’re too focused on the discomfort to glare at him like that again.”
His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to respond, but nothing came out. His eyes flickered, scanning your face. Then they glazed over, as if he’d been pulled deeper into his own mind.
It didn’t stop you from continuing.
“Adrin is a guest here,” you went on, voice firm. “I invited him. He is kind, he is nice, and he hasn't done anything to you. In fact, he has helped you. So do not treat him like shit.” You stepped closer, tilting your head. “You haven’t even bothered to talk to him. The least you can do is not look at him like you’re imagining his head on a spike.”
Azriel’s gaze met yours, his voice low as he finally spoke, “I just think it’s rude that your date isn’t paying attention to you. He’s had his eyes on Cassian more than you tonight.”
You blinked, disbelief tightening your chest. “What?”
“You heard me.”
You scoffed. “Adrin has been perfectly attentive and respectful. What, did you expect him to have his hands all over me? What the hell is wrong with you?”
Azriel didn’t respond, but his shadows gained speed as they curled closer to his boots—like they were restless now, waiting for an order.
“This event is supposed to be about harmony,” you continued, “You’re embarrassing this court. You’re embarrassing me.”
That seemed to land. His lips pressed into a thin line, and something flickered in his expression—something raw, something almost like guilt.
“Do not give me a reason to be mad at you,” you added, voice low. “Because I will take it. You have no idea.”
A long beat of silence. Then—
“…Alright,” Az muttered. “Fine. I’m sorry. That was not my intention.”
The apology came so easily. You narrowed your eyes, studying him. He was still too quiet. But for now, you’d take it.
“Good. So, we go out there, and if you interact with him at all, you need to be pleasant. Maybe even smile.” You tilted your head. “And if you can’t do that, at least fix your face.”
Azriel blinked, brow twitching. “My face?”
“Yes. The one you’re currently wearing. You look like I just asked you to kill yourself.”
“I’m not wearing a face,” he said dryly.
“Yes, you are.”
“This is just my face. I don’t have many faces.”
“Well, find a new one.”
The sharpness faded from his eyes and the frustration in your chest loosened slightly, giving way to something else—exhaustion, maybe.
“Okay, okay,” he said after a moment. “Fine.”
You nodded once, steadying yourself before turning for the door.
Right before you stepped out, you glanced over your shoulder. “Fix the face.”
Azriel exhaled through his nose, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Consider it fixed.”
Then, he gave you a large grin—so obviously forced it made you cringe.
You rolled your eyes. “That is not what I meant.”
Still, you smiled despite yourself. A little amused, a little tired. And for a brief moment, before you turned away, you swore you saw a real smile flicker across his face, too. Soft and fleeting. It made your heart skip.
Before it could beat faster, you left.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
Azriel found you again an hour later.
You sensed him before you saw him—the shift in the air, the way the room seemed to settle in his presence. Then his shadows, curling toward you before slithering back, as if unsure if they were welcome.
You weren’t even sure why you’d walked away from Adrin and your friends. Maybe you needed space. Maybe you needed to breathe. It wasn’t until you stepped back—from the conversation, from the laughter, from the gentle touches shared between lovers—that you realized.
This was the first time you’d noticed. The first time it had stung.
How alone you were.
You didn’t look as Azriel approached. Instead, you fixated on the guests around you, on their easy smiles and warm hands clasped together. It would hurt to look at him. You already knew.
And yet, you felt him watching. Felt the heat of him beside you.
It was sad. All of it.
You’d assumed falling for your best friend would be a gift. Imagined it would be easy, uncomplicated—a love that came with a quiet understanding, someone who knew you better than you knew yourself. It sounded simple enough. You would know, and they would know, and that would be it. The kind of love that people dreamed of, that stories were made of.
It was funny, in a painfully poetic way, how reality differed from daydreams. You almost wanted to revisit every love story you’d ever read, to pick them apart, to see where they’d lied—where they’d dared to be hopeful.
A shadow curled at your wrist before slinking away.
"Do you have another complaint for me?" you murmured, just loud enough for Azriel to hear over the music. “Maybe feeling bothered that Adrin isn’t slobbering at my feet like a hound desperate for food?”
Az huffed a quiet breath. "No."
Your lips pressed together. You wanted to hold on to the annoyance, to the way he’d been needling at you all evening, but the weight of the room was different now.
Azriel must have known it too, because after a pause, he shifted slightly, extending a hand toward you. "Dance with me?"
Your gaze flicked to his outstretched hand, then back to his face. His expression was carefully neutral, but his wings… His wings were tucked in tight, the only real tell of his discomfort. You knew he didn’t love events like these. The crowds, the attention. He wore it well—carried himself like he belonged, like nothing touched him—but you knew better.
And that’s why, despite everything, you sighed, placing your hand in his.
His shadows stirred again, wrapping briefly around your wrist before dissipating. Pleased with your choice.
"Your perfect date seems to be enjoying himself."
You felt it again—that ache in your chest.
Your eyes flicked over Azriel's shoulder, landing on Adrin. He was still standing alongside Gwyn, but the two had been joined by Lucien and Elain as well. Adrin was laughing at something Lucien was saying. He looked… comfortable. Bright. Perfect.
Perfect in the way that should have made your heart skip, that should have made you feel something when he smiled. But you felt… nothing. Just awareness, a passing observation. And then your gaze drifted back to Azriel, to the sharp lines of his face, the way the faelight caught in his eyes. Made something in them simmer.
"Not perfect," you murmured.
You didn’t like perfection. It was too neat, too curated—like something fragile on display, meant to be admired but never touched. It didn’t crack, didn’t bleed. And you didn’t want that. You never had.
"I wouldn’t want perfect anyway," you added, glancing briefly at Adrin and then back to Azriel. "Perfect isn't real."
Azriel said nothing at first, but his grip on your hand tightened briefly. You wondered if he understood.
His other hand rested against your waist as he led you through the steps. You felt his touch like a burning mark, your heart beating faster at the way he stroked his thumb along the fabric of your dress. The tension from earlier still lingered between you—thin, stretched taut. You wondered if he still wanted to bring up Adrin once more. But instead, Azriel said, "I didn’t get to tell you earlier, with you scolding me and all."
You rolled your eyes, casting your gaze aside.
"Which was very warranted," Azriel added, the corner of his mouth twitching as he leaned in further. "But, you are… breathtaking."
Your eyes snapped back to his. The way he said it—quiet, certain, like it was fact, undeniable and absolute—made something shift beneath your ribs. You forced yourself to keep breathing, to move past the moment before it could settle too deeply.
"Thank you. Mor helped me pick the dress."
Azriel guided you into a spin, and when you turned back to face him, he said, "I wasn’t referring to your dress."
His hand found yours, fingers lacing through before you could think too much about it. It was an easy thing, effortless—like it was second nature to him. "I was referring to the person wearing it."
Your pulse stuttered. How could anyone else compare to this? How were you ever going to find someone who could make you feel like this?
The thought unsettled you. Maybe because it was the first time you let yourself acknowledge it. Maybe because you were starting to think he felt it too.
Because you knew Azriel. Knew him well enough to sense the shift—not just in yourself, but in him. There was something new in the way he watched you, something careful, deliberate. At first, you thought it was guilt, that he was still making up for the way he hurt you. But it was more than that. The way he looked at you now—really looked at you—it made you wonder if this realization had struck him too.
But you had seen him with Mor. With Elain. With Gwyn. You had seen the way he watched them, the way he softened, the way he held himself differently in their presence. And never—not once—had he looked at you like that.
So maybe this feeling was yours alone. Something to swallow like a bitter tonic, a remedy that only worsened the sickness.
The dance was slowing. You saw it in the way couples began to separate, the way the musicians readied to shift into something new. You and Azriel stilled, as if time itself was reluctant to move on.
His eyes traced over your face. "It’s different," he murmured. "Seeing your entire face like this."
Your brows furrowed slightly, and his lips twitched, like he knew you didn’t fully understand. Then his free hand lifted—hesitating for just a second—before his fingers brushed lightly against the side of your face, just above your ear, where your hair had been pinned back.
"You usually let it fall forward," he said. "I’m used to you hiding behind it."
You didn’t know what to say to that. You didn’t know what to do with the way he was looking at you. You wondered if he knew how much this pained you.
And when the music came to an end, you all but scrambled away from him, seeking out Adrin again.
Adrin told you about everything he’d learned from Lucien—the invitation the Vanserra had extended to explore the Day Court. Autumn too, if Adrin wished. You tried to listen. Tried to pay attention. To ignore the burning gaze of Azriel, to pretend you hadn’t seen the way his expression faltered when you pulled away.
You stayed by Adrin’s side all night, introducing him to more court members. Always finding your way back to Cassian, Nesta, and Gwyn. But no matter how much space you put between you and Azriel, you felt him.
Always, you felt him.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
The banquet had begun to settle into its last echoes of laughter and music, guests beginning their slow trickle home.You stood with Adrin near the entrance, the golden glow of the banquet spilling onto the front gardens.
He turned to you, his expression softened in the dim light. “Thank you,” he murmured, and before you could ask for what, he leaned in, pressing a warm, fleeting kiss to your cheek. When he pulled back, there was something earnest in his gaze. “For sharing the night with a friend. For showing me all these connections I might not have made on my own.”
You smiled, something fond curling in your chest. “You would’ve made them eventually.”
“Maybe. But I like the way it happened tonight.”
“Thank you for keeping me company,” you told him. “You don’t know how much I needed it.”
With one last smile, he turned and disappeared down the path, his silhouette vanishing into the dark.
You exhaled, rolling your shoulders before making your way back inside. The warmth hit you immediately—the lingering energy of the night still alive in the laughter, the flickering faelights, the press of familiar faces.
Your family.
Rhys stood at the center of it, Nyx in his arms, tossing him into the air. The babe let out a shriek of joy, his chubby hands clapping together as he was caught again with ease.
“Bachelor of the evening,” Cassian declared, raising a half-empty glass. “In all his two feet and six inch glory.”
Nyx, unaware of the meaning but basking in the attention, beamed a chubby smile, curling into his father’s chest.
You watched them, something warm and tight settling in your chest, even as Cassian snorted at his own words, making a joke about another six inch glory. But still—still—there was something else stirring within you. That restlessness in your bones. That all-too-familiar, infamous ache.
Before you could think twice, you turned, feet carrying you swiftly down the halls, toward the back of the manor.
The stone steps were cool beneath you as you descended into the garden. You exhaled, lowering yourself onto the edge of a stair, forearms braced against your knees. The air was cooler here, quieter, the sky stretched wide above you—clear and endless.
Behind you, the door creaked open. Light footsteps. Familiar.
Mor lowered herself onto the step beside you, the silk of her dress brushing against your arm. She didn’t say anything at first, just settled into the silence with you.
Then, gently, “You okay?”
Your thoughts were loud, pressing in from every angle, twisting over themselves until they became nothing but static. You let out a laugh, dry and brittle. “My head physically hurts from how much I’ve been thinking.”
Mor nodded, tilting her head back to look at the sky. “And have you come to any conclusions?”
“I might not be as patient as I once thought.”
Mor laughed, the sound carried off by the night breeze. “What makes you say that?”
You turned to her, lips pressing together before you admitted, “I was tempted to throttle Az in front of everyone.”
Mor’s lips quirked up, the faint remnants of her red lipstick catching the glow of the faelights through the windows. You were sure there were countless champagne flutes and wine glasses that now bore the mark of her lips, a kiss print of her perfect lipstick. There was something sweet about how the color was faded now. Years ago, it would still be perfect—because years ago, Mor would’ve excused herself to touch up her makeup almost every half hour. She didn’t do that anymore. These days, Emerie held her attention, made her forget anything other than the night unfolding around her.
“Not interested in adding to your growing reputation as a public street fighter?” Mor teased. “I would’ve helped you drag him to the street.”
You shot her a scowl. “Not funny,” you muttered. Then, hesitantly, “Do people really think that?”
She snorted, shaking her head. “No. I’m messing with you. But imagine how fun that would be.”
“We have different definitions of fun.”
“And that’s what makes us such great friends.”
Mor leaned in, looping her arm through yours, pressing it to her chest as she rested her head on your shoulder. The cool metal of her jewelry sent a shiver through you. You resisted the urge to frown at the large, chunky bracelet on her wrist—the one she’d taken from Selene. You’d already rolled your eyes at it earlier in the night, warning her it was probably cursed. She had only shrugged and said that nothing related to her could be bad luck—and that it matched her gown perfectly. She wasn’t wrong. It did.
You hummed, amused, and rested your head against hers.
“So what did Az do?” she asked after a moment.
“I don’t know what got into him. He was so rude tonight.”
“To you?”
“To Adrin,” you clarified, huffing. “Gods, it infuriated me. I had to scold him like some child before I lost my own mind.”
Mor lifted her head slightly. “Is that where you pulled him off to?”
You turned just enough to meet her gaze. “You saw that?”
She sat up, stretching her legs out in front of her. “I’m very observant.”
“Nosy is the word I’d use.”
Mor nudged you with a laugh. Then she shifted, pulling her arm away as she readjusted her position. “Do you know why it bothered you so much?”
Your brows knit together. “It was rude,” you deadpanned. “Adrin was a guest. Az had no right acting like some pompous guard dog.”
Mor nodded solemnly. “Yeah. Maybe we need to get him retrained.”
Despite yourself, you smiled, a quick image flashing in your mind of Azriel’s unimpressed face whenever one of you made a dog joke at his expense. Even the ones about his loyalty. Not that you could blame him—you probably wouldn’t appreciate the comparison either.
“It was also a bit offensive that Az paid more attention to me tonight than he has for months,” you admitted. “Not even to me. To Adrin. I don’t know why that bothered me so much, aside from it being bad manners.”
Mor gave you a knowing look. “Can I ask you something? But you have to promise you won’t get mad.”
You narrowed your eyes. “When you say stuff like that, I don’t want to promise anything.”
She pouted slightly. “Please.”
You sighed, turning to face her more fully. The new position left you exposed to the chill, no longer shielded by your hunched posture. Your knees brushed, the fabric of your dress rustling against hers. “Fine. Tell me.”
Mor hesitated, studying you carefully. Then, softly, “Do you think it bothers you because you want him to pay attention to you this much… normally? And not just when you bring a date?”
You dropped your gaze to your lap, to your fidgeting fingers. “I mean, maybe. Yeah.”
Mor craned her neck, trying to meet your averted gaze. “Maybe because you have feelings for him?”
Your head snapped up so fast you were surprised you didn’t break something. Though, based on the sharp pull in your neck, you might have strained a muscle.
“What?”
The sympathetic look Mor offered you was enough to draw the ache in your chest back to full strength.
“Am I wrong?”
You could’ve lied. Could’ve shaken your head, laughed it off, brushed past it like it was nothing. And maybe Mor would’ve let you. Not because she let things go easily, but because she knew you—knew when to push and when to step back.
But you didn’t lie.
Because the weight of it, the truth of it, had been pressing down on you for too long.
“Maybe,” you admitted quietly.
The words settled over you like a breaking wave. The minute they were out in the open, everything rushed back—every ache, every stolen glance, every frustration and lingering sadness. The realization of it felt like a stone lodged behind your ribs, pressing into you from the inside. Your throat burned. Your eyes stung.
You swallowed hard, but it did nothing to push down the lump forming there.
Then your lips quivered. And that was enough to make you break.
You turned away, hands pressing against your face as a shaky breath left you.
“Gods, Mor,” you mumbled, voice unsteady. “I feel so dramatic. I-I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Oh, honey.” She placed a hand on your shoulder, gently squeezing to call your attention back to her. When you met her eyes, something flickered across her features. “Are you crying?”
“Not yet,” you sniffed.
She blinked. Once, twice. Then said, “Give me a minute, okay? I’ll be right back. And then I want you to tell me everything.”
You didn’t question it, just nodded as she disappeared inside.
When she returned, her presence was quieter. She sank beside you, draping a shawl over your shoulders—one that matched the color of her dress. Her shawl. And on her own form, she wore one in deep purple. Emerie’s, you assumed. You hadn’t seen her wear it before.
You noticed, too, that Mor’s jewelry was gone. The rings, the collection of bracelets. She tended to do that when she was overstimulated by the sounds—when the weight of metal felt unbearable against her skin.
You tipped your head back, staring at the sky. No more tears fell, but they lingered, heavy behind your eyes. The lump in your throat was smaller now. Bearable. You swallowed against it, against everything that wanted to rise with it.
“I was content,” you said finally. You inhaled deeply, swore you heard your ribs rattle with the effort, and turned to look at Mor. “With being single. With waiting for whatever was supposed to happen. I never thought I’d be the last one standing, but I didn’t mind. It never felt like something was missing.”
Mor’s brown eyes scanned your face, a small crease forming between her brows. “And now?”
Now.
Now, you wondered if you had never felt that ache because you had been loved so deeply by people like Azriel. Loved in a way that had made you think—foolishly, blindly—that it was enough. That it would always be enough.
But the words tangled in your throat before you could voice them. Your mind was funny like that sometimes—so many thoughts, so fast, so loud, and yet, when you reached for them, they recoiled. Shy. Timid. As if they, too, were embarrassed by their own existence.
“Now, I feel like something was stolen from me.”
Mor blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I always thought…” You paused, digging through your mind, clawing for the right words. “I thought love would feel different. That I would know when it happened. That it would be this big, overwhelming thing—fireworks, explosions, something cinematic.” You shook your head. “But with Azriel, it never felt like that. It felt… calm.” Your voice softened. “Like home.”
Mor’s expression gentled, but she didn’t speak. Not yet. And you were grateful for it, because now the words were spilling out, untamed and raw.
“And I hate that I didn’t get to figure that out on my own,” you admitted, your voice cracking with the confession. “That Selene and this ridiculous situation forced me to see it before I was ready. I didn’t get to sit across from him at breakfast, watching him drink his tea, and realize—slowly, comfortably—that this could be the rest of my life.” You swallowed hard. “Instead, it feels like everyone else saw it before I did. Like my feelings aren’t even my own. I feel… embarrassed.”
Mor’s brows knit together, and she reached for your hand. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. You know that, right?”
You let out a humorless laugh. “Doesn’t matter. It feels that way.”
And maybe that was the worst part. That something so personal, so yours, had been made into something for everyone else to witness. That, maybe, they had already formed their own conclusions.
“I’ve never really dated.” The words felt foreign, like they didn’t belong in this conversation. But they did. “Not really. I never searched for it, never felt like I needed to.”
Mor traced her thumb in slow circles against your knuckles.
“I thought it was because I was happy. Because I was fulfilled, platonically. That I never ached for a mate or a partner because I was already surrounded by love. But now—” Your throat tightened. “Now, I wonder if it was just because of him. If I loved Azriel this whole time and never noticed. If my heart already knew there was nowhere else to look.”
Mor’s grip on your hand tightened.
“But he looked,” you continued, barely above a whisper. “Azriel has looked.” You swallowed hard. “Gods, Mor—he even looked to you.”
Mor’s lips parted slightly, guilt flickering in her expression before she caught herself. “That was—”
“I know,” you cut in. “It’s not about that. It’s not about you. It’s just—” You exhaled sharply, rubbing your temple. “I’ve never been this aware of myself before. My shortcomings. My inexperience. I’ve never thought about any of it because I never had to.”
But now, every interaction with Azriel felt different. Now, every glance, every touch, every conversation—changed.
And gods, maybe, just maybe, people would think Selene was right.
Maybe they would think you had pushed Azriel away from her because you were jealous, because you had always wanted him for yourself.
You looked at Mor. “I didn’t talk to Az about Selene because I was jealous. I swear, Mor. It wasn’t like that.”
Mor shushed you. “I know.”
“But what if he doesn’t? What if everyone—”
“No one else matters.”
Mor’s gaze softened. She brought her free hand to your bicep, her palm warm as she ran it gently down your skin. The cool night air clung to you, but beneath it, you still burned. From your thoughts, from your grief, from the overwhelming realization that had come too soon.
“Y/n,” she said after a moment. “Do you truly think Az doesn’t feel the same way?”
“Yes,” you said with certainty. But after the words left your mouth, they felt hollow. You bit the inside of your cheek. “And even if he did, I’m not sure that would help me.”
“What do you mean?”
You stiffened. Loving Azriel was not the same as loving anyone else. Loving him was easy, yes—but the way Azriel romantically loved was sickening. It was obsessive, gluttonous.
You were afraid of what it might mean to be on the receiving end of it.
Because Azriel had always glorified the ones he loved, turned them into something untouchable, something divine. It was the kind of love that replaced religion. And you—you—were not divine. You were not flawless. And that alone made you doubt yourself.
Azriel had seen your faults. The way you held grudges, the way you sometimes bit down your emotions until they cut into you, the way you weren’t always kind. In a friend, those things were forgivable. But in a lover?
Flaws in a lover could be a sin for Az.
And you didn't think you could survive it—the moment he realized you weren’t something worth worshiping.
Better, then, to never let him try.
You decided not to answer Mor’s question— not properly at least. Instead, you shrugged, turning your gaze back to the night before you, to the calm gardens and the skies that illuminated them.
“I just do.”
Mor hummed. She understood that the conversation was over. You were tired. And there was nothing she could say that you hadn’t already dissected a thousand times in your mind. So she pulled you closer, and you let her, resting your head against the crook of her shoulder.
The door creaked open behind you. You didn’t acknowledge it, but you felt Mor shift, felt her hair brush your cheek as she turned to greet the new addition to your self-pity circle.
And then you felt another familiar presence. The scent of night-chilled wind, sea, and citrus, the familiar shift in power—a presence heavier than Azriel’s, but just as consuming. Even more at times.
Rhys settled beside you with a groan, joints creaking as he got comfortable.
It made you smile, just a little. Old man.
“I was wondering where you two went off to,” he said. “What are you doing out here?”
You let out a small sound—something noncommittal, something that didn’t quite fill the silence. “Oh, you know. Contemplating every single sense of existential dread.” You gestured vaguely. “Talking about the weather.”
Rhys lifted a brow. You paused, sparing him a quick glance. “It’s nice weather.”
He made a sound—half a hum, half a laugh—and rubbed his knee. “I don’t know. I can feel rain coming.”
You didn’t say anything, just glanced up at the sky—still clear, the stars bright. Some rain sounded nice. Peaceful. Something to wash away the past few days.
Rhys looked over at Mor. “Emerie is looking for you.”
Mor exhaled, glancing between the two of you before pulling away. Her hands, fingers now cold from the night, squeezed your face gently. “I love you,” she said softly. “Come find me if you need anything, okay?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
She hesitated for just a second before standing up and disappearing into the house. You watched her go, the warmth of her touch still lingering on your skin as you turned back around, finding Rhys already watching you. He had that look—one of quiet concern, of something like careful patience. The image of a concerned father. An older brother.
“You don’t have to babysit me, you know,” you muttered.
Rhys snorted. “Trust me, I’ve had enough babysitting for the night.”
“Yeah, but don’t you want to be inside with everyone else?”
“Are you trying to kick me back into my own home?” he asked, amused.
You shook your head. “No, I just don’t want you to feel like you need to be out here with me.”
“I don’t feel like I need to be anything,” he said simply. “I haven’t spent much time with you lately. I want to be out here.” His voice softened. “After all, this is a banquet thanking people who’ve helped this court. Who has helped more than you, the one I trust to help repair our image?”
You let out a quiet laugh. “Well, I did some damage recently, too.”
“Until you get banned from an entire court, I think you’re alright.”
The conversation settled into a lull, quiet stretching between you.
Then you said, “I’m assuming Mor told you some things.”
“Not really. But I can assume.”
You swallowed, looking away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay,” he said easily. “We don’t have to.”
“But…” You glanced at him, suddenly tired of holding it all in. You had always been honest with your family—always told them the truth, even when it was difficult. And after opening up to Mor, after feeling the weight of it ease just slightly, you realized how much you had missed this. How much lighter a burden felt when it was shared, when you weren’t the only one carrying it.
Rhys seemed to understand before you even said another word. His expression shifted, something like realization settling in his gaze. And then, carefully, you felt the light press of him in your mind. A knock.
You let your walls down.
You felt his presence as he sifted through the memories—watched his face change as he saw it all.
After a long moment, he straightened slightly, exhaling as he looked at you. He squinted, tilting his head. “Oh,” he said. “I see.”
“Yeah.”
You turned away again, resting your head in your hands. Your chest felt a lot lighter now. Your thoughts a little less heavy. Rhys didn’t say anything. He just stood, brushing off his pants before stepping down the stairs.
You frowned, watching as he descended a few steps, then extended a hand toward you.
“What are you doing?” you asked.
“We’re going on a walk.”
“A walk?”
“Yes,” he said. “I think you need to clear your mind.”
You hesitated, eyeing his outstretched hand. He only smiled. “Someone very special in my life used to take me on walks when I was overwhelmed.”
Your lips parted slightly, a flicker of recognition sparking in your chest. You thought back to those early years—when Rhys was newly High Lord, when he was drowning in responsibility and grief he wouldn’t even acknowledge. You had forced him to go on walks back then, dragging him away from his desk, ignoring his protests. He had hated it at first. And then, eventually, it had just become something you did.
A quiet tradition.
You smiled—small, almost sad—as you pushed yourself up. “Are you sure you want to leave everyone?”
“I think they can handle us leaving for a few hours.”
You scoffed. “Don’t speak too soon.”
Rhys huffed a laugh, shaking his head as you stepped down to join him. And then, without another word, you walked.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
There was a certain shared understanding between you and Rhysand— two people who had seen each other at their best and worst. For an hour, as the familiar rhythm of your footsteps matched each other’s perfectly, it felt as if the world had paused just enough for you to feel like you belonged again.
When you finally reached the townhome, Rhys stopped, his hand on your arm like he was trying to keep you from walking away too soon.
“You’re not foolish for not realizing it sooner,” he said. “It’s a gift, really. To love so fully, so completely, that you don’t even notice where friendship ends and something more begins. Most people can’t do that, you know. We’re… very lucky to have you.”
You could only manage a smile in response. Rhys pulled you into a hug, his arms tight around you as he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Get some rest,” he murmured, pulling away. Then he grinned, a familiar one that only he could pull off. “If you keep overthinking, I’ll have to start charging for my emotional support. I don’t come cheap, you know.”
“Are businesses no longer discounting damaged goods?”
Rhys let out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest. “Ouch,” he said, eyes wide with mock offense. “I take back everything about you being loving.”
“Night, Rhys,” you said, your voice warmer now. Genuine. “Love you.”
His smile softened, no longer the teasing grin. “I know.” And you could hear the affection there.
Then he turned and began walking down the path, whistling a nursing song that you were sure Nyx had been fixated on. Rhys reached the corner, paused for a moment as if to make sure no one was watching, then disappeared, winnowing into the night.
Dramatic even without an audience. You shook your head, a small smile still tugging at your lips, before entering the townhouse and making your way up the stairs.
You stopped when you saw him.
Azriel. Sitting against your door like he was waiting for something—someone. You. His eyes met yours, locking in place as if he’d been holding his breath this whole time. And in a blink, he was on his feet, moving like something had snapped, urgent, too fast for comfort.
“Y/n,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
You paused, pushing the door to your bedroom open slowly, not fully meeting his gaze. “Why?”
“I was hoping we could talk.”
You sighed, shoulders sagging as exhaustion settled over you. You didn’t want to have this conversation—not right now. It wasn’t that you didn’t care about what Azriel had to say, but everything just felt too much in this moment. You needed space, time to breathe and clear your head before diving into whatever this was between you two.
Tomorrow. You could deal with it tomorrow, with a fresh perspective, when you weren’t so drained. Tonight, you just needed to sleep, to wake up with your head in a better place, ready to handle it all. You wanted Rhys's words to be the last thing in your mind. Something comforting. Soothing.
“Maybe tomorrow,” you muttered, stepping inside. “I’m tired.”
“I’ll make this quick.”
You moved toward your bed, placing Mor’s shawl across your sheets. “Az, seriously. Tomorrow.”
He didn’t move, and when you glanced up, he looked at you then—really looked at you—and your breath caught in your throat as he asked, "Do you have feelings for me?"
You froze. A strange, cold knot twisted in your stomach. “Oh, not this again,” you groaned. You looked away, instinctively crossing your arms across your chest.
“Yes, this again,” he pressed, stepping closer. “I want an answer. Please.”
“Come on, Az.” You forced control over the tremor rising in your chest. “What did I do this time? Stare at you too long? Breathe too loud? Did you mistake me scolding you for some strange forepla—”
“I heard you,” he interrupted, and the words hit like a slap.
It felt like the air stopped moving. You couldn’t breathe.
“What?”
“Tonight,” he said, voice quieter now, “I heard you and Mor. I found this in my pocket.” He pulled out a bracelet—Selene’s, the matching piece to the one Mor had worn earlier.
Your heart slammed into your ribs. You opened your mouth to explain, but nothing came out. You needed something—anything. "You—you misunderstood."
"Did I?" His shadows stirred restlessly around him. “I-I didn’t hear much. It went quiet too fast, but from what I did hear… Did I really misunderstand?”
Your face burned, the heat spreading so quickly it felt like your skin might catch fire under his stare. You turned away, pulling your arms tighter across your chest. “Azriel, I don’t—”
“Just tell me the truth,” he urged, his voice cracking. “Please.”
You couldn’t respond. The words wouldn’t come.
A long silence stretched between you.
“Okay,” Az said, and his voice was so soft, so unlike his usual tone, it almost felt foreign. “Then I need to say something.”
"Az…" You turned to him, meeting his eyes as you said, "Just, please, don’t.”
Your response didn’t seem to register. Azriel closed his eyes, taking in a slow, deep breath, like he was steadying himself before a plunge.
“That night,” he started, “when I cleaned up your cheek, you asked why I listened to Selene. Why I said you had feelings for me. I told you I didn’t know.” He paused, dragging his hand over his face. “I lied. I know why. It bothered me when she said it. More than I wanted to admit. I told myself it was just because it made me uncomfortable—but that wasn’t it. I think the real reason I couldn’t stop thinking about it was because a part of me wanted it to be true.”
Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the way Azriel looked so exposed in front of you, but his words didn’t land right away. You blinked, trying to process, but before you could speak, he continued—his voice somehow even softer now.
“I thought if I said it out loud, you’d laugh it off. Call me crazy. Maybe you’d correct me. Then I could force myself to never think about it again. But you didn’t. And gods, the look on your face when I said it... it was like I’d hit you.”
Another silence settled between you. For the first time, you were grateful for it, because one look at Az told you he wasn’t finished, that there was more he needed to say.
“I think I’ve always loved you,” Az said, and the words cracked something open inside you. “I didn’t know it—not at first. I thought it was normal. Of course, I wanted to be around you all the time. Of course, you’d be the first person I thought of in the morning and the last person at night.” His voice wavered, and he shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips as his wings fell lax. “But it’s not. It’s not normal.”
His gaze finally met yours, steady, like he was holding you there with it. You’d never seen him look at anyone like this—not Mor, not Elain, not Gwyn.
“I can't lie to you, Y/n. I can’t pretend I don’t love you. You’re everywhere. You’re everything.”
You couldn’t breathe. The world around you narrowed, collapsing inward until there was nothing left but him. Azriel loved you. The relief that hit you almost made your knees give out.
His chest rose and fell quickly, like he was bracing for impact. The earlier desperation was gone, replaced by something more timid. "Please," he whispered. "Say something."
The pressure in your chest—the ache that had burrowed beneath your ribs for weeks—dissipated in an instant. Every concern, every gnawing worry. All that remained was the quiet comfort that Azriel had always given you. That ease, that feeling of home you’d only ever found in him.
You exhaled, and before you could stop yourself, a laugh slipped past your lips—breathless, almost disbelieving. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk that much. Like, ever.”
Azriel blinked. For a moment, you thought you’d broken something—but then, his lips twitched, a hesitant smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“Well, there was a lot of ground to cover.” He exhaled through his nose. “But if you don’t feel the same—if this isn’t what you want, I’ll step back. I won’t push. I promise.”
You wanted to cry, to laugh, to praise the Mother that he felt the same. Instead, you closed the space between you. Slowly, you reached up, fingers threading through the mess of his hair, smoothing away the strands that had fallen across his forehead. You traced the line of his cheekbone with the barest brush of your fingertips, committing it to memory, savoring the way his breath hitched beneath your touch.
You hesitated—just for a heartbeat—before cupping his face in your palm.
And then, you kissed him.
He didn’t react at first. He just stood there, completely still, like he hadn’t even processed what was happening. You started to pull away, suddenly unsure—
But then he made a sound, something like a sigh of relief, and his hands found you.
The next kiss wasn’t hesitant. His fingers pressed into your waist as he pulled you in, tilting his head, deepening it, like he didn’t want to waste another second. And you felt it—every inch of it. The ache, the longing, the unbearable relief of finally knowing. Every agonizing thought, every moment spent convincing yourself this was one-sided, crumbling beneath the warmth of his mouth against yours.
No kiss had ever felt like this. Not in all your years, not in all your life. Like something was finally, truly yours. It was sharp, it was bright, a rush that sent you spiraling in a way you hadn’t known you could.
But even with your heart glowing in your chest, there was no dramatic shift. No world-altering moment. It just felt right. A quiet kind of certainty. The kind that settled into your bones and left you with nothing but butterflies.
You pulled apart slowly, foreheads resting together, lips still brushing as if reluctant to let go. The cool touch of his shadows grazed your skin. You weren’t sure if it was them or the kiss itself that made your skin tingle.
Azriel’s eyes fluttered open a second after yours. The way he looked at you—so close, his hazel eyes bright with green flecks—had your chest tightening. It made you breathless. His smile softened the furrow in his brow, the motion pulling at his cheeks in a way that made your heart stutter all over again.
His thumb ghosted over your cheek. “Are you crying?”
You blinked, still so caught up in the haze of everything, in how your heart was doing this erratic dance that you couldn’t quite follow. You lifted a hand to your face, and—shit, there were tears. You hadn’t even noticed. “Oh. Well, guess I am,” you said, a half-laugh slipping out before you could stop it, but it sounded hollow, a little shaky. “Awkward.”
Azriel made a sound, something close to a laugh of his own, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, not fully. “What is it? Did I do something wrong?”
“You have no idea how much I’ve been overthinking the past few weeks.”
Azriel’s expression softened as his finger moved, brushing over your lips now. “If it makes you feel better,” he said, “I’ve been in complete agony too.”
A proper laugh slipped from you. “Well, good,” you said, a little teasing, but it felt good to say it. “It does make me feel better. You deserved it a little bit.”
He smiled, amused, his gaze flicking between your eyes and your lips. “I did, didn’t I?”
A soft hum rumbled in your chest in response, something between a smile and a sigh. His thumb continued its slow, deliberate path across your lips, tracing the edges like he was memorizing them. You didn’t stop him.
You let your hands fall, landing gently against his chest, where you could feel the steady, rhythmic pulse of his heart beneath your palm.
“So, what do we do now?” You asked quietly, the question coming out before you could stop it.
Azriel’s motions slowed. “What would you like to do?”
“Well, we probably have to talk about what this means.”
He nodded. “Probably.”
You couldn’t help it. “And we really need to figure out how we’re going to move forward, how this changes everything…”
“Mhm,” he murmured, his focus now completely on your face, his fingers tracing your features, exploring them in a way he’d never been able to.
“Az,” you murmured. “Are you listening to me?”
He didn’t hesitate as he met your gaze and responded, “I would never make the mistake of not listening to you again.”
The sincerity in his voice made your breath catch, every other thought fading in the wake of it—until your stomach growled. You grimaced.
“Actually,” you said, tapping a finger against his chest. “You know what I would really like to do now?”
“Tell me.”
“I could really go for some food.”
Suddenly, Azriel stepped back, eyes lighting up like an excited child. You frowned at the loss of contact. “Wait here.”
Before you could even process what was happening, he was already gone, running out the door. A few seconds later, he returned, breathless, looking slightly too pleased with himself as he held both hands behind his back. “I have something for you.”
You eyed him. “Is it a bug?”
Realistically, you knew it wasn’t. Or at least, you hoped it wasn’t. But Azriel had never looked this pleased with himself before, never this close to giddy. That, combined with the way his hands were securely tucked behind his back, reminded you that—before anything else—Azriel was your best friend. And your best friend knew exactly how to mess with you at the strangest times.
Azriel’s expression faltered for a second. “What? No. Why would it—never mind.”
Then, hesitantly, he revealed it: crumpled in a piece of an appetizer liner, slightly worse for wear, was the rosemary and honey tartlet you’d eyed earlier. You melted at the sight and reached for it gently, cradling it in your hands like something precious.
Azriel looked almost sheepish. “We can get a proper meal, but I noticed you were looking at it earlier—at the banquet. You never grabbed one. So I thought…”
A laugh slipped out before you could stop it. A real one. Centuries. Centuries of friendship, of knowing him better than anyone, and somehow you’d never seen this. Never noticed how deeply he noticed you. How foolish you had been. How lucky you were now.
Azriel frowned. “What? What’s funny?”
“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head, still laughing softly. “Its just— of course you noticed.”
His lips quirked like he wasn’t sure whether to be amused or suspicious. “Well, yeah.”
“Thank you,” you murmured, reaching out again, pressing your palm against his cheek for a beat before turning your focus back to the tartlet. You turned it over in your hands. “Why is it squished?”
Azriel winced, like the question itself embarrassed him. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, brushing it off.
You lifted a brow. “Okay.”
You stared at it for another moment, then turned, setting it carefully on your bed.
He frowned. “But the crumbs on your bedsheet—”
You shook your head, smiling with a teasing eye roll. “Just kiss me, neat freak.”
His protest faded as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your mouth to his. Once, then again, and again, until you were sure even his shadows felt the need to look away.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
You and Azriel hadn’t slept.
Not for any reason that would have had Cassian waggling his eyebrows at you—though you did, naturally, find yourself thinking about it—but because the night had slipped away in conversation over greasy food from a little restaurant south of the townhouse.
The early morning light stretched through the windows, soft and golden, as Azriel stood at the kitchen counter making tea. You watched the familiar sight of him steeping the leaves, the way he moved like this was just any other morning.
But it wasn’t. Twelve hours ago, this had felt impossible. And now it was here.
You curled your fingers around the edge of the table, trying to process the weight of it. It wasn’t heavy, though. That was the strangest part. Not that you now knew how his lips felt against yours, or how his heartbeat sounded when it synced with your own, but how there had been no grand shift, no dramatic revelation. No bolt of lightning splitting your world in two.
Just this—Azriel placing a mug in front of you, his fingers brushing yours, his lips quirking as he sat by you like he always had. Except there were small differences now— his chair was closer, next to you more than it was across. You found yourself focusing on smaller details, his dark lashes as he looked down at his cup, the way his fingers curled around the ceramic. You did your best to suppress any fleeting thoughts at the sight of them. Those ideas could be addressed later.
It all made sense—the infuriating, vague notion that people had told you over the years: when you know, you know. You’d always hated that. How could no one ever explain it? How could no one ever find the words? But looking at Az now, you understood. There were no words. Just this. Just the way your heart settled at the sight of him.
“You’re staring,” Azriel murmured, watching you over the rim of his cup.
You hummed, taking a sip of your tea. “You’re pretty.”
Azriel choked. Caught completely off guard. He set his mug down, coughing once, and when he looked at you again, his eyes were narrowed. “That was disgustingly sincere.”
“I know,” you grinned. “You’ll survive.”
Your mind drifted back to the night before—how the two of you had been desperate to catch up on all the things you had missed over the past few weeks. You’d told him about Adrin’s extensive mirthroot collection and how well you thought he’d be suited for Gwyn. He’d groaned, muttering something about needing to apologize. And then Az had told the story of how Cassian had slapped him for being an idiot. Three times. You’d really laughed at that one.
Somewhere between it all, between the easy conversation and the warmth of having him near, it had hit you again and again—this is it. This is what you could have for the rest of your life, if you were lucky.
Azriel hummed, setting his cup down. He knocked his knee against yours—once, then twice, like he was testing something. And then he reached over, grabbed the side of your chair, and scraped it just an inch closer to his.
You shot him a flat look. “Don’t tell me you’re a clingy boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend?” Azriel raised a brow jokingly. “I don’t remember us labeling anything.”
“Oh, right. My mistake. In that case, I should probably tell Nesta to back out of the Gwyn and Adrin plan—”
“Don’t you dare.”
You smirked over your tea. “Why not? It’s not like I have a boyfriend to be upset about it.”
He stared at you for a beat, smiling as his eyes softened with a warmth that made your stomach flip. Seconds later, you were both laughing. Quiet, warm laughter that filled the kitchen, that curled around you like an embrace.
And then—
A shift, a subtle pull, like the air had thickened and the room was just a little smaller. It wasn’t a shock, nothing sudden or harsh. It was smooth, like a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding until you exhaled, like the feeling of stepping into the sun after hours in the cold.
This was it. He was it.
Azriel froze, eyes widening as the feeling settled. Then, like he was testing something—searching—he tugged, just a bit, like he wasn’t sure if it was real. You sucked in a breath, hand instinctively rising to your chest. You felt it, in the way it seemed to resonate through every nerve, like a pulse echoing through your ribs.
He cleared his throat, a soft sound, almost nervous, and then his voice came out, rough but teasing, “Clingy mate, actually.”
Your heart stumbled over itself. A laugh caught in your throat, half breathless, half disbelieving. And then you were kissing him, pressing your forehead against his, letting the warmth of him, of this, sink into every part of you.
“Bold of you to assume I accept.”
Azriel laughed deeply before he was kissing you again, grinning against your lips as you laughed into his. And when you pulled back, breathless and giddy, you knew—without a single doubt—that you’d never stop choosing this.
Never stop choosing him.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
authors note:
and.... it is a happy ending after all :D awsf? nation how are we feeling tonight🎤
theyre mates, your honor!!! theyre mates and in love!!! im so sorry this took so long my loves, i rewrote it like 6 times. im still worried it doesnt do them justice but hehe we ball
i do have at least two more works for this little universe! a small lil epilogue planned for these sweethearts AND another surprise piece... which is already at 10k (hint: we get…another perspective of the night. plus a fun lil convo with a certain matedhaired male...). the surprise should be out next week, and the proper epilogue (with a timejump!) sometime after. and im always so so open to doing lil one-shots for this universe
thank you all again for reading <3 i hope i've done this lovestory justice.
permanent tag list 🫶🏻:
@rhysandorian @itsswritten @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon @glam-targaryen
@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @motheroffae @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark
@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered
@feyretopia @yesiamthatwierd @azrielrot @justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli
@mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound @melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore
@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire
@angel-graces-world-of-chaos @acoazlove @paradisebabey @inkedinshadows @mellowmusings
@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly
@rottenroyalebooks @jurdanpotter @casiiopea2 @gamarancianne @weesablackbeak
@booksaremyescapeworld @knoxic @wynintheclouds @dacrethehalls @louisa-harrier
I CRIED
OKAY
I DID
and it also made me re-realise my feelings for this guy ONG
Okay so I'm looking to get nnta published soon
do i
publish traditionally with more of a safety net but it might not get picked up
publish through amazon and go heavy on the social media posting
I mean a steamy mafia romance where the mc is modelled after Carlos Sainz? What more could you want?
Lost and Found
Lando Norris x Reader
Summary: one minute Lando Norris is speeding through the streets of New York City — the world at his fingertips in the days leading up to the United States Grand Prix — and the next his world is spinning out of control, leaving him with nothing except for blank memories and the concerned attention of a stranger who takes him in when he has no one and nothing else
Warnings: descriptions of a car crash and memory loss
The night is cold, and the sharp October wind slips under your jacket as you tug it tighter around you. Your boots slap against the pavement, the rhythm a steady beat on the nearly deserted street. Columbia’s library closed an hour ago, but you stayed later than you should have. Deadlines don’t wait. Law school doesn't wait. Life doesn’t wait.
You tuck your phone into your pocket, your eyes fixed on the glowing windows of the apartment building a few blocks ahead. Almost home. Almost there.
And then-
A car rips past, tires screeching loud enough to make you flinch. It’s moving too fast, way too fast, the engine growling like an animal barely kept on a leash. You freeze for a second as it flies down the street, headlights smearing into long streaks of white. Your breath catches-
It spins. A brutal, violent twist as the car skids into a corner it shouldn’t be taking. The rear fishtails wildly. For a heartbeat, it looks like it might recover. Then it slams straight into a lamp post with a sickening crunch. Metal screams. Glass explodes. The lamp shudders, flickers, and dies.
For a moment, everything is still. Silent, even.
“Shit,” you whisper, your pulse spiking hard and fast.
You stand there, frozen in the chilly air, your brain catching up to what you just saw. The street is deserted — of course it is. This isn’t exactly rush hour. There’s no one around. No witnesses. No help.
Without thinking, you yank your phone out of your pocket and dial. The ringing in your ear seems to go on forever.
“911, what’s your emergency?” A woman asks briskly.
“A car crash,” you say, already moving toward the wreck. Your feet hit the pavement harder now, the soles of your boots slapping in quick bursts. “Corner of … uh, 116th and Riverside. It’s bad — the car’s totaled. I think someone’s still inside.”
“Are you with the driver now?”
“Not yet. I’m — I’m crossing the street.” You dodge between two parked cars and jog to the other side. The car sits under the broken streetlamp, its front end wrapped around the post like it lost a fight it never stood a chance of winning. The glossy surface is crumpled and shattered, shards of glass glittering on the asphalt like broken stars.
“Ma’am, do not approach the vehicle if it’s unsafe.”
You ignore that. “I think the guy’s still in there,” you mutter, holding the phone tight between your ear and shoulder. You grip the door handle and pull hard, but it’s jammed. With a frustrated grunt, you throw your weight into it until it finally groans open.
The first thing you notice is the smell — leather, gasoline, and the acrid tang of burned rubber. Your heart pounds in your throat. You glance at the man slumped in the driver’s seat, and the breath catches in your chest.
“Hello?” You ask, bending down, peering closer. “Can you hear me?”
He groans, shifting a little, but his eyes remain half-closed. Blood trickles from a cut above his eyebrow, carving a red path down the side of his face.
“Hey! Are you okay?” You try again, louder this time. No answer — just a sluggish movement of his head, like he's fighting to stay conscious.
“What's your name?” You keep your voice firm but gentle, the way you imagine an EMT might sound.
The man mumbles something, his voice thick and slurred. You lean closer, your pulse hammering in your ears.
“What? I need your name.”
“Lando,” he whispers, and it’s barely audible, more breath than word.
You frown. The name sounds familiar, but that’s not important right now. “Okay, Lando. Do you know where you are?”
His eyelids flutter, and for a second, it looks like he might pass out entirely. Then he forces them open again, just barely.
“Crash,” he mutters. “Crashed the car.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than him. You glance around the street again, hoping for flashing lights in the distance. Nothing. Just you, him, and the wreckage.
“Can you tell me what hurts?” You ask, trying to keep him talking. Concussions are dangerous — keeping him conscious feels important.
Lando’s head lolls against the seat. “Feels like … everything.”
His voice is thick, heavy with exhaustion. He sounds like someone who’s been through the wringer, someone who desperately needs sleep but can’t afford to close their eyes.
“You hit your head pretty hard,” you say, scanning him for any other obvious injuries. Blood stains the collar of his jacket, but nothing looks life-threatening. Yet.
“Race car driver,” Lando slurs suddenly, like the thought just stumbled out of his brain without permission.
You blink. “What?”
“Race … car driver,” he repeats, slower this time. His accent drags on the vowels, a little British, a little something else.
You raise an eyebrow, convinced now that he’s concussed. “Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”
He gives a small, incoherent laugh, like your joke made perfect sense in his scrambled mind.
“You're not supposed to be funny,” he mutters, more to himself than you.
You glance back at the wreck, taking in the sleek lines and bright logo on the hood — McLaren. Expensive. Stupidly expensive. You bite the inside of your cheek.
“Jesus, you’re one of those guys,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. Rich kid, fast car, bad decisions. You’ve seen this movie before, and it usually ends with someone like him getting bailed out by daddy’s lawyer.
Lando stirs again, his head rolling toward you. “Not … like that,” he mumbles. “I am a race car driver.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. He’s barely coherent — humoring him feels kinder than arguing. “Sure you are, buddy. Sure you are.”
He squints at you, his expression dazed but oddly sincere, like he’s genuinely offended you don’t believe him. “I am,” he insists, as if that settles the matter.
You press your lips together, trying not to laugh. It’s absurd — this whole situation is absurd. You crouch lower, resting your hand lightly on his arm. “Just stay awake, okay? Ambulance is on the way.”
Lando hums something that might be agreement, though it sounds more like a sigh. His eyes droop again, dangerously close to shutting.
“Hey.” You give his arm a small shake. “No sleeping. Talk to me.”
“‘Bout what?” He murmurs, his head lolling to the side.
“Anything. Tell me …“ You scramble for something. “What’s your favorite color?”
He blinks slowly, like it’s the most confusing question anyone’s ever asked him. “Blue. No, wait … orange.”
You snort. “Make up your mind, race car driver.”
Lando makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Can’t.”
“That concussion is doing wonders for your decision-making skills,” you say dryly, glancing toward the street again. Still no lights. You tap your foot anxiously.
Lando shifts in his seat, his hand twitching like he’s trying to move but can’t quite manage it. “You’re … bossy,” he mumbles, his accent thicker now.
“Yeah, well, you crashed your car, so you don’t get to complain.”
There’s a beat of silence, then he murmurs, “… Thanks for stopping.”
Something about the way he says it catches you off guard — soft, almost vulnerable. You swallow the lump in your throat and squeeze his arm gently.
“Don’t mention it, Lando.”
And then, finally, in the distance — a flash of red and blue lights.
***
The wail of sirens grows louder, slicing through the quiet night like a razor. Red and blue lights bounce off the buildings, streaking across shattered glass and twisted metal. Relief washes over you, making your knees feel a little shaky.
Finally.
Two ambulances come to a screeching halt. EMTs spill out, moving with practiced urgency. One of them, a tall woman with her hair yanked into a messy bun, jogs toward you.
“Are you hurt?” She asks, already looking you up and down for signs of injury.
You shake your head. “No, I’m fine — it’s the driver. He’s … he’s pretty out of it.” You glance back at Lando, slumped in his seat. “I think he hit his head. He’s not making much sense.”
The EMT follows your gaze, nodding sharply. “Okay, step back for me.” She waves another EMT over. “We’ve got one male, early twenties, possible head trauma.”
You move back as instructed, but not far — just enough to give them space to work while still close enough to watch. One of the EMTs wedges a tool into the doorframe to force it open wider, and the crunch of metal makes you wince.
“Hey, buddy,” the EMT says, leaning in toward Lando. “Can you hear me?”
Lando stirs slightly, his eyelids fluttering open. He mumbles something incomprehensible, and the EMT exchanges a look with his partner.
“Pupils look uneven,” the first EMT mutters, shining a small flashlight into Lando’s eyes. “Definitely concussed.”
The other EMT secures a neck brace around Lando’s head, locking it into place with quick, efficient movements. Lando groans at the pressure, his face twisted in confusion.
“We’re gonna get you out of here, okay?” The EMT says in a loud, clear voice. “Just stay still for me, mate. We’re gonna lift you.”
They maneuver him onto a backboard with a series of coordinated moves, careful to keep his neck stabilized. Lando lets out a soft groan but doesn’t resist — it’s like his body is on autopilot.
You cross your arms against the cold, biting your lower lip. They make it look so smooth, so clinical, but there’s something unsettling about watching someone get hauled out of a wreck like that, limp and helpless.
“Is he your boyfriend?” The EMT asks you, not looking up as they strap Lando to the board.
You blink, caught off guard. “What? No. I-I just saw the crash happen. I came over to help.”
The EMT nods once, focused on the task at hand. “All right. Appreciate you staying with him.”
They lift Lando, sliding the backboard onto a waiting gurney. He lets out a weak noise of discomfort, but his eyes remain half-lidded, barely clinging to consciousness.
As they wheel him toward the ambulance, you follow instinctively, your heart thrumming with worry. You can’t just leave now — not when he looks like that.
“Hey,” you call after them, your voice tight. “Can I … can I ride with him?”
One of the EMTs looks over his shoulder, frowning. “Are you family?”
“No. I just-“ You pause, unsure how to explain it. “I don’t feel right leaving him alone.”
The EMTs exchange glances. For a moment, it looks like they might refuse, but the woman in charge sighs and jerks her head toward the ambulance. “Fine. Get in. Just stay out of the way.”
“Thank you,” you say, relief flooding through you.
You climb into the back of the ambulance as they lift Lando’s gurney inside. The doors slam shut behind you, sealing you in with the hum of medical equipment and the faint smell of antiseptic.
The ambulance jerks into motion, the siren blaring overhead.
The EMT sitting across from you pulls on a pair of gloves, leaning over Lando. “Let’s see how we’re doing, champ.”
Lando’s eyes flicker, heavy and unfocused. The EMT checks his pulse, then takes a penlight and shines it directly into Lando’s pupils. He winces, groaning low in his throat.
“Sir, can you hear me?” The EMT asks loudly, as if trying to shake him awake with sound alone.
Lando blinks sluggishly, his brow furrowing. “… Yeah,” he mutters, barely audible. His accent makes the word sound more like yeh.
The EMT hums, jotting something down on a clipboard. “Good. Do you know where you are?”
Lando’s face twists in confusion. “Uh … car … crash?”
“That’s right. Do you know what day it is?”
Lando frowns, like the question is too complicated to process. “… Tuesday?” He guesses, though it sounds more like a question than an answer.
The EMT glances at you briefly, then back at Lando. “Close enough,” he mutters under his breath.
“Can you tell me your full name?”
“Lando Norris,” Lando slurs, then huffs, like just saying his own name took monumental effort.
“All right, Lando. You're doing okay, but you’ve probably got a concussion,” the EMT says, his tone calm but firm. “I need you to stay awake for me, yeah?”
Lando's eyelids droop again, dangerously close to closing. “M’tired,” he mumbles, his voice barely a whisper.
“I know you are, but you’ve gotta fight it. Stay with me, Lando.”
You lean forward, suddenly anxious. “Hey. Lando.” Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, but it gets his attention. His eyes flutter open, just barely.
“Stay awake, okay? Keep talking.”
He shifts sluggishly, his head rolling to the side. “‘Bout what?”
“Anything,” you say quickly, glancing at the EMT as if looking for backup. “Uh … tell me more about racing.”
Lando’s lips twitch, almost like a smile. “Fast,” he mumbles, and you can’t help but huff a quiet laugh.
“Yeah, I figured,” you say. “But, like … how fast?”
“Really fast,” he whispers, his voice trailing off into nothing. His eyes close again, and this time, they don’t reopen.
“Lando?” You reach out instinctively, your hand hovering over his arm. “Hey. Lando.”
The EMT leans in, tapping Lando's cheek with two fingers. “Come on, buddy. Wake up.”
Nothing. Lando’s breathing is steady but shallow, his head slack against the neck brace.
The EMT mutters a curse under his breath. “He’s out. Heart rate’s steady, but we’re not taking any chances.”
You feel a knot of anxiety tighten in your chest. “Is that bad?” You ask, your voice smaller than you'd like.
“It’s not good,” the EMT says bluntly. He grabs a stethoscope and checks Lando’s breathing again. “We’re almost there. Just gotta keep him stable.”
The ambulance sways as it takes a corner, and you clutch the edge of the bench to steady yourself. Your heart is pounding now, loud and fast in your ears.
You watch the EMT work, every movement precise and deliberate, but it still feels like time is dragging, like the ambulance isn’t moving fast enough.
The siren wails overhead, a sharp, urgent reminder of how serious this is.
You glance at Lando’s face — pale, slack, and too still — and something twists painfully in your chest. You don’t even know this guy, not really, but the thought of him not waking up feels … wrong.
“Hang in there, Lando,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him.
The ambulance jerks to a halt, and the EMT presses a button to radio the hospital. “ETA sixty seconds. Unconscious male, suspected head trauma. Prep trauma room two.”
Your stomach flips as the doors fly open, and two more EMTs appear, ready to unload.
The gurney jerks as they lift it, and you follow closely behind, stepping out into the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital bay. The cold air hits you again, but it barely registers.
The EMT glances over his shoulder at you as they wheel Lando inside. “This is where we leave you,” he says, not unkindly.
You nod, biting the inside of your cheek. “Right.”
The gurney disappears through the sliding glass doors, and you stand there for a moment, unsure what to do next.
The night air feels heavier now, the adrenaline ebbing away, leaving behind a strange emptiness.
***
The waiting room is cold, with that sterile, over-sanitized smell that clings to every surface. You sit awkwardly in a plastic chair, arms crossed tightly over your chest. It’s eerily quiet, except for the occasional squeak of sneakers on tile and the low murmur of nurses passing through. A vending machine hums softly against the far wall.
You’ve lost track of how long it’s been since they wheeled Lando through those double doors. An hour? Two? Time feels slippery here, twisting and turning in on itself, every minute stretching out longer than the last. You try scrolling through your phone, but nothing holds your attention. The adrenaline has drained from your system, leaving you restless and uneasy.
It would’ve been easy to leave after they took him inside. After all, he’s a complete stranger. But the thought of him waking up alone, disoriented and confused in a hospital bed, doesn’t sit right with you. And so, you wait.
A nurse pokes her head out of a side door at one point, scanning the room. Your heart jumps, but she’s only calling for someone else — a patient’s relative who stands up with a relieved sigh. The room empties little by little, families reuniting with loved ones or filing out into the night.
You shift in your seat, rubbing your hands together to stave off the chill. You could leave right now, go home, crawl into bed. But somehow, you know you won’t — not until you know Lando is okay.
Finally, after what feels like forever, the door swings open again. This time, it’s a physician in pale blue scrubs, holding a clipboard. He looks around the room, squinting under the fluorescent lights.
“Is anyone here with the car crash patient?” He asks, voice low but carrying through the empty space.
You stand up before you even realize what you’re doing. “I … I’m here.”
The doctor’s eyes flick over to you, eyebrows raised. “You’re with him?”
You hesitate, then nod. “Yeah. I mean, sort of. I was there when it happened.”
The doctor approaches, glancing down at his clipboard. “He’s stable,” he says, and you feel some of the tension ease from your shoulders. “He has a pretty severe concussion, though. He lost consciousness on the way here, but we were able to wake him up a little while ago.”
You let out a slow breath. “That’s good, right?”
“Yes and no,” the doctor replies, shifting his weight. “It looks like he has post-traumatic amnesia. He doesn’t seem to know who he is — doesn’t even remember his own name.”
Your stomach twists uncomfortably. “Amnesia?”
The doctor nods. “It’s not uncommon with head injuries like his. In most cases, the memory loss is temporary. But it’s hard to say how long it will take for him to regain his memories — could be hours, days, or longer.”
You swallow, trying to process that. “He didn’t have any ID on him?”
“No wallet, no phone. Nothing to tell us who he is.” The doctor frowns. “Do you know his name?”
You feel a flicker of panic — you barely know anything about him. But you remember something from the ambulance, a faint, slurred sentence buried in the fog of the night. “His first name is Lando,” you say slowly. “He told the EMT that much. I-“ You press your fingers to your temples, frustrated with yourself. “He also said his last name, but I can’t remember it right now. It was … it’s on the tip of my tongue.”
The doctor gives you a sympathetic nod. “That’s all right. At least we have a starting point.” He flips a page on his clipboard. “Lando … okay.” He pauses, then looks at you with a curious expression. “Are you related to him?”
“No,” you say quickly. “I just … I saw the crash and rode with him in the ambulance.”
The doctor tilts his head, studying you for a moment. “It’s unusual,” he says slowly, “but since he doesn’t seem to have anyone else with him … we could make an exception and let you visit him.”
You blink, surprised by the offer. “You would? Even though I’m not family?”
The doctor nods. “Under the circumstances, yes. He’s confused, disoriented. It might help him to see a familiar face — well, at least someone who’s been around since the accident.”
You hesitate for a beat, then nod. “Yeah. I’ll visit him.”
The doctor gives you a small smile, then gestures toward the door. “Follow me.”
Your heart beats a little faster as you trail behind him through the sterile hallways, passing closed doors and curtained-off spaces. The farther you go, the quieter it gets, until the only sounds are the soft squeak of your shoes on the linoleum and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.
Finally, the doctor stops in front of a room and gestures for you to go inside. “He’s still a bit groggy, but you can sit with him for a while.”
You nod, trying to swallow the lump in your throat, and push the door open.
The room is small, dimly lit by a single lamp on the wall. Lando lies in the bed, looking pale and disoriented, his dark curls sticking to his forehead. A bandage is wrapped around his head, and an IV drips steadily from a bag hooked to a pole beside the bed.
You step inside, and his gaze shifts toward you, though it’s clear he’s struggling to stay focused.
“Hey,” you say softly, pulling the chair closer to his bed. “How are you feeling?”
He blinks at you, his expression hazy with confusion. “I … I don’t know,” he mutters, his voice scratchy. “Where … where am I?”
“You’re in a hospital,” you explain gently. “You had a car accident.”
Lando frowns, his brow furrowing. “A car accident?”
“Yeah,” you say, leaning forward slightly. “It was pretty bad, but you’re going to be okay.”
He stares at you for a long moment, his gaze unfocused. “Do I … do I know you?”
You shake your head. “No, we just met — well, kind of. I was there when you crashed. I called for help and rode with you in the ambulance.”
Lando’s lips press together, as if he’s trying to make sense of your words. “Why?”
The question takes you by surprise. “Why what?”
“Why did you … stay?” He asks, his voice barely more than a whisper.
You hesitate, not entirely sure how to answer. “I don’t know,” you admit. “It just felt like the right thing to do.”
Lando gives a small, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes slipping shut for a moment. Then he opens them again, struggling to stay awake.
“You said my name is Lando?” He asks, his voice faint.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “That’s what you told me. Do you … remember anything else?”
Lando shakes his head slowly, frustration flickering across his face. “No,” he whispers. “Nothing.”
You offer him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s okay. It’ll come back to you. You just need to rest.”
He nods weakly, his eyelids drooping.
For a moment, the room is quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the IV drip and the distant sounds of the hospital outside.
“Thank you,” Lando murmurs suddenly, his voice barely audible.
You blink, caught off guard. “For what?”
“For staying,” he whispers. “For not leaving me alone.”
You feel a strange warmth spread through your chest at his words, unexpected but not unwelcome.
“Of course,” you say softly. “I wasn’t going to leave you.”
Lando’s eyes close again, his breathing evening out as he drifts off into an uneasy sleep.
You sit back in the chair, watching him for a moment longer, feeling oddly connected to this stranger — this man whose life, for reasons you can’t quite explain, has suddenly become intertwined with yours.
***
You wake up to the soft click of a door opening. For a moment, you’re disoriented — the sharp smell of antiseptic in the air and the hum of machines aren’t what you expect. Then it all comes rushing back: the crash, the ambulance, Lando.
You straighten in the uncomfortable hospital chair, your neck aching from the awkward position you slept in. A nurse in pale scrubs moves around the room quietly, checking Lando’s IV and jotting notes on her chart. She glances at you and offers a small smile.
“Good morning,” she says softly, like someone used to tiptoeing around the sick and injured.
You blink, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Morning. Is he …”
The nurse nods toward Lando. “Still sleeping. His vitals look stable, though.”
You glance at him. He’s shifted a little in his sleep, curled slightly on his side with the blanket pulled halfway up his chest. His face is peaceful, his breathing steady, and for a moment, it’s easy to forget the chaos of last night.
The nurse scribbles something else on her clipboard. “The doctor will be in soon to check on him. If he’s doing okay, we might start talking about discharge.”
You frown slightly. “Discharge? Already?”
The nurse gives a small shrug. “It’s common. Once someone is stable, there’s no reason to keep them here longer than necessary.”
Before you can respond, the door opens again, and the same physician from last night steps in, looking far more awake and put-together than you feel. He carries a folder tucked under one arm and offers a polite nod as he approaches Lando’s bed.
“Morning,” he says briskly, flipping through the papers. “Let’s see how our patient is doing.”
Lando stirs at the sound of voices, his brow furrowing slightly before his eyes flutter open. He blinks at the ceiling, clearly disoriented, and then his gaze shifts toward you.
“Hey,” you say softly, leaning forward. “How are you feeling?”
He squints at you, like he’s trying to place you in a dream that hasn’t fully faded. “I … I don’t know,” he mumbles. His voice is raspy, as if unused for too long. “Where …”
“The hospital,” you remind him gently. “You were in an accident. Do you remember?”
Lando’s expression crumples with frustration, and he shakes his head weakly. “No. I don’t remember anything.”
The doctor steps closer, setting the folder down on the bedside table. “It’s okay, Lando,” he says in a professional but kind tone. “You’ve had a serious concussion. Amnesia like this is not unusual. It may take some time for your memory to come back.”
Lando doesn’t respond. His hand rests on the blanket, fingers twitching slightly, as if he’s trying to grasp something just out of reach.
The physician clears his throat and flips through the imaging results. “We’ve run more tests, and everything looks good. No fractures, no swelling that we need to be concerned about. Medically speaking, you’re ready to be discharged.”
Lando stares at the doctor, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Discharged? But … I don’t even know who I am.”
The doctor sighs sympathetically. “I know it’s overwhelming, but there’s no medical reason to keep you here. Usually, when patients have amnesia, we recommend that they go home, rest, and be with family until their memory returns.”
Lando lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Right. Except I don’t even know if I have family.”
The doctor exchanges a glance with you, clearly uncomfortable. “We tried contacting local authorities, but without ID, there’s not much we can do to locate anyone for you right now. In the meantime …” He trails off, glancing at his watch. “You’ll need to find somewhere safe to rest. Hospitals aren’t designed for long stays in cases like this.”
You open your mouth to say something, but no words come out at first. A knot twists in your stomach — Lando looks so lost, sitting there in the stiff hospital bed with no memory of who he is or where he belongs.
And then, without thinking, you blurt out, “He can come home with me.”
The words hang in the air for a moment, heavy and unexpected.
Both Lando and the doctor turn to stare at you, identical looks of confusion written across their faces.
“What?” Lando asks, his voice thick with disbelief.
You blink, as if hearing yourself for the first time. “I mean … if he has nowhere else to go,” you say quickly, your heart racing. “It doesn’t feel right just … leaving him like this.”
The doctor looks at you like you’ve just volunteered to adopt a stray animal off the street. “Are you sure about that?” He asks cautiously. “Taking care of someone with memory loss can be challenging.”
You nod before you can second-guess yourself. “I’m sure. I can help him get settled until … until he remembers something.”
Lando’s brow furrows as he tries to process what’s happening. “You’re serious? I can’t even remember my own name, and you’re just … offering to let me stay with you?”
You shrug, trying to play it off like it’s no big deal. “It’s not like I’m going to just let you wander the streets of New York with a concussion.”
Lando huffs a soft laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “You have no idea who I am. I could be a serial killer or something.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Do you feel like a serial killer?”
He pauses, blinking at the question. “No. I just feel … confused.”
“Then we’ll take our chances,” you say, standing a little straighter.
The doctor looks between the two of you, clearly torn. “All right,” he says finally, scribbling something on his clipboard. “We’ll need you to sign some forms for his release. And …” He glances at Lando. “You’ll need to take it easy for the next few days — no strenuous activities, no driving, and absolutely no drinking.”
Lando nods slowly, still looking stunned by the turn of events.
The doctor finishes writing and tears off a sheet of paper, handing it to you. “Here are his discharge instructions. Make sure he rests and drinks plenty of fluids. If there’s any change — headaches, confusion, anything — bring him back right away.”
You nod, taking the paper. “Got it.”
The doctor gives a final nod before stepping toward the door. “A nurse will be in soon to help with the paperwork. Good luck.”
And with that, he’s gone, leaving you alone with Lando in the quiet room.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Lando breaks the silence first. “You’re really doing this?”
You glance at him, and for the first time, you realize how scared he must be — lost in a city he doesn’t remember, with no memory of who he is or where he belongs.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “I’m really doing this.”
Lando’s lips twitch, almost like he’s trying to smile but isn’t quite sure how. “You’re either very brave,” he mutters, “or very stupid.”
“Maybe a little of both,” you admit, and the corners of his mouth lift just slightly.
He looks down at the blanket covering his legs, running his fingers along the edge. “Thank you,” he says quietly.
“You don’t have to thank me,” you reply, standing up and smoothing out your wrinkled clothes. “Just … don’t make me regret it, okay?”
Lando glances up at you, his expression serious now. “I’ll try not to.”
There’s a knock at the door, and a nurse pokes her head in, holding a clipboard. “Ready to go?”
You nod, glancing at Lando. “Ready?”
He takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself for whatever comes next. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”
And with that, the two of you step into the unknown together.
***
The subway car rattles along the tracks, a steady clunk-clunk that fills the silence between you and Lando. He’s seated beside you, his head tilted back against the cold metal pole, watching the city blur past through the dirty windows. His posture is relaxed — almost too relaxed — but you can tell it’s not comfort. It’s exhaustion, both physical and emotional. Every so often, he glances at the other passengers with the wide-eyed caution of someone dropped into an unfamiliar world.
“You okay?” You ask, nudging his arm gently with your elbow.
He turns toward you, slow and deliberate, like even small movements take effort. “I guess. Just feels … weird.” He rubs his temple, the faint crease of a headache forming between his brows. “Everything’s moving so fast, and I can’t tell if that’s the world or just my brain being scrambled.”
“Definitely the world.” You try to smile, hoping it’ll ease some of the weight he’s carrying. “New York doesn’t stop for anyone. You get used to it.”
Lando offers a weak chuckle, but the sound fades quickly. “You do this every day?”
You shrug. “Pretty much. You learn how to block out the noise after a while.”
He leans his head back again, eyes drifting shut as if the conversation itself takes more energy than he has to spare. You glance at him, wondering what’s going through his mind — if he’s terrified, disoriented, or just trying to keep it together for your sake. Maybe all three.
When the subway screeches to a stop at your station, you nudge him again. “This is us.”
Lando blinks awake, dragging himself upright as you both stand. He follows you off the train, into the chaotic swirl of the station. The noise, the movement, the fluorescent lights — none of it fazes you, but you can feel him stiffen beside you as if it’s too much all at once.
You make your way to the stairs, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease, and Lando does his best to keep up. “This city is … a lot,” he mutters as you ascend to street level.
“Yeah.” You glance over your shoulder at him. “But it grows on you. Like a fungus.”
Lando snorts — an actual laugh this time, though it’s still edged with disbelief. “I think I’ll take your word for it.”
The two of you walk in silence for the few blocks to your apartment. It’s late morning by now, the streets bustling with people on errands or rushing to work. You pull your coat tighter against the breeze and glance at Lando, who’s walking beside you with his hands jammed deep into the pockets of the hospital-issued sweatpants.
When you finally reach your building, you unlock the front door and lead him up two flights of stairs. Your apartment isn’t much — a tiny one-bedroom with a narrow kitchen, mismatched furniture, and walls covered in posters and sticky notes. But it’s yours, and for now, it’ll be his too.
“Home sweet home,” you say, pushing the door open and stepping aside to let him in.
Lando hesitates in the doorway, his gaze sweeping the space. “This is where you live?” He asks, his tone curious rather than judgmental.
“Yep. Not exactly a palace, but it works.” You drop your keys on the counter and kick off your shoes, motioning for him to do the same. “Welcome to grad student life.”
He steps inside cautiously, as if the apartment might swallow him whole, and his eyes land on the piles of law books scattered across the coffee table, the kitchen counter, even the armrest of the couch. A legal pad covered in half-finished notes is open on the floor, surrounded by highlighters and empty coffee cups.
“It looks like a library threw up in here,” he says, eyebrows raised.
You let out a laugh, feeling a little self-conscious. “Yeah, sorry. It’s kind of … everywhere.”
He picks up one of the books from the table — Constitutional Law: Cases and Materials — and flips through the pages with an amused expression. “So … you’re a lawyer?”
“Not yet,” you correct, dropping your bag on the couch. “I’m still a student. Columbia Law.”
Lando sets the book down carefully, as if it might bite. “That sounds … intense.”
“It is.” You collapse onto the couch with a sigh, stretching your legs out. “It’s basically my whole life right now. Classes, studying, internships … sleep, if I’m lucky.”
Lando leans against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “You like it?”
You tilt your head, considering the question. “Yeah. I mean, it’s hard as hell, but I do. There’s something … satisfying about figuring things out, solving problems.”
He nods slowly, as if trying to imagine what that kind of life feels like. “So, you’re one of those people. The smart ones.”
You laugh. “I guess that depends on the day.”
Lando’s gaze drifts back to the books, his expression thoughtful. “And you’re just … letting me crash here. Even though you’ve got all this going on?”
You shrug, feeling a little awkward under his scrutiny. “It’s not a big deal.”
He gives you a look — one that says he doesn’t believe you for a second. “It’s kind of a big deal. I mean, I don’t even know who I am, and you brought me home.”
“Well, you didn’t seem like a serial killer.” You grin, trying to lighten the mood. “Plus, I’m pretty sure I could take you if it came down to it.”
Lando chuckles, the sound low and genuine this time. “Right. Because you’ve been training in MMA on the side.”
“Exactly.” You gesture to the couch. “That’s where you’ll sleep, by the way. Sorry it’s not a king-sized bed or anything.”
He glances at the couch, then back at you with a wry smile. “I’ve slept in worse places, I think.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You think?”
He shrugs, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Memory loss, remember?”
“Right.” You laugh, shaking your head. “Guess we’ll both find out what you’re used to.”
Lando walks over to the couch and sinks into it experimentally, testing the cushions. “It’s not bad,” he says after a moment. “I’ll survive.”
“Good. Because I’m fresh out of five-star hotels.”
He leans back, resting his head against the cushion, and closes his eyes for a moment. “Thanks,” he says quietly. “For … all of this. I know it’s weird.”
You wave a hand dismissively. “It’s not that weird.”
Lando opens one eye, giving you a skeptical look. “It’s definitely weird.”
“Okay, maybe a little.” You grin. “But life’s weird sometimes. You just roll with it.”
He chuckles softly, his eyes drifting shut again. “You make it sound easy.”
You watch him for a moment, the way his breathing slows, the tension easing from his shoulders bit by bit. There’s something oddly comforting about having someone else here, even if that someone is a total stranger who just happens to have lost his memory.
“You hungry?” You ask, standing up and stretching. “I’ve got … well, probably just instant noodles, but it’s food.”
Lando cracks a smile without opening his eyes. “Instant noodles sound like a feast right now.”
“High standards, I see,” you tease, heading to the kitchen.
As you fill a pot with water and set it on the stove, you can’t help but glance back at him. He’s still stretched out on the couch, looking more at peace than he has since you met him.
And somehow, in the middle of all this chaos, it feels right.
***
Steam rises from the bowls of instant noodles, curling into the dim air of your apartment. The two of you sit side by side on the couch, knees almost touching, slurping quietly while some mindless local news plays in the background. It’s not much, but there’s something comforting about the simplicity of it. For the first time all day, things feel … normal.
Lando scoops a forkful of noodles, twirling them slowly, like even eating requires focus. “So, this is gourmet cuisine?” He teases, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Hey, these are the premium kind,” you shoot back, nudging him with your elbow. “I even added an egg. That’s high-level cooking.”
He chuckles, the sound soft but genuine, and for a moment you think maybe — just maybe — he’s settling in. But then the newscaster’s voice shifts into something more urgent, drawing both of your attention.
“… the United States Grand Prix is set to take place this weekend in Austin, Texas, with the world’s top drivers arriving to compete in what promises to be a thrilling event …”
The screen cuts to footage of race cars whizzing by, sleek and impossibly fast, engines roaring like angry beasts. Drivers in fireproof suits pose for cameras, and somewhere in the background, a McLaren car gleams under stadium lights.
You glance at Lando. He’s sitting perfectly still, bowl of noodles forgotten in his lap. His eyes are glued to the screen, unblinking, as if the images are stirring something just out of reach — a half-buried memory fighting to resurface.
“Lando?” You say softly.
He doesn’t respond, just stares at the television like it’s showing him the key to his past. His fingers tighten around the bowl, knuckles going white.
“Does that … mean anything to you?” You ask cautiously, setting your own bowl aside. “The race?”
Lando’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. His brow furrows deeply, frustration flickering across his features. He shakes his head slowly, like trying to sift through fog.
“I … I don’t know,” he mutters. “It feels … familiar. Like I should know something about it.”
You lean closer, watching his face carefully. “Do you think it’s connected to you? Maybe that’s-“
“I don’t know!” Lando snaps, his voice sharper than he intended. He winces immediately, guilt flashing in his eyes. “Sorry. I just … it’s right there, you know? Like I’m supposed to know why this matters, but I can’t grab it.”
“It’s okay,” you say quickly, hoping to calm him down. “It’s not your fault.”
Lando drags a hand down his face, breathing hard through his nose. “It’s just … frustrating,” he mutters, voice cracking. “Why can’t I remember? Why can’t I remember anything?”
The sheer helplessness in his voice makes your heart ache. You can see him trying so hard to stay composed, but it’s slipping. He blinks rapidly, his jaw tight, as if he’s on the verge of tears and doing everything in his power not to let them fall.
You set your hand on his arm gently. “Hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to force it.”
Lando shakes his head again, a bitter laugh escaping him. “It’s not okay. I don’t even know who I am. What kind of person forgets their whole life?”
“You’re not broken,” you tell him firmly. “You just had a really bad accident. Your brain’s protecting you, probably — it’ll come back when it’s ready.”
He looks at you, his eyes glossy, and for a moment he seems like a kid lost in a supermarket, scared and trying not to cry. “But what if it doesn’t?” His voice is small, filled with uncertainty. “What if I never remember?”
The vulnerability in his words catches you off guard. It’s strange, seeing someone like him — someone who carries himself like the world should make sense — crumble under the weight of something he can’t control.
You don’t know what to say. What can you say? You’re just a law student who happened to be in the right place at the wrong time. But you can’t leave him in this. You won’t.
“It’ll come back,” you say softly. “And until it does, you’re not alone, okay?”
Lando presses his lips together, nodding slightly even though he doesn’t look convinced. He tilts his head back, blinking hard, as if sheer willpower alone can force the tears away. You see the frustration etched in every movement, the way he clenches his jaw and digs his fingers into his palms.
“Why does this feel so familiar?” He whispers, more to himself than to you. “That car … the race … it’s like I know it, but it’s just out of reach. It’s right there, but I can’t …”
You squeeze his arm, grounding him. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”
Lando exhales shakily, dragging his hands through his messy curls. “I feel … useless. Like I should be doing something, but I don’t even know what.”
“Hey,” you say softly. “You’re not useless. You survived a crash that should’ve been a lot worse. That’s already pretty impressive.”
He lets out a humorless laugh, wiping at his eyes. “Yeah. Real impressive. Can’t even remember my own name.”
“You remembered some of it,” you remind him. “That’s a start.”
Lando looks at you, his expression hovering between gratitude and exhaustion. “You didn’t have to do this, you know. Take me in. Deal with … whatever this is.”
You shrug. “I wasn’t about to leave you on your own.”
He stares at you for a long moment, as if he’s trying to memorize your face — or maybe trying to understand why a stranger would care enough to help him. Finally, he nods, a small but genuine gesture.
“Thanks,” he murmurs. “For everything.”
“Don’t mention it,” you reply, offering him a small smile. “We’ll take it one day at a time, okay? No pressure to remember everything all at once.”
Lando breathes out slowly, as if the weight of the moment is starting to lift, even if just a little. “Okay,” he whispers. “One day at a time.”
The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the hum of the TV filling the space between you. On the screen, the sports segment wraps up, and the anchor shifts to another story — something about a mayoral race you couldn’t care less about. But Lando keeps glancing at the TV, his gaze flickering with something you can’t quite place.
You watch him carefully, wondering what’s going through his mind. Maybe there’s more he remembers, things he can’t quite articulate yet. Or maybe the images of the race just stirred something instinctual — a feeling rather than a memory.
“Do you think …” Lando starts, then stops himself, biting his lip. “Do you think I was supposed to be there? At the race?”
You consider his question carefully. “It’s possible. I mean … maybe. But it’s also possible that it just feels familiar because you love racing. Maybe you were a fan.”
Lando doesn’t look convinced. “It feels … bigger than that. Like it’s important.”
“Well,” you say gently, “if it’s really that important, I’m sure it’ll come back to you.”
He nods, though his expression remains troubled. “Yeah. I hope so.”
You reach for the remote and turn the volume down, hoping it’ll give him some peace. “For now, just try to rest, okay? We can’t solve everything tonight.”
Lando leans back against the couch cushions, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Right. One day at a time.”
You nod, settling back beside him. “Exactly.”
And for a moment — just a moment — the world feels a little quieter. A little more manageable. Neither of you knows what tomorrow will bring, but for now, you’re here. Together. And maybe, for tonight, that’s enough.
***
In Woking, the McLaren Technology Centre buzzes with the usual energy, but today, there’s a frantic undercurrent no one can quite contain. Engineers huddle over laptops, scrolling through telemetry and GPS data. Phones ring at an alarming frequency. It’s as though the entire organization holds its breath, waiting for a disaster they can’t fully comprehend but know is happening.
Zak Brown slams his phone down on the desk in his office, his jaw tight with frustration. “No answer. Nothing. It just goes to voicemail,” he says, pacing. His voice carries out into the open office space, drawing glances from staff nearby.
“Same here,” a voice pipes up from the other side of the room. Andrea Stella looks exhausted, cradling his phone against his ear. “No response to texts. No one at the hotel he was supposed to check into has seen him. And his phone’s not pinging anymore — it’s like it just went dark.”
Zak rakes a hand through his short, cropped hair, then exhales sharply. “We’re five days away from Austin. Five. Freaking. Days. And we’ve lost our damn driver.”
The words hang in the air, heavy with anxiety. The silence is punctuated only by the soft hum of computers and the occasional tap of keyboards. No one dares say what they’re all thinking: If Lando doesn’t show, they’re down a driver for one of the most critical races of the season.
Andrea leans back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He was in New York,” he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else. “Why did he even go to New York? He was supposed to meet us in Austin straight away.”
Zak shrugs, his hands flying in frustration. “Lando said he wanted a couple of days to himself before the race. Some break or whatever. I figured — he works hard, let him have it. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Apparently, the worst did happen.
Over by the giant wall of monitors tracking everything from car data to driver schedules, one of the comms coordinators speaks up. “We haven’t been able to track his car since yesterday. No activity. Not even location pings.”
Zak swears under his breath and turns toward Andrea. “We need to start contingency planning. This is serious. If he’s not in Austin in the next day or so, we’ve gotta be ready.”
Andrea doesn’t reply right away. His mind churns through endless scenarios, none of them promising. Do they scramble to find a reserve driver? Call Pato O’Ward or Ryo Hirakawa? That would be a media frenzy in itself. But that’s a worst-case option — first, they need to find Lando.
“Have we checked his family? Friends? Girlfriends?” Zak asks, rubbing his temples.
“We tried his parents,” Andrea replies with a sigh. “His mum thought he was already in Austin. She hasn’t heard from him in over 24 hours either.”
“Girlfriend?” Zak asks.
“He doesn’t have one.” Andrea’s tone is clipped, as if that fact only makes the situation more frustrating. “He’s not exactly the relationship type.”
Zak mutters another curse. “Christ. He’s alone, halfway across the world, and we have no idea where the hell he is.”
The weight of that statement sinks in. It’s not just that Lando isn’t answering his phone — it’s the growing realization that something might have gone terribly wrong.
***
In another corner of the office, the team’s director of communications, Sophie, types furiously into her laptop. Every time she hits send on an email, another response pings back: negative. Nothing. No one knows anything.
“Has anyone checked the airlines?” She calls out. “If he was flying through New York, maybe there’s a record of him checking in somewhere?”
“We’re working on it,” one of the logistics guys responds, flicking through tabs on his screen. “But it’s hard to get anything without specific flight details.”
Sophie sighs and looks over at Zak and Andrea, who are still pacing near the windows. “Do you want me to draft a public statement?” She asks tentatively. “Just in case?”
Zak freezes. “No. Absolutely not. The second the media gets wind of this, it’ll turn into a circus. We’ll have paparazzi crawling over every hotel and airport in New York. We can’t afford that distraction.”
“But if he doesn’t show soon,” Sophie presses, “we might not have a choice. People will notice if he’s missing from Austin.”
Andrea folds his arms, his expression grim. “We’ve got 48 hours, tops. After that, people will start asking questions.”
Zak rubs his face, exhaustion creeping into his every movement. “Goddamn it, Lando.”
There’s a collective silence as the weight of the situation settles over the room. No one says it out loud, but they’re all thinking the same thing: Something has gone terribly wrong.
Sophie speaks up again, her voice quieter now. “We could … call the local authorities in New York? Just to see if anything’s been reported. An accident or-”
“No.” Zak cuts her off sharply, though there’s no bite behind the word — just fear. He doesn’t want to think about the possibility of Lando being hurt. Or worse.
But Andrea is already nodding. “Do it,” he says to Sophie. “Just discreetly. Don’t mention his name. See if they’ve had any reports matching his description.”
Sophie hesitates, then nods and picks up her phone, already pulling up contact numbers.
Zak looks over at Andrea, his jaw tight. “If something’s happened to him …”
“We’ll find him,” Andrea says firmly, though even he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.
Zak turns to the logistics guy. “Book me the next flight to New York. I’ll go myself if I have to.”
Andrea grabs Zak’s arm. “Wait. If you go running to New York, it’ll raise questions. We don’t want anyone finding out about this before we know what’s going on.”
Zak exhales sharply but nods. “You’re right.” He looks around the room, addressing everyone. “We keep this quiet. No leaks. No media.”
Everyone nods in unison, the weight of the unspoken agreement heavy in the air.
“Sophie,” Andrea says, turning back to her. “If the police don’t have anything … try the hospitals.”
“Already on it,” she replies, tapping at her phone.
Zak mutters under his breath, pacing again. “He better be okay.”
Andrea glances at the clock on the wall. Every second that ticks by feels heavier, more oppressive. The race in Austin is looming, and with each passing hour, their chance of finding Lando before everything unravels gets slimmer.
They have no idea what’s happened, no idea where Lando is, and no one to call for answers. All they can do is wait, and hope.
***
The morning sun streams through the thin curtains, casting a soft glow over your cluttered apartment. The smell of coffee lingers in the air, mixing with the faint sound of toast popping from the toaster. Lando sits across from you at the small kitchen table, his face scrunched in exaggerated misery. He’s been pouting for at least ten minutes now, stirring his cereal like it’s personally offended him.
“You’re seriously leaving me here? Alone?” His voice drips with disbelief, spoon clinking against the bowl. “What am I supposed to do? Stare at the wall? Die of boredom?”
You sigh, lifting your mug to your lips. “You’ll be fine. It’s just a few hours. I need to go to class.”
Lando leans forward, his elbows on the table, making no effort to hide his sulking. “You’re abandoning me.” He looks at you with those big, green eyes — slightly glassy from frustration, or maybe just sleepiness. “I thought we were, you know … friends now.”
“We are friends,” you say, setting your mug down with a small clink. “But friends don’t have to be attached at the hip.”
Lando lets out an exaggerated groan, dragging his hands down his face dramatically. “But what if I forget everything again? What if I walk out the door and just — poof — vanish into thin air?”
You narrow your eyes at him, half-amused. “I think you’ll manage to avoid disappearing for three hours.”
Lando drops his head onto the table with a thud. “I might die.”
“Okay, now you’re being ridiculous.”
He peeks up from where his cheek is squished against the table. “Just let me come with you.”
You pause mid-sip, the words hanging in the air. “To … class?”
“Yes.” He sits up straight, suddenly full of life again. “Take me with you. I won’t make a sound. I’ll just sit in the corner and … blend in. Like a plant.”
You arch a brow, incredulous. “You? Blending in?”
He places a hand over his chest, feigning insult. “I can totally blend in.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t think you’ve blended into anything a day in your life.”
“I’ll prove you wrong,” he declares with a grin, leaning back in his chair. “You won’t even know I’m there.”
You tilt your head, considering it for a moment. The idea is absurd, but it’s not like you haven’t already made enough bad decisions in the past 24 hours. What’s one more?
“You have to promise to be quiet,” you warn, pointing your spoon at him. “No interrupting. No talking to anyone. And definitely no causing a scene.”
Lando raises his hand solemnly, like a kid swearing an oath. “I pinky promise.”
You roll your eyes but extend your pinky anyway. He links his with yours, sealing the deal. His face lights up with the same kind of joy you’d expect from a kid on Christmas morning, and you can’t help but laugh.
“This is the dumbest idea,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing your backpack from the floor.
“You won’t regret it,” Lando says, practically bouncing in his seat.
But as you swing the backpack over your shoulder, something occurs to both of you at the same time.
Lando freezes mid-motion. “Uh … I don’t have any clothes.”
You blink, glancing down at the crumpled sweats he’s wearing — the same ones the hospital gave him. They’re wrinkled, a bit too big, and definitely not suitable for a law class at Columbia.
“Right,” you say slowly, realizing how ridiculous it would look if you showed up with him dressed like … well, that. “You need something better than hospital pajamas.”
Lando looks down at himself, then back at you. “This isn’t exactly suitable for blending in, huh?”
“Nope.” You chew the inside of your cheek, already running through the logistics. “There’s a department store a couple blocks away. If we leave now, we can stop there first.”
Lando grins, clearly pleased with how things are going. “See? Teamwork. This is why you keep me around.”
You scoff. “I didn’t exactly invite you to move in, remember?”
He shrugs, that boyish grin still plastered on his face. “Yet here we are.”
You shake your head, grabbing your keys. “Come on, plant boy. Let’s get you something halfway decent to wear.”
Lando hops up from his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me behind.”
***
The lecture hall hums with the quiet shuffle of notebooks, laptops, and tired law students. You’ve managed to slip in just before class starts, dragging Lando along like a reluctant sibling. After the last-minute stop at the clothing store, he’s now wearing a basic hoodie and dark jeans — simple enough to not attract too much attention. Or so you thought.
Lando’s sitting beside you, fidgeting with the cap of a pen. His leg bounces restlessly, and it hasn’t even been five minutes since the professor started his lecture on tort law.
You whisper sharply, “Stop moving.”
“I’m not doing anything,” he mutters back, spinning the pen between his fingers.
“Yes, you are.”
Lando lets out an exaggerated sigh but tries to stay still — at least for a full thirty seconds — before turning his attention back to the professor. As the professor drones on about duty of care, Lando tilts his head, brow furrowing in confusion.
“This guy sounds like he’s making stuff up,” he whispers under his breath.
You shoot him a warning look. “Shh.”
“No, really. What the hell is a reasonable person? Do they just pick some random dude off the street and ask what he’d do?”
You grit your teeth. “That’s not … just be quiet.”
Lando leans closer, clearly ignoring your plea. “You’d be a terrible lawyer if you tried that argument. ‘Your Honor, my client is a reasonable person.’ What even is that?” His accent makes the sarcasm hit a little harder, like he’s personally offended by the entire concept.
You pinch the bridge of your nose. This was a mistake. A huge, colossal mistake.
The professor is still speaking, explaining negligence, when Lando mumbles again, “So, wait — if someone slips on a wet floor, that’s someone else’s fault? Isn’t that just bad luck?”
“Lando-” you hiss through clenched teeth.
But he’s not done. “And what’s the point of signs if people still sue, anyway? I mean, if it says Wet Floor, what more do you want? A song and dance?”
Your face burns as a few students glance over, trying to suppress grins. You’re sinking lower in your seat, arms crossed tightly, praying to somehow blend into the furniture.
“Are you really paying for this?” Lando continues, oblivious to the daggers you’re glaring at him. “Because you should ask for a refund.”
A soft chuckle ripples from somewhere in the back of the room, and that’s the final straw.
The professor — an older man with wire-rimmed glasses and the tired patience of someone who’s been teaching far too long — pauses mid-sentence. He pushes his glasses up his nose and scans the room until his gaze lands squarely on you. And, unfortunately, Lando.
“Is there … something you’d like to share with the class, sir?”
You want to disappear. Melt into the floor. Be swallowed whole by the ground.
Lando, however, perks up like he’s just been invited to a dinner party. “Yeah, actually.” He leans back in his chair, throwing an arm over the back of it like he owns the place. “I just think it’s weird, this whole idea of liability for something that isn’t always in your control.”
A murmur of interest ripples through the class. Some students are amused, others just grateful for a break from the monotony of the lecture.
The professor narrows his eyes. “And you are?”
Lando flashes a charming grin. “Lando. Just visiting.”
The professor’s lips press into a thin line. “Well, Lando, this is a law class, not a debate club.”
“Isn’t law just debating with fancier words, though?” Lando shoots back, and a few students laugh outright.
You feel the blood drain from your face.
“Okay, that’s enough-” you start, but Lando is on a roll now.
“No, seriously. You’re saying someone can sue if they get hurt even if there was a warning? What’s next — someone sues a crack on the sidewalk because they tripped over it?”
More chuckles ripple through the room. The professor’s patience is clearly hanging by a thread. “That’s not exactly how the law works, young man.”
“Then explain it,” Lando challenges, leaning forward. “Because from where I’m sitting, this sounds like people just want excuses to blame someone else.”
The professor looks genuinely exasperated now. “If you’re not enrolled in this course, I’d advise you to refrain from further commentary.”
You shoot a hand out, slapping it firmly over Lando’s mouth before he can respond. His eyes go wide with surprise, muffled sounds of protest buzzing against your palm.
“I am so sorry, Professor,” you blurt, your face burning hotter by the second. “He’s — he’s not a student. I promise this won’t happen again.”
Lando tries to wriggle free, but you keep your hand firmly planted over his mouth as you yank him up by the arm. His chair scrapes loudly against the floor, and a few students snicker as you drag him toward the exit.
The professor clears his throat, adjusting his glasses. “Let’s continue, shall we?”
You pull Lando through the door and into the hallway, your heart pounding with mortification.
“What the hell was that?” You whisper-yell, spinning around to face him the second you’re out of earshot. “I told you to be quiet!”
Lando’s eyes sparkle mischievously above the edge of your hand, and before you can react, he presses his tongue against your palm.
“Ugh!” You recoil in disgust, jerking your hand away. “Did you just-”
“Did you really think you could keep me quiet that easily?” He grins, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie.
“That is disgusting!” You rub your hand furiously against your jeans.
Lando chuckles, completely unbothered. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”
You glare at him, feeling a mix of anger, embarrassment, and the faintest hint of amusement — though you’d die before admitting it.
“You’re impossible,” you mutter, crossing your arms.
Lando shrugs, still grinning. “You knew what you were getting into when you brought me.”
“No, I absolutely did not.” You shake your head, exasperated. “Do you know how much trouble I could’ve gotten in?”
“But you didn’t,” he points out with a cheeky grin. “I saved the class from a really boring lecture. You should be thanking me.”
You let out a frustrated groan, turning on your heel to storm down the hallway. “Come on, we’re leaving.”
Lando jogs to catch up with you, still laughing under his breath. “Don’t be mad. Admit it — you were kind of impressed.”
“I was not impressed,” you say flatly, pushing open the door to the stairwell.
“Maybe a little bit?” He teases, nudging your shoulder.
“Absolutely not.”
“Aw, come on. I thought we made a great team in there.”
You give him a withering look. “I’m seriously reconsidering this whole arrangement.”
But Lando just grins wider, falling into step beside you. “Nah, you love having me around.”
You roll your eyes as the two of you descend the stairs, already dreading the next conversation you’ll have to endure because of this.
Lando hums, clearly pleased with himself. “So … What’s next? Lunch? Another class? Maybe we try philosophy next. I have so many thoughts.”
You shoot him a look that could kill. “Do not push your luck.”
Lando just laughs, utterly unapologetic. And despite yourself, you feel the tiniest tug of a smile at the corner of your mouth.
***
The halal cart on the corner smells like heaven — charred lamb, grilled onions, and the sharp tang of white sauce hanging in the air. There’s already a small line, but you don’t mind. The break from your chaotic morning with Lando is much needed. He’s standing beside you, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets, rocking on his heels like a restless kid waiting for candy.
“So … this is a New York classic?” Lando asks, glancing skeptically at the handwritten menu taped to the side of the cart.
“Yes,” you say with a little grin. “You’re about to experience lamb over rice with white sauce. It’s practically a rite of passage.”
“Doesn’t sound fancy,” he muses, nose scrunching slightly.
“It’s not. That’s the whole point.”
When it’s your turn, you order two lamb over rices and a couple of sodas, stepping to the side so the next person can order. Lando watches, intrigued as the cart guy flips sizzling meat on the griddle with quick, practiced movements.
“You come here a lot?” Lando asks.
You shrug. “Often enough. Cheap, fast, and good — you can’t beat it.”
He hums thoughtfully, watching the cart guy with curiosity. “And you’re paying for me, huh? You didn’t have to do that.”
“I don’t mind,” you say, handing over cash when the food is ready. The warm, foil-wrapped containers radiate delicious heat against your fingers.
As you hand Lando his food and the two of you walk toward the steps of the Columbia library, he hesitates. “Seriously, I feel bad about it. I should’ve been the one paying.”
You scoff, finding a spot on the wide stone stairs and sitting down. “Yeah, well, you don’t have a wallet. Or, you know, memories. So I think it’s okay.”
He sits beside you, the smell of lamb and garlic wafting between you. “Still.”
You grin, poking your plastic fork into your food. “Tell you what — when your memories come back, you can pay me back. Since you’ve got a McLaren, I’m guessing you can afford it.”
Lando snorts, shaking his head as he unwraps his container. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The two of you dig into your meals, the bustle of the city alive all around. Horns honk in the distance, pigeons coo at your feet, and students filter in and out of the library behind you. There’s something oddly peaceful about it. For the first time since this whole strange adventure started, things feel … easy.
Lando lets out a small noise of appreciation after a few bites. “Okay, this is actually good.”
“Told you.” You grin smugly, scooping more rice onto your fork. “Halal carts don’t miss.”
Lando points his fork at you. “I stand corrected. You New Yorkers know your street food.”
You laugh, taking a sip of your soda. “Damn right we do.”
For a while, the two of you eat in comfortable silence, watching the city move around you. Lando seems at ease, though every so often, you catch him staring into the distance like he’s trying to grab onto something just out of reach — memories that won’t quite click into place.
“How are you feeling?” You ask gently.
He shrugs, poking at his food with his fork. “I dunno. Fine, I guess. Just … frustrated.”
You nod. “It’ll come back. You just need time.”
Lando presses his lips together, looking down at the lamb and rice like it holds the answers to everything. “It’s weird, though. Like-“ He pauses, trying to find the words. “Like I know there’s something I should remember, but it’s just not there. You know?”
“Yeah,” you say softly. “I get it.”
He exhales, leaning back on his hands, his food momentarily forgotten. “It’s just hard not knowing. Who I am, what I do … where I fit.”
You glance at him, the vulnerability in his expression catching you off guard. For a guy who usually hides behind playful grins and cheeky remarks, it’s rare to see him this open, this honest.
“Hey,” you say, nudging his shoulder with yours. “You’re fitting just fine right here. No pressure to remember anything right now.”
He gives you a small, grateful smile. “Thanks.”
You finish the rest of your food in easy companionship, the city buzzing quietly around you. It feels surprisingly normal — two people sitting on the library steps, eating street food, and talking like old friends.
When the last bite of lamb is gone and the containers are crumpled into a nearby trash bin, you stretch your legs out with a sigh. “So, my classes are done for the day. What do you wanna do now?”
Lando perks up, a glimmer of excitement lighting his face. “Central Park. I’ve always wanted to see it.”
You arch a brow. “Always?”
He shrugs, grinning. “Well, maybe not always. But it sounds cool, right?”
You smile despite yourself. “It’s a big park, Lando. Hope you’ve got good walking shoes.”
Lando glances down at his new sneakers, wiggling his feet experimentally. “I’m ready.”
You laugh, standing and brushing crumbs off your lap. “Alright, let’s do it.”
With that, the two of you head toward the subway, blending into the rhythm of the city — just another pair of people wandering through the streets of New York, trying to figure things out one step at a time.
***
The two of you stand side by side, leaning over the railing at the penguin exhibit in the Central Park Zoo. A group of them waddles awkwardly around their little habitat, sliding on their bellies and plunging into the water with clumsy grace. Lando is completely captivated, his eyes wide and bright as if he’s seeing penguins for the first time.
“Look at that one,” he says, grinning as a particularly rotund penguin flops dramatically into the pool. “That’s me. That one right there.”
You laugh. “I can see the resemblance.”
Lando bumps his shoulder against yours, the cold October air carrying his playful energy. “If I don’t remember anything about myself, maybe I was secretly a penguin enthusiast.”
“Honestly, not the worst thing to be,” you say, smiling. “Could be worse.”
For a while, the two of you fall into an easy rhythm — watching the penguins dive and splash, swapping silly theories about what your hypothetical future careers as zoo employees might look like. The peace is nice, a soft pocket of calm in the buzz of New York.
And then it happens.
“OH MY GOD, it’s Lando Norris!”
The shout comes from somewhere behind you. At first, you don’t think it’s directed at either of you. But when you turn, a small group of teenage girls is staring directly at Lando with wide eyes, their phones already out and recording.
Lando looks at them, blinking in confusion. “Uh … hi?”
The girls rush over, bouncing with excitement. “We can’t believe it! You’re really here! In New York!”
Lando glances at you, bewildered, then back at the girls. “Uh … yeah?”
“Can we take a picture with you?” one of them asks breathlessly, clutching her phone like a lifeline.
Lando hesitates, clearly confused but not wanting to make a scene. “Sure?”
Before you can react, they surround him, taking selfies and giggling like it’s the best day of their lives. Lando flashes an awkward smile for each photo, looking like he’s trying to keep up but not fully understanding what’s happening.
You stand to the side, watching in stunned silence as this bizarre moment unfolds. Lando Norris. Why does that name sound so familiar?
“Thank you so much!” The girls squeal once the photo session ends. One of them waves as they walk away. “Good luck at the race!”
The girls disappear into the crowd, still giggling, leaving Lando standing next to you with a stunned expression. He blinks a couple of times, as if trying to make sense of what just happened.
“Well.” He turns to you, his confusion melting into a crooked grin. “I guess I’m famous.”
You let out a breathless laugh, your mind already working overtime. “Hold on.” Grabbing your phone, you quickly open the browser and type his name.
The results load instantly — articles, social media posts, fan pages. The screen fills with photos of Lando, all of them unmistakably him, usually grinning in front of race cars or holding trophies. There’s even a photo of him standing next to a sleek McLaren, looking impossibly proud.
You turn the screen toward him. “So … apparently, you’re a Formula 1 driver.”
Lando stares at the phone like it’s showing him a ghost. “Formula 1 …”
You scroll further down the page, reading headlines aloud. “‘Lando Norris: McLaren’s Rising Star.’ ‘Lando Norris on Racing, Pressure, and Fame.’ ‘The Young British Driver Taking Formula 1 by Storm.’” You glance at him. “Now the McLaren makes sense.”
Lando rubs the back of his neck, clearly overwhelmed. “I … I don’t remember any of this.”
You bite your lip, piecing things together. “Wait — right after the crash, when you were all out of it, you kept saying you were a race car driver. I thought you were just some rich kid talking nonsense.”
Lando blinks a few times, as if the memory is just out of reach. “I guess I wasn’t.”
The two of you fall into stunned silence, the realization hanging heavy in the air. It’s surreal. One minute, Lando was just some lost guy with no memory, and now — he’s apparently a professional race car driver with fans, fame, and a career you didn’t even know existed.
“This is insane,” you mutter, scrolling through the search results. “How does someone just … forget all of this?”
Lando is quiet beside you, staring at the screen like he’s trying to force the memories to come back through sheer willpower. Then, suddenly, his expression shifts — panic flashing in his eyes. “Wait. What did those girls say? Something about a race?”
You scroll back up to check the news alerts. “Yeah. The United States Grand Prix. It’s happening this weekend.”
Lando’s face pales. “This weekend?”
You nod, your heart starting to race along with his. “Yeah. In Austin.”
Panic settles over him like a weight. “I have a race. In a few days. And I still don’t remember anything.”
You place a hand on his arm, trying to steady him. “Hey, hey — breathe. We’ll figure this out, okay? You don’t have to remember everything right now.”
Lando lets out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “How am I supposed to race if I don’t even remember racing?”
You can see the fear in his eyes, the way he’s gripping the railing like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He’s not just scared — he’s terrified.
“One thing at a time,” you say gently. “First, we need to contact someone from your team. They’ve probably been looking for you.”
Lando gives a small, panicked laugh. “Great. That’ll be fun to explain — ‘Hi, sorry, I forgot who I was and ended up in New York.’“
You squeeze his arm reassuringly. “They’ll just be glad you’re okay.”
He looks at you, his expression softening slightly. “Thanks. For … you know, everything.”
You offer him a small smile. “Don’t mention it.”
But as the two of you stand there, the enormity of the situation settling between you, you know things are only going to get more complicated from here. Because Lando Norris isn’t just some random guy who lost his memory — he’s a professional athlete with a career that’s still waiting for him.
And somehow, you’ve become a part of the chaos.
***
The McLaren garage in Austin is buzzing like a kicked anthill. Mechanics are running diagnostics on car components, engineers are gathered around laptops, and team managers are huddled over plans, but there’s a thick tension under it all. They’re missing something — or someone — and every minute that passes without word from Lando tightens the knot of stress across the paddock.
In the team’s motorhome, the director of trackside operations, Mark, leans over a table, muttering something about flight records to a colleague. Then his phone buzzes.
“It’s Liz from Woking,” the other man says, reading the caller ID. “Should I-”
“Put it through.” Mark gestures impatiently. “Maybe she’s heard something.”
The line clicks, and Liz’s voice comes through, brisk and professional but with an undertone of hesitation. “Hey, Mark, we just got a call from someone claiming to know where Lando is.”
Mark freezes. Every eye in the room turns toward him. “What do you mean ‘claiming’?”
“They’re saying Lando is with them in New York,” Liz continues. “Should I patch them through to you?”
Mark’s heart jumps. “Do it. Now.”
The seconds feel like hours until there’s a mechanical click, and then-
“Hello?” Your voice crackles over the speaker, sounding cautious but steady. “Is this the McLaren team?”
Mark exchanges a sharp glance with one of the engineers before answering. “Yes. This is Mark, McLaren’s director of trackside operations. Who is this?”
You take a breath, clearly trying to keep your nerves in check. “I, uh, my name’s Y/N. I’m with Lando.”
There’s an audible shift in the room. Mark presses his palm to the table, leaning forward as though proximity to the phone will help him make sense of this. “With Lando? As in — he’s there with you, right now?”
“Yeah,” you say, and then your voice turns muffled for a second, like you’re whispering. “Lando, say hi.”
There’s a beat of silence, then a familiar voice chimes in, unsure but undeniably Lando’s.
“Hi.”
The tension in the room cracks wide open, releasing a mix of shock, disbelief, and relief. One of the engineers mouths, thank God. Mark pinches the bridge of his nose, a rush of adrenaline surging through him.
“Lando,” Mark says, his tone walking a tightrope between frustration and sheer relief, “what the hell is going on? Where have you been?”
“Uh …” Lando’s voice falters slightly. “I think I got into a bit of a … situation.”
“A situation?” Mark repeats, incredulous. “You’ve been missing for almost two days, mate. Do you know how close we were to filing a missing persons report?”
“Yeah, about that …” Lando trails off, and you jump in, clearly sensing he needs a lifeline.
“Look, we’re really sorry,” you say quickly. “He got into a car accident — he’s okay now,” you add hastily, “but it was bad enough that he, well … he doesn’t remember anything.”
The silence on the other end of the line is deafening. Mark’s brain stumbles over the words. “What do you mean, he doesn’t remember anything?”
“Like, nothing,” Lando mutters, his voice low and frustrated. “I woke up with no memory. Didn’t even know my own name until Y/N told me what it was.”
Mark scrubs a hand over his face, trying to piece it all together. This makes no sense. “And you’re in New York right now?”
“Yes,” you confirm. “He crashed his car here. I found him and brought him to the hospital, and now we’re … um … back at my apartment.”
A pause stretches long and thin. The room in Austin feels too small, the weight of the situation pressing down on everyone.
“Jesus Christ,” Mark mutters under his breath. “Okay. Listen carefully. We need your address. Now.”
You hesitate. “Why do you need it?”
“Because we’re sending someone to get him,” Mark says, not bothering to mask the urgency in his voice. “Lando has a race in less than four days. We need to bring him to Austin yesterday.”
There’s a shuffling noise on your end, and when Lando speaks again, his voice carries an edge of panic. “Wait — hold on, Mark. I don’t remember anything. I can’t race if I don’t even know who I am!”
Mark exhales slowly, softening his tone but not his resolve. “We’ll figure that part out, Lando. But right now, you need to get to Austin. The longer you stay where you are, the worse this gets.”
You cut in, sounding skeptical. “What exactly is the plan here? Because right now, it sounds like you’re asking him to show up for a race with no memory of … well, anything. That doesn’t seem safe.”
Mark drums his fingers on the table, frustration simmering just below the surface. “Look, we’ll handle it once he’s here. This is a controlled situation — we’ll have doctors on standby. But we can’t do anything if he’s stuck in New York.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, a stretch of silence thick with indecision.
“Lando?” Mark prompts, lowering his voice. “Are you okay with this? Do you trust us?”
Another shuffle on the line. “Yeah … I guess. But, Mark, seriously — what if I can’t do it? What if I screw everything up?”
“You won’t,” Mark says firmly, injecting confidence where Lando is clearly lacking. “We’ve got your back, mate. We’ll take it one step at a time. Just stay put, and we’ll sort the rest.”
Lando exhales audibly, like he’s trying to let go of some of the fear gripping him. “Okay.”
Mark straightens, sensing the conversation wrapping up. “Good. Now, give us the address, and sit tight.”
You’re quiet for a second, and then, after what sounds like a reluctant sigh, you rattle off your address. Mark scribbles it down, then repeats it to confirm.
“Got it,” he says. “Don’t move from that spot. Zak’s already on his way to pick you up.”
There’s an awkward shuffle, and then your voice returns, tinged with disbelief. “Wait — Zak? As in, the CEO? Your boss is coming here personally?”
“Yes,” Mark replies, dead serious. “And I strongly suggest you both be ready when he arrives.”
Lando groans, and you laugh softly, though there’s an undercurrent of nerves in it. “Well, this is officially the weirdest day of my life,” you mutter.
“Welcome to Formula 1,” Mark says dryly.
The call ends with a click, leaving Mark and the rest of the team in Austin scrambling to prepare. Meanwhile, back in New York, Lando leans back on your couch, his head in his hands, looking like a man who just agreed to something without fully understanding what.
You glance at him, arching an eyebrow. “So … Zak Brown is coming to my apartment?”
“Apparently.” Lando drops his hands and gives you a helpless look. “God, I feel like I’m in so much trouble.”
You snort, half-amused, half-terrified for him. “Yeah, you probably are.”
Lando groans again, flopping dramatically onto the cushions. “This is a disaster.”
You pat his knee in mock sympathy. “Better buckle up. Your life’s about to get a whole lot weirder.”
And with that, you both sit in the strange, buzzing silence — caught between the surreal chaos of what’s coming and the quiet, unexpected bond you’ve built in the middle of it.
***
It’s a little past noon when Zak Brown pulls up in a sleek black SUV outside your apartment building. You watch through the window as he steps out, all business — except for the concerned crease in his brow. Even from up here, you can tell he’s walking with purpose, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders.
Lando stands by the door, peeking through the curtains with you, looking nervous. “What if he hates me?” He mutters, running a hand through his unruly curls.
You glance at him, taken aback. “Why would he hate you?”
Lando shrugs, fidgeting. “I don’t know … maybe because I crashed a car, disappeared for three days, and now I can’t even remember who he is?”
You snort softly, nudging him with your elbow. “Well, when you put it like that …”
There’s a knock on the door. Lando jumps a little, and you exchange a glance before you open it.
Zak is standing there, a commanding presence filling the small hallway. His gaze flickers over you for a moment before locking onto Lando. Relief floods his face, and without a word, he strides forward, wrapping Lando in a bear hug that lifts him a few inches off the ground.
“Thank God,” Zak mutters, voice gruff with emotion. “You had us scared half to death, kid.”
Lando stands there, arms awkwardly pinned to his sides, looking like he’s not sure what to do. Finally, he lifts one hand and pats Zak gingerly on the back, his eyes wide as he meets your amused gaze over Zak’s shoulder.
“Uh, hi?” Lando says, voice muffled against Zak’s chest.
Zak pulls back, his hands gripping Lando’s shoulders as he gives him a once-over. “You alright?” His tone is more businesslike now, eyes searching Lando’s face. “You look … fine, considering what we heard.”
Lando grimaces, glancing at you for backup. “I don’t really feel fine, to be honest. I can’t remember anything.”
Zak’s face tightens, but he quickly shifts his attention to you. “I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done,” he says, his voice warmer now. “If you hadn’t been there … well, I don’t even want to think about it.”
You wave it off, feeling a little awkward under the weight of his gratitude. “It’s no big deal. Really. I just did what anyone would’ve done.”
Zak raises an eyebrow. “I’m not so sure about that. You went above and beyond. We owe you.”
Lando fidgets next to you, his fingers tapping against his leg. “So … what now?”
Zak turns back to him, his expression softening. “Now, we get you back to Austin. You’ve got a race in a couple days, and we need to figure out what we’re dealing with here. Doctors, specialists … we’ll take care of you.”
Lando’s face falls, panic flitting across his features. He glances at you, then back at Zak. “Wait, what? You mean we’re leaving … now?”
Zak nods. “Yeah. We’ve got to get you back to the team as soon as possible.”
Lando looks back at you, his face pale. “But … I don’t want to go alone.”
Zak blinks, clearly not expecting that. “You won’t be alone. The whole team is there.”
Lando shakes his head, his voice tightening with anxiety. “No, I mean … I don’t know anyone. Except …” He trails off, looking at you again.
You meet his gaze, unsure of what he’s asking, and suddenly, you get it.
“No,” you say quickly, raising your hands in surrender. “I can’t — I have classes, and-”
“Can she come with us?” Lando blurts out, cutting you off.
Both you and Zak stare at him, equally surprised.
Zak is the first to recover, blinking as though trying to process the request. “You want her to come with us to Austin?”
Lando nods, his eyes pleading as he turns to you. “Please. I don’t-” He hesitates, swallowing hard. “I don’t want to go by myself. You’re the only person I feel like I know right now.”
You open your mouth to argue, but the words get stuck in your throat. You’ve spent the last couple of days trying to help this guy, thinking he’d recover and everything would go back to normal. But now, with him looking at you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, it feels like the ground’s been pulled out from under you instead.
Zak looks at you expectantly. “Well? What do you think?”
You stare at both of them, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on you. On one hand, this isn’t your problem. Lando has an entire team, an entire life waiting for him in Austin. He doesn’t need you tagging along. But on the other hand … the thought of leaving him now, when he’s so lost and vulnerable, feels wrong. You’ve been his lifeline — whether you wanted to be or not — and something inside you can’t shake the feeling that maybe he still needs you.
You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I guess I can watch my lectures online …”
Lando’s face lights up, and Zak claps his hands together. “That settles it, then,” he says, already moving toward the door. “Go pack a bag. We’ll head out as soon as you’re ready.”
You stand there for a second, still processing the fact that you just agreed to go to Austin with a guy you barely know, who also happens to be an amnesiac F1 driver. This was not how you saw your week going.
“Are you sure about this?” You ask Lando quietly, once Zak steps outside to make a phone call.
Lando nods, his expression sincere. “Yeah. I don’t know what’s going on, but … I know I feel better when you’re around.”
Your heart stutters at that, a warmth spreading through your chest despite yourself. You nod and turn toward your bedroom, trying not to let him see how much that simple admission has affected you.
“Give me ten minutes,” you say over your shoulder.
Lando watches you disappear into your room, relief clear on his face. “Take your time.”
Ten minutes later, you’re standing at the door with a hastily packed duffel bag slung over your shoulder. Zak reappears, finishing a phone call, and gestures toward the SUV. “Let’s get moving. We’ve got a plane waiting.”
The ride to the airport is mostly quiet, though Lando keeps glancing at you every few minutes, like he’s still making sure you’re real and actually there. You catch him doing it once, and he quickly looks away, pretending to fiddle with his seatbelt.
Zak notices too, but doesn’t say anything, just tapping away on his phone, presumably giving updates to the team in Austin.
When you finally board the private jet, it hits you all over again how surreal this entire situation is. The plush leather seats, the quiet hum of the engine, the fact that you’re flying across the country with a Formula 1 team because their driver has amnesia and apparently needs you to hold his hand through it all. It’s like something out of a weird dream.
Lando sits next to you, his knee bumping yours every so often as the plane takes off. He doesn’t seem to notice, too busy staring out the window, lost in his own thoughts. You wonder what’s going through his head — how it must feel to have your entire life ripped away, every memory and experience erased, leaving you with nothing but confusion and panic.
You’re pulled from your thoughts when Zak leans over the seat, giving you both a small, tight smile. “We’ll be landing in Austin in a few hours. The team’s already been updated on the situation, so we’ll go straight to the hotel and get Lando checked by the doctors.”
Lando nods, but he still looks uneasy. You reach out and give his arm a gentle squeeze, trying to offer some comfort. “We’ll figure it out,” you say quietly.
He glances at you, his expression softening. “Thanks.”
Zak watches the two of you for a moment longer, then leans back, leaving you in a strange, charged silence as the plane continues its journey toward the unknown.
***
The jet lands with a smooth touch on the tarmac at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport, and Zak is already up and moving before the wheels fully stop.
“Alright, let’s get moving,” he says briskly, shooting a glance back at Lando and you. His voice leaves no room for hesitation.
Lando is sitting rigidly in his seat, his fingers anxiously tapping against the armrest. As soon as the cabin door opens and the humid Texas air floods in, Zak gestures for both of you to follow. Lando shoots you a nervous glance before suddenly reaching for your hand, gripping it like a lifeline.
You raise your brows but don’t pull away. “Lando?”
“Don’t let go,” he whispers, his voice tight. “Please.”
The plea is quiet, almost childlike, and something about it tugs at your heart. You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’m right here. Let’s go.”
Zak, halfway down the steps of the jet, turns impatiently. “Come on, you two!”
Lando pulls you along, practically dragging you after him. His steps are uneven, like he can’t decide whether to sprint away from everything or freeze in place. By the time you reach the black SUV waiting on the tarmac, Lando’s breathing is shallow, his grip on your hand almost too tight. You climb into the backseat with him, his knee bouncing anxiously as the driver pulls out toward the city.
When you arrive at the Hilton in downtown Austin, Zak wastes no time, herding you both through the polished lobby and straight to a large conference room on the second floor. The door swings open to reveal what looks like a pop-up medical center.
There are exam tables, diagnostic equipment, and at least half a dozen physicians and specialists, all dressed in clinical whites and branded team gear. The air smells faintly of antiseptic, and the hum of low conversations fills the space. Everyone is focused and efficient — like they’ve done this before, just not with a driver who can’t remember anything.
Lando stops dead in his tracks at the entrance, his hand still gripping yours. His eyes dart around the room, wide and glassy, like a deer in headlights.
Zak claps him on the shoulder. “Right, Lando. They’re just going to check you over, make sure everything is good before the race.”
Lando stares at him. “What race?” His voice is strained, barely above a whisper.
Zak’s smile is tight, his patience visibly thinning. “The Grand Prix. On Sunday. We’ve got three days to get you ready.”
Lando takes a step back, bumping into you. “How … how am I supposed to race?” He stammers, his voice cracking. “I don’t even remember what racing is. How do you expect me to get in a car and drive it? What if I crash? What if I-”
He’s spiraling, and you can feel it. His breathing is coming faster now, his grip on your hand becoming painfully tight.
“Lando,” you whisper, squeezing his hand. “Breathe, okay? Just breathe.”
But it’s like he can’t hear you. His chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid bursts, his other hand gripping the hem of his shirt so tightly his knuckles turn white.
“I can’t do this,” he mutters, shaking his head over and over again. “I don’t even know how to be me. Everyone’s acting like I’m supposed to just jump back into my life, but I-” He cuts off, his throat tightening.
Zak opens his mouth, likely to say something firm and pragmatic, but before he can, the door swings open again, and someone strides in.
“Lando?”
A young man in casual team gear stands at the door, blinking as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing. His brown hair is slightly tousled, and there’s a look of cautious relief in his eyes.
Lando stiffens beside you, his breath catching. He stares at the newcomer, recognition flickering in his eyes — not in the form of memory, but in the way his entire body seems to relax at the sight of him.
“Who-” Lando starts, his voice unsteady.
The young man steps forward, concern written all over his face. “It’s me. Oscar.”
Lando doesn’t move for a moment, frozen in place. Then, slowly, as if something instinctive clicks into place, he takes a step toward the other man.
“Oscar …” he murmurs, testing the name on his tongue.
Oscar closes the distance between them in two quick strides and pulls Lando into a tight, firm hug. And just like that, Lando melts into it. His whole body seems to deflate, the tension draining from his muscles as he leans into Oscar’s embrace.
“Fucking hell, mate,” Oscar mutters against his shoulder, giving him a hard squeeze. “We were all freaking out. You had us worried sick.”
Lando doesn’t say anything, just clings to Oscar like a lifeline, his face buried in the other man’s shoulder. It’s the first time you’ve seen him fully relax since the accident, and it takes you by surprise how much it affects you.
Zak clears his throat, and Oscar finally pulls back, though he keeps a steadying hand on Lando’s shoulder.
Lando wipes at his eyes quickly, like he’s embarrassed to have broken down in front of everyone. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I … I don’t remember you. But you feel … familiar.”
Oscar gives him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s okay. We’ll figure it out, yeah? One step at a time.”
Lando nods, biting his lip, and you can tell he’s trying to keep it together.
Zak claps his hands. “Right, now that we’ve had our reunion, we need to get started. Oscar, you can stick around, but these guys need to run some tests.”
Oscar gives Lando’s shoulder one more squeeze before stepping aside to let the medical team take over. You start to follow, but Lando’s hand shoots out, grabbing yours again.
“Stay,” he whispers, his eyes pleading.
You nod, squeezing his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The next couple of hours are a blur of activity. Lando sits through blood tests, brain scans, vision checks, and reflex tests, all the while clinging to your hand like a lifeline. Every now and then, Oscar cracks a joke or nudges Lando with his elbow, trying to make him smile. And somehow, it works. You can see the flickers of trust between them — something unspoken and unbreakable, even if Lando doesn’t remember it yet.
When the doctors finally wrap up, Zak reappears, looking satisfied with the reports. “You’re good to go, Lando. Rest up tonight. You have free practice tomorrow.”
Lando’s face pales again. “Practice? For the race?”
Zak nods. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll be fine. It’ll come back to you once you’re in the car.”
Lando looks far from convinced, but Oscar slings an arm around his shoulders. “I’ll be with you the whole time, mate. We’ll take it slow, alright?”
Lando exhales, nodding slowly. “Okay.”
You give his hand one last squeeze before finally letting go, your heart heavy with the knowledge that Lando’s world is slowly pulling him back in — whether he’s ready or not.
***
Friday arrives under the blinding Texas sun, and the paddock at the Circuit of the Americas is alive with the hum of activity. The smell of hot asphalt, rubber, and gasoline fills the air, and everything seems to move at hyperspeed — mechanics adjusting tires, engineers tapping furiously on laptops, and cameras catching every moment of the weekend’s unfolding drama.
In the McLaren garage, Lando stands rooted in place, wide-eyed and tense, staring at the papaya-colored car being prepped for free practice. His race suit feels suffocatingly tight, and every instinct in his body is screaming at him to run.
“Mate, you’ve got this. It’ll come back to you,” Oscar says from beside him, squeezing Lando’s shoulder.
Lando swallows hard, feeling the sweat bead on his brow beneath the weight of his helmet in his hands. He glances at the car and then at Zak, who gives him an encouraging nod. Everyone around him looks so calm — like this is all normal, like this is exactly where he belongs.
But the thing is, he doesn’t remember if this is where he belongs. His stomach churns with fear, twisting tighter with each glance at the sleek machine waiting for him.
“I don’t think I can do this,” Lando mutters, just loud enough for you to hear. His voice is thin, almost lost beneath the noise of the garage. “What if I mess up? What if I crash? What if-”
“Lando.”
He turns, eyes full of panic, and you step closer, careful to keep your voice steady. “Breathe. Just … take a second. You don’t have to think about the race right now. Just the practice. One lap at a time. One corner at a time.”
He clenches his jaw, struggling to keep his composure. “But what if I forget what to do? I still don’t even remember who I am.”
“You’re Lando Norris,” you say firmly. “And I know you’ve got this. Maybe your brain doesn’t remember, but your body does.”
Lando’s lip twitches, caught between a nervous laugh and a scoff. “That’s easy for you to say.”
“Hey.” You nudge his shoulder with yours. “You said it yourself yesterday — racing must mean something to you. Your body knows what to do. You just have to trust it.”
He stares at you for a moment, lips parting slightly like he wants to argue, but something in your expression makes him pause. He takes a deep breath, nodding slowly. “Okay,” he whispers, though it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.
Just then, one of the mechanics gestures toward the car. “It’s ready, mate. Time to hop in.”
Lando’s hands tremble slightly as he adjusts his helmet under his arm. Zak gives him an encouraging clap on the back, and Oscar leans in close. “I’ll be right there with you during practice. You’re not alone in this, okay?”
Lando nods, though his eyes are still clouded with uncertainty.
The mechanics pull back the steering wheel and lift it out of the cockpit, making room for him to slide in. Lando stares at the narrow seat, frozen for just a second too long, before your voice cuts through the haze of his fear.
“You don’t have to be perfect, Lando. Just be you.”
Something about those words seems to reach him. He sucks in a breath, gives you a tentative nod, and finally, slowly, lowers himself into the cockpit.
And just like that, something shifts.
The moment his body settles into the molded seat, his fingers finding the familiar feel of the wheel, it’s as if a switch is flipped inside him. His shoulders relax slightly, his hands seem to know exactly where to rest, and his feet instinctively press against the pedals like they belong there. He rolls his neck side to side, the movements fluid and natural — like he’s done it a thousand times before.
The mechanics lean in to fasten his harness and replace the wheel, and Lando doesn’t flinch, his attention shifting to the world through the narrow slit of his helmet. His hands tighten around the wheel, and without thinking, he taps one of the buttons to bring up a setting on the dash.
Zak notices the small motion and smiles. “There he is.”
Oscar leans down beside the cockpit and grins. “Told you, mate. It’s muscle memory. You’re already in the zone.”
Lando doesn’t reply, but you can see the faintest flicker of something like relief in his eyes. His breath evens out, and some of the tension in his posture melts away.
You step closer to the side of the car, giving him a thumbs-up. “See? Like riding a bike.”
He turns his head slightly toward you, the corners of his mouth twitching under the helmet. “Except a bike doesn’t go 300 kilometers an hour.”
“Details,” you say with a grin.
One of the engineers taps his headset. “Alright, Lando. Fire it up. We’ll do a systems check before you head out.”
Lando takes a deep breath, then hits the ignition button. The engine roars to life with a deafening growl, vibrating through the air and rattling the walls of the garage. You jump slightly at the sound, but Lando doesn’t even blink. His eyes are locked straight ahead, his grip on the wheel steady.
It’s like watching a different person — the nervous, unsure Lando from earlier fading into the background as something sharper, more focused, takes its place.
The mechanics give a few final nods, signaling everything is good to go. The team radio crackles to life in Lando’s ear.
“Alright, Lando. Systems look good. Let’s roll out and get some laps in. We’ll ease into it.”
Lando’s fingers tap lightly against the wheel, a gesture that feels almost unconscious. He glances over at you one last time, his eyes peeking through the visor.
“You’ve got this,” you tell him, your voice steady and sure. “Just drive.”
For the first time since you met him, Lando’s smile reaches his eyes. It’s small and fleeting, but it’s there — a glimpse of the person buried beneath the fear and confusion.
“Thanks,” he murmurs through the helmet, his voice crackling over the radio.
You step back as the mechanics lower the car off its jacks. The tires touch the ground with a solid thunk, and the sound of the engine revving fills the garage.
“Let’s do this,” Lando says, more to himself than anyone else. And with that, the car rolls forward, smooth and controlled, out of the garage and into the sunlight of the pit lane.
You stand at the edge of the garage, watching as the papaya car disappears around the corner, the roar of the engine fading into the distance. Your heart pounds in your chest, a strange mixture of pride and nerves settling in your stomach.
“He’ll be fine,” Zak says from beside you, watching the car with a knowing smile. “He always is.”
You exhale slowly, still gripping the edge of the garage wall. “I hope so.”
As Lando’s car speeds down the track for the first lap of free practice, a thought strikes you — he might not remember who he is right now, but in this moment, behind the wheel of that car, he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.
And somehow, you know he’ll figure the rest out from there.
***
Saturday arrives with the buzz of excitement hanging thick in the air, the kind that only race weekends can bring. The Texas sun beats down mercilessly on the Circuit of the Americas, and the grandstands are packed, fans waving flags, faces painted with bright colors, and anticipation radiating from the crowd. The tension in the McLaren garage is almost palpable.
Lando sits in the cockpit of his car, visor down, hands relaxed but ready on the steering wheel as Q3 begins. The roar of engines fills the track as the remaining drivers fight for the top starting positions for the sprint race. It’s fast, intense, and unforgiving. There’s no room for hesitation here — only precision and instinct. And for the first time in days, Lando feels like himself again — or at least the closest version of it.
But there’s still a wall in his mind, blocking the memories of who he is beyond this moment, beyond the car. His hands know what to do. His feet know where to place pressure on the pedals. But his brain? It still feels like a stranger.
“Alright, Lando,” his engineer's voice crackles through the radio. “We’ve got time for two more flying laps. Let’s go get it, mate.”
“Copy that,” Lando replies, voice steady.
The tires squeal as he tears down the straight, the roar of the engine vibrating through every bone in his body. He weaves through the first sector like a painter brushing strokes across a canvas, flowing naturally from apex to apex. For those watching, Lando Norris looks like a man on fire — quick, precise, unrelenting. But inside his helmet, he’s still scrambling.
The team radios him updates as he pushes through his first timed lap, green and purple sectors lighting up on his dash. But something still feels off. There’s a pressure building in his chest, like an itch at the back of his mind that refuses to surface.
“Sector 2 looking great, Lando. Keep it together, and we’ve got a chance at pole.”
He doesn’t respond — can’t respond. The itch is growing stronger. A spark flares at the edges of his consciousness, like a door creaking open just a sliver. His grip tightens on the wheel as he flies through the penultimate corner.
And then, it happens.
The door in his mind swings open with the force of a tidal wave, flooding him with memory after memory. It’s overwhelming — flashes of moments, feelings, names, faces. The accident. The ambulance. You.
He remembers everything.
“Holy fuck!” Lando’s voice bursts through the radio, excitement crackling through every word. “I-I remember everything!”
There’s a stunned silence on the other end of the line before his engineer’s voice comes back, laced with disbelief. “Lando? You’re saying-”
“Yeah, yeah — everything!” Lando’s laugh is almost hysterical, pure joy and disbelief pouring out of him. “I know who I am. I know where I am. Oh my god, I can’t believe this!”
“Lando, that’s — well, fantastic, mate!” The engineer’s relief is obvious, but there’s no time to dwell. “Alright, focus. One more corner. Bring it home.”
And just like that, Lando snaps back into race mode. His hands feel lighter on the wheel, his body moves with an ease that’s almost poetic. He barrels down the final straight with precision, pushing the car to its limits.
The crowd erupts as he crosses the finish line.
“P1, Lando! P1!” His engineer shouts, barely able to contain his excitement. “You’ve put it on pole, mate!”
Lando lets out a whoop of joy, thumping the side of the steering wheel. “Let’s go!” He shouts, the exhilaration bubbling over. “Pole position, baby!”
The car rolls back into the pit lane, where the team is already waiting for him, cheering, clapping, and slapping the side of the car in celebration. Lando pulls himself out of the cockpit, yanking off his helmet and balaclava. His curls are a sweaty mess, his face flushed from the heat, but his grin is unstoppable.
He barely has a moment to catch his breath before you come rushing through the crowd toward him.
“You remembered?” You ask breathlessly, searching his face, your own eyes wide with disbelief and relief.
Lando laughs, nodding as he sweeps you into a hug without hesitation. “Yeah, I remembered!” He says, voice muffled into your hair. His arms are tight around you, grounding himself in the moment, as if letting go might make everything disappear again.
You let out a laugh, part relief, part disbelief. “That’s amazing, Lando!”
When he finally pulls back, there’s something softer in his expression — a gratitude so deep it’s hard to put into words. He stares at you for a moment, as if committing every detail of your face to memory.
“I don’t even know where to start,” Lando says, his voice dropping into something more serious, more heartfelt. “I — thank you. For everything.”
You shake your head, trying to wave off his words, but he grabs your hand, holding it tightly between his. “No, seriously. I may have forgotten a lot over the past week, but I’ll never forget you. I mean it.”
His eyes are bright and sincere, and the weight of his words settles warmly between the two of you.
“Well,” you say, trying to lighten the mood, “I guess you’ll have to pay me back now, huh? I did cover your food and clothes.”
Lando throws his head back and laughs — a real, genuine laugh that feels like sunshine after a storm. “Deal. I owe you big time.”
He squeezes your hand one last time before reluctantly letting go, the roar of the crowd still echoing around you. But in this moment, none of that matters.
All that matters is that Lando is back.
***
The McLaren motorhome is quieter than usual as the race weekend winds down. The buzz of victory and podium celebrations has shifted to a more subdued hum. Lando didn’t make the podium this time — P4 after a frustrating five-second penalty. You’re sitting on one of the couches in the corner, sipping a bottle of water while waiting for him to finish his media duties and post-race obligations.
The screen on the wall is playing highlights from the race, showing flashes of the battles on track, the post-race interviews, and the podium celebrations. You glance at it occasionally, but your mind is elsewhere. The last week has been a whirlwind — meeting Lando, the accident, taking him home, the amnesia, his memories flooding back during qualifying. And now, here you are in Austin, at a Formula 1 race, as if you somehow stumbled into an alternate reality.
When Lando finally walks in, his race suit unzipped down to his waist, hair still damp from sweat, he looks a mix of exhausted and relieved. His eyes find you immediately, and he smiles — a real one, not the half-hearted, media-friendly smile you’d seen him wear earlier.
“Hey,” he says, dropping into the seat next to you. “Sorry that took forever.”
“It’s fine,” you shrug, returning the smile. “You’re the one who had to go talk to like fifty people after a penalty.”
Lando groans, leaning his head back against the couch. “Don’t remind me. I could’ve had a podium today.”
“You still did great,” you say sincerely. “Fourth is nothing to be disappointed about, especially with that penalty.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Lando mumbles, but his eyes flicker with something else — like he’s wrestling with his thoughts. He looks away for a second, then glances back at you, opening his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then closes it again.
You watch him for a moment, the silence stretching between you, comfortable but also heavy with something unspoken. Finally, you break it with a soft chuckle. “Well, I guess this is it, huh?”
Lando straightens slightly, turning to look at you, his brows knitting together. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” you gesture vaguely, “this is where we part ways. You’ve got your life back, and I’ve got … a mountain of reading for law school waiting for me.” You force a small smile, trying to make it lighthearted, but there’s an awkwardness to it.
Lando’s face falls, just for a moment, but it’s enough to make your heart twist. He rubs the back of his neck, looking down at his hands. “Yeah, I guess … I guess so.” He pauses, and when he looks back up, there’s something nervous in his eyes, something hesitant, like he’s not sure if he should say what he’s about to say. “But, uh … I’ve been thinking.”
You raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.
“So, next weekend is the Mexican Grand Prix,” he says slowly, watching your reaction. “And I know you’ve got classes and everything, but …” He trails off, biting his lip, before blurting out, “I’d really love it if you could come.”
You blink, taken aback. “Mexico?”
“Yeah,” Lando says quickly, leaning forward, his hands gesturing as if he’s trying to convince you. “I mean, I’d cover all the travel expenses, of course. And I could get you a paddock pass again so you could hang out in the garage, watch the race from the best spot. It’d be fun.”
You tilt your head, pretending to think it over, though you can already feel your resolve crumbling. “Hmm, I don’t know. I have a lot of lectures to catch up on …”
Lando’s face falls, and he looks genuinely disappointed, his expression bordering on sad. “Oh, right, yeah, of course,” he mumbles, his voice dropping. “I totally get it. You’ve got your school stuff, and I don’t want to-”
“Okay, okay,” you cut him off, laughing softly. “I’ll come.”
His eyes light up immediately. “Wait, really?”
“Yes, really,” you confirm, smiling at his excitement. “I mean, I can watch the lecture recordings online, and it’s not like I get an invitation to a Grand Prix every day.”
Lando’s smile grows, wide and almost boyish in its happiness. “You won’t regret it,” he promises, leaning back with a sigh of relief. “I swear, you’ll have the best time.”
“I’d better,” you tease. “You’re my tour guide, after all.”
Lando chuckles, his body visibly relaxing now that you’ve agreed. “Deal. I’ll make sure you get the full VIP treatment.” He glances at you, then adds with a smirk, “I might even throw in some lunch for good measure.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re really going all out, huh?”
“For you?” Lando grins, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “Of course.”
There’s a brief pause, the playful banter falling into a comfortable silence again, but this time it’s lighter, easier. Lando looks over at you, his expression softening. “I’m really glad you’re coming, though. It’s been a crazy week, and … I don’t know, it just feels better having you around.”
You glance down, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at his words. “Yeah, it’s been a pretty wild week,” you agree quietly.
Lando shifts closer, his knee brushing against yours. “You’ve kind of become my good luck charm, you know.”
You snort. “Good luck? You didn’t even get a podium today.”
He laughs, throwing his head back. “Alright, alright, but still … I feel like everything’s better when you’re there.”
His voice drops slightly, and you look up, meeting his eyes. There’s a sincerity in his gaze, something deeper than just the playful banter that’s been passing between you. It catches you off guard, and for a second, you don’t know how to respond.
But then Lando breaks the tension with a crooked smile, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “So, what do you say? Ready for another adventure?”
You chuckle, shaking your head in disbelief. “I don’t know how I keep getting roped into these things.”
Lando smirks, standing up and offering his hand to you. “What can I say? I’m irresistible.”
You roll your eyes, but take his hand anyway, letting him pull you to your feet. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
He grins, slinging an arm around your shoulders as you walk out of the motorhome together. “Oh, you totally would.”
***
The Mexican Grand Prix is nothing short of electric. The grandstands of the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez are packed with thousands of fans, waving flags, blowing horns, and chanting in unison. The energy in the paddock is unlike anything you’ve seen before, and you can feel it thrumming through your skin as you stand in the McLaren garage, nerves and excitement buzzing through you like static electricity.
Lando had qualified well, putting his car on the front row. And now, after nearly two hours of wheel-to-wheel racing, pit stops, and heart-pounding battles, the chequered flag waves, and Lando wins.
He wins.
The entire team explodes into chaos. Engineers jump from their monitors, hugging each other, cheering, and throwing their hands into the air. Zak claps so hard it sounds like thunder, while others shout and bang on the pit wall. In the garage, you scream, your voice lost in the roar of celebrations, barely able to believe what you’ve just witnessed.
“He did it!” One of the engineers shouts, wrapping you in a quick hug, making you laugh from the sheer joy of it all. The victory feels contagious, like every person in McLaren colors has won alongside Lando.
In parc fermé, the top three cars pull into their designated spots, their engines cooling with a metallic hiss. Lando’s McLaren rolls to a stop in P1, the bright papaya-colored car shimmering under the Mexican sun. As soon as the mechanics signal it’s safe, Lando jumps out, punching the air with both fists, his face stretched into the widest grin you’ve ever seen.
He rips off his helmet and balaclava, his messy curls sticking to his forehead with sweat. You can see the pure, unfiltered elation on his face — he’s won before, but this one feels special. Hard-fought. Hard-earned.
Before you can fully process what’s happening, Lando catches sight of you standing at the edge of the fenced-off area, just outside the celebrating team members. His eyes light up, his grin somehow growing even bigger. And then-
He’s moving toward you.
The crowd, the cameras, the team — all of it fades into the background as Lando beelines straight to you, like you’re the only person in the world he wants to share this moment with. He doesn’t think twice. His arms wrap around you, and before you can say a word, he kisses you.
It’s quick but intense — an explosion of happiness, adrenaline, and pure relief all at once. His lips crash against yours, and for a second, everything stops.
You freeze, wide-eyed, as your brain catches up to what’s happening. Lando Norris — Formula 1 driver who just won the Mexican Grand Prix — is kissing you.
And just as fast as it happened, it’s over.
Lando pulls back abruptly, eyes wide with realization, looking as if he’s just broken every unwritten rule. His face flushes as if he’s mortified, and he stammers, “Oh — oh my God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t — I mean, I wasn’t thinking. I-“
You blink, still stunned, and then — laughter bubbles out of you, light and genuine. You can’t stop it.
“You idiot,” you manage between giggles, shaking your head.
Lando’s face is somewhere between sheepish and panicked, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to find the right words to apologize. But before he can get another word out, you grab the front of his race suit, pull him back toward you, and kiss him again — this time with purpose.
His hands find your waist instinctively, pulling you closer. This kiss is slower, softer, but filled with the same electric energy. Around you, the world erupts — the cameras are flashing, the team is cheering, and the crowd in the stands is losing its mind — but none of it matters.
It’s just you and Lando.
When you finally pull back, both of you breathless, Lando stares at you like he can’t quite believe what just happened. “Does this mean I’m not in trouble?” He asks, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
You laugh, rolling your eyes. “You just won the race, Lando. I think you’re allowed a free pass.”
He leans his forehead against yours, still smiling, his breath coming in short bursts from the exertion of the race and the adrenaline coursing through him. “Best. Weekend. Ever.”
“You’re biased,” you tease, but your heart feels light, like it’s floating somewhere above the grandstands.
“I mean it,” Lando murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly over your waist. “And it’s only the beginning.”
Before you can respond, Zak’s booming voice cuts through the noise. “Hey, lovebirds! Save it for later — we’ve got a podium to attend!”
You both pull apart, faces flushed but smiling. Lando gives you one last look, a mixture of joy, disbelief, and something else — something you can’t quite put your finger on yet. Then, with a wink, he jogs off to be weighed, leaving you standing there, your heart hammering against your ribcage.
And, as you watch him climb onto the top step of the podium, spraying champagne over everyone, you realize that the whirlwind you’ve been caught in with Lando Norris isn’t slowing down anytime soon. And honestly? You’re okay with that.
Are We Still Friends? — Part Four
Pairing: Reader x Azriel
Summary: You navigate the aftermath of your confrontation. Azriel takes his first steps toward making things right.
Warnings: brief mentions of injury, bruises, and physical fighting. nyx being a cute baby. some fun introspection. reader is tired and overwhelmed. az is honest and open (hallelujah)
Word Count: 7k+
Part Three
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
Rhys was trying to be serious.
He truly, truly was.
From behind his polished desk, he looked every inch the High Lord—back straight, jaw tight, fingers drumming against the wood. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again, as though he couldn’t decide where to start.
You shifted in your seat, your body aching in strange places from the fight. The cut on your cheek throbbed and the bruising across your knuckles made every twitch of your fingers tender. But none of it compared to the strain in your cheeks—from holding back a laugh.
Feyre was perched on the arm of a chair beside you, Nyx cradled in her arms, his tiny fingers gripping the fabric of her flowy blouse. She wasn’t looking at you—refusing to, actually. Her gaze was locked firmly on her son, her lips pressed together in a trembling line, but you could see the corners twitching with suppressed amusement. You kept your gaze on her, waiting until the burn of your stare would render too hot for her to ignore.
It didn’t take long.
Feyre’s resolve crumbled as soon as her eyes met yours. She let out a laugh—sharp and bright and loud in the too-quiet room.
Rhys’s head snapped up. “Feyre, please. Not you too.”
Not you too. Morrigan had found the situation just as amusing.
Her laughter only grew, and Nyx joined in, making incomprehensible happy gurgles in response to his mother’s amusement.
“I’m sorry,” she said, though she didn’t sound sorry at all.
She passed Nyx to your open, offering arms, and crossed the room, wrapping her arms around Rhys’s neck. Her cheek brushed against his as she murmured—loud enough for you to hear, “You have to admit it’s funny.”
Rhys groaned, glancing at you. He opened his mouth, probably to protest, but you cut in, your voice laced with mock sternness as you bit back a smile. “Yeah, Rhys. You have to.”
“I don’t have to do anything,” he replied, fixing you with a look. “It is not funny.”
You gasped dramatically, adjusting Nyx in your lap and covering his tiny,pointed ears. “Don’t teach your son it’s okay to lie.”
Another groan. A hand dragged down his face, but his lips twitched as though fighting a losing battle. Finally, with a resigned shake of his head, he muttered, “Alright. Fine. It’s funny. But—
His words faltered.
“I am sorry,” you offered, filling the silence. You raised your free hand solemnly. “I lost my cool. That’s my bad. But in my defense, she really had it coming.”
Rhys casted a look at Feyre, who was leaning against the desk now, a smile still tugging at her lips. He shook his head again, sighing. “Maybe so,” he conceded, “But I can’t have our court’s emissary beating one of our citizens in broad daylight. It’s not a great look.”
“It wasn’t broad daylight,” you corrected, your attention shifting to Nyx as you untangled your hair from his iron grip, grimacing as the motion pulled at your scalp. “The sun was setting by the time we were done.”
Feyre let out another laugh, the sound powerful enough to pull a snort from her.
“And,” you added, “It was, at most, semi-private.”
“Unbelievable,” Rhys muttered, though there was no real heat in it.
Nyx babbled again, his chubby hand reaching for your hair once more.
“Okay, alright,” you said, straightening in your chair. The ache in your body flared as you moved, but you ignored it, your focus on Rhys. “You’re right, Rhys. I have a title and an image to uphold. I should’ve acted better. Tell me how to fix it, and I will.”
Rhys’s gaze lingered on you, as if the longer he stared at you, the easier words would come. Then he leaned back in his chair, his attention flicking to Feyre. They were in each other’s minds, you realized, talking in that way only they could. You could pick up the signs now, even subtle—a faint twitch of her lips, the softening in his gaze, even the rhythm of their blinks syncing up.
Finally, Rhys looked back at you, then down at Nyx, who was still babbling in your lap. When his gaze returned to yours, there was a thread of warmth beneath his voice. “You’re the most, objectively, rational of us all. If you say there was reasoning, then I believe you.”
You gave him a grateful smile.
“We just have to prepare for some damage control,” Feyre said. “It’s not exactly comforting for our citizens to see three of their highest-ranking officials fighting in the streets.”
“Three?” You frowned. “What—”
You were cut off as the door creaked open. All three of you turned as Mor stepped in, a large grin on her red painted lips. She was holding something small in her hand, and when she held it up, the light caught on the all-too-familiar jewelry.
“Don’t forget. She also found these,” Mor sang as she entered fully. She tossed two bracelets into the air, catching both effortlessly before holding them up again for emphasis. “So, I think that’s enough for a pardon.”
Rhys stood, crossing the room in a few long strides as Feyre followed. He took one of the bracelets from Mor, inspecting it carefully.
“What did you find?”
“What Y/n heard was right,” Mor said, rolling the other bracelet between her fingers. “It’s a simple listening charm. Very basic.”
Rhysand hummed. “And how does it work exactly?”
“It’s an anchored spell.”
“What does that mean?” Feyre asked, frowning. “An anchor?”
“It means the spell needs an anchor to function—a tether to keep it active and contained. Like a balloon tied to a string.” Rhys explained, his tone turning clinical. “It’s simple magic. The charm was designed to spy on whoever it was bound to.”
“And it was bound to who? Az?”
”Actually,” Mor said. She nodded towards you. “It was bound to Y/n.”
You weren’t paying full attention, not as you played a game of tug-of-war with Nyx and a strand of your hair. When the words finally hit you, you blinked, glancing between Mor and the bracelet in her hand. “What? On me?”
Mor nodded once more as Rhysand said, “Interesting.”
”And this was in Azriels room?” Feyre asked, looking over at you.
“One of them,” you confirmed. “The other Selene was wearing.”
Feyre’s gaze flicked to the cut across your cheek. “So she put it in Azriel’s room, but bound it to you?”
“No one tends to go into Az’s room.” Rhys frowned. “So she was only interested in conversations you were a part of.”
Of course. A bitter laugh bubbled up, but you clenched your jaw, forcing it down. You reminded yourself of what you’d seen earlier— the insecurity, rather than the malice you’d anticipated. Still, a certain annoyance lingered. Was her relationship with Azriel so fragile that she couldn’t talk to him? Were you so unapproachable that she couldn’t come to you? Instead, she planted a charm. To spy.
”Can I see it?” You asked.
Mor stepped forward, holding it out, and Nyx reached for it first, his tiny fingers desperately grasping at the shiny surface.
“This isn’t for you, buddy,” Mor cooed, crouching slightly. “This is Aunt Y/n’s special bracelet from her secret admirer.”
You shot her a flat look. “Secret admirer, my ass.”
Mor grinned, but her gaze flicked over you briefly, her teasing dimmed by something else—concern, maybe. Feyre stepped forward, lifting Nyx from your lap as you examined the bracelet.
“So what do we do with it now?” You glanced up at Mor.
“I can pay Helion a visit. Break the charm.”
“Alright,” Rhys said, the word accompanied by a considering hum. “But first, let me talk to Selene and Runa—Runa was the other one, right?”
Hearing her name sent a wave of irritation coursing through you. Your grip on the bracelet tightened instinctively as you nodded, the cool metal digging into your palm. You held it out for Mor to take, watching as she then took the second one back from Rhys. He studied you for a moment, his gaze drifting to your clenched fists.
“You’re just too great,” He said with a small grin. It was very father-like in its presentation, like he was trying to cheer up a sad child. “It’s intimidating.”
You rolled your eyes, but his attempt worked— the easy cadence chipping away at the tension in your shoulders, managing to coax a reluctant smile to your lips. “So I’ve been told.”
Your attention shifted to Feyre as she rocked Nyx gently in her arms. His soft breaths had already settled into the rhythm of sleep, and something in you softened at the sight. Your smile deepened, this time warmer, more genuine. Feyre caught your gaze, then glanced at her mate.
“It’s his bedtime,” she murmured, her attention returning to you. “And maybe you could use some rest too.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but Mor cut you off, her hand already brushing against your arm. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said softly, though there was no room for argument in her tone.
“I’m fine,” you tried to insist, but she gave you a look, leading you out of Rhysand’s office. You gave both him and Feyre a quick goodbye.
“Walk or winnow?” Mor asked once you were in the hall, tilting her head.
You thought it over for a brief moment. “Winnow,” you replied.
She nodded in agreement, the corners of her lips curving upwards. “Probably for the best,” she said, “Wouldn’t want you to find another citizen to fight on the way home.”
You moved to swat at her arm in mock indignation, but she was already gone, her laughter echoing faintly as she winnowed away.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
Mor was humming a small tune as she led you to your bedroom. She had a few more items in her hand since the last time you saw her, only a few moments prior.
“Sit,” she instructed, nodding towards your bed. Without waiting for a response, she pulled your chair from the small desk, its legs scraping sharply against the floor. Usually, you might've winced at the sound, but tonight it barely registered. You were too tired, too lost in your own thoughts to be fully aware of your surroundings.
You lowered yourself onto the edge of your bed, hands folded in your lap, watching as Mor set her haul on your bedside table: a first-aid healers kit and a small jar with a golden lid, the faint scent of herbs already wafting from it.
“Whats that?” you asked, motioning towards it as Mor sat down.
“I stopped by Majda’s earlier,” Mor replied, grabbing the jar and offering it to you.
You gingerly took it, running your fingers along the small glass. A healing balm, you gathered from the label, crafted and spelled to sooth the tenderness of injuries. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Of course I did,” she replied, fixing you with a look. She held her hand out in a silent request, and you granted it, placing the jar back in her soft palm. “I ran into Adrin while I was there, too.”
“Oh?”
“Mhm. I think he has a crush.”
Your brows furrowed. “On you?”
“No,” Mor laughed. “On you.” She twisted the lid off, the scent growing stronger, fresher. “This was practically free when I mentioned your name. He says hello, by the way.”
You rolled your eyes at the tone of her voice, at the small quirk in her lip. “How generous of him.”
Adrin was one of Madja’s recent apprentices, a male from the Dawn Court. Over the past year, you’d developed a sort of friendship with him—inevitable, given how often you stopped by Madja’s for elixirs, balms, or to request healing for one of your family members. Adrin was sweet in a way that stood out, especially for someone of his stature and wealth. Humble, easy to talk to. You’d always enjoyed your small conversations with him, none of which had ever felt particularly flirtatious.
But Mor liked to do this—tease you about romantic prospects where there were none.
“He seemed very sad to hear you were hurt,” she teased, dipping her fingers into the balm. “Here. Give me your hands.”
Reluctantly, you stretched out your hands, knuckles bruised and raw. She took them, her touch gentle as she worked the balm into your skin. It stung at first, then cooled, easing the ache.
“He’s cute,” Mor said lightly, noting your silence. “You should consider it.”
“Mhm,” you replied, not really listening. “Maybe.”
Mor glanced up at you, her hands pausing briefly before she resumed. “What are you thinking about?”
You shrugged and stared down at your hands, tracing the patterns of Mor’s thumbs as she smoothed over the worst of the bruising. “I don’t know. The whole thing, I guess.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t just beat them both.”
A small laugh slipped from you, unexpected. You were quite proud of how diplomatic you’d managed to be given the circumstances— though, you were sure diplomatic wasn’t the word Runa would use.
“I think,” you began, “I just figured it wasn’t worth it. At least with Selene, it wasn’t personal. There’s nothing I could’ve said to her that’d be worse than what I imagine she already tells herself. Runa just… said the wrong thing at the wrong time.”
Mor nodded with an amused smile, tilting your chin up with a finger so she could dab the balm along your jaw. On a hit you hadn’t even noticed until it started throbbing an hour later.
“Still. A listening charm is kind of insane,” she said. Her tone was measured, but you caught the edge of anger beneath it. “Can you imagine what else she could’ve heard?”
Your chest tightened. You nodded. Although not to the extent you might usually have, you had thought about it—the implications of the bracelet, the act Selene had committed, the idea Runa had planted. It was almost laughable. Your court was condemned for its supposed cruelty, led by a High Lord as infamous as Rhysand, yet citizens still felt emboldened enough to pull stunts like this. In any other court, Selene and Runa would’ve faced very different—more permanent—consequences.
“I don’t want to think about it too much,” you replied after a moment. “I’ll just get angry, and I’m kind of over that. It’s exhausting.”
“You’re better than me,” Mor muttered.
“Not really. I’m just tired.” You said simply. “Selene did a bad thing. She’s lucky it didn’t cause a serious disaster. I don’t feel the need to play the Mother’s role. Rhys will deal with her.”
Mor sat back, a faint grin tugging at her lips. “And in the meantime, I get pretty jewelry.”
You raised a brow.
“What?” Her grin widened. “Like we told Rhys, it’s only a basic listening spell. If I’m in possession of both charms, and I’m not talking to you, then no one’s hearing anything.”
“And if you lose one?”
She raised an eyebrow, slowly twisting the cap back onto the jar. “I won’t,” she replied simply. And you knew that was the end of the conversation. Mor guided your head to the side, leaning in to inspect the cut across your cheek.
“That bitch got you good, though,” Mor muttered. She touched it gently, and you grimaced. “All this from that bracelet?”
“It was chunky,” you replied dryly. “And I think Runa split it open much further.”
Mor scowled. “If I see her, she's as good as d—”
“Mor.”
She sighed dramatically. “At least tell me you got her good.”
You gave her a look and her grin widened. “Gods, I love you,” she said, shaking her head. “You might be the most terrifying one of us all when you’re angry.”
A smile tugged at your lips, the faint pull of it brushing against the ache in your cheek. The sound of a laugh started to rise in your chest when a low voice cut through the moment.
“I would agree.”
You jumped, and your head snapped toward the doorway— where Azriel now stood.
Your chest tightened at the sight of him, the moment’s levity collapsing under his presence. Instinctively, your eyes ran over him, taking in every detail. He looked tense, wings drawn in tight to his back, his posture stiff. Shadows hung close to him, unnervingly still. Disheveled, too—his hair was a mess and faint bruises bloomed along his face. His hands were hidden by his shadows, but you’d bet they bore the same marks as yours. Three officials, Feyre had said. You now knew the second.
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”
Mor snickered beside you, drawing your attention just as her brows lifted in amusement. She turned away from him and faced you instead. “You hear that, Y/n? He’s sorry.”
You raised your own brows, gaze flicking back to him. “So those words do exist in your vocabulary.”
The bite didn’t feel as satisfying as it should have. It felt hollow, old. Azriel’s jaw tightened, his chest rising as he drew in a measured breath. After a moment, he stepped forward. His gaze lingered on you for another moment before he turned to Mor.
“May we have a moment alone?”
Mor’s eyes narrowed, the sharpness in her gaze dragging over him like a knife. She didn’t answer right away, looking back to you instead, searching your face for permission. Despite yourself, you gave her a small nod.
Her displeasure showed in the faint widening of her eyes, but she stood anyway, brushing her hand against yours in passing. Her touch was soft, careful not to press too hard against the bruises. “Love you,” she murmured. “Let me know if you need anything else tonight.”
You gave her a small smile, nodding again as she walked past Azriel. His shadows recoiled from her, drawing a dark outline along his arm. She casted one last glare over her shoulder.
“Idiot,” she muttered, loud enough for both of you to hear. Then she was gone.
The silence she left behind felt suffocating, a heavy thing that settled over the room. You avoided Azriel’s gaze, focusing instead on the healer’s kit sitting on the bedside table. You reached for it, but Azriel held up a hand to stop you.
“I can do it myself,” you said.
“I know,” Az replied softly. “But let me. Please.”
You hesitated. He looked troubled, guilt heavy in his expression, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The conversation had been inevitable, long overdue. Might as well get it over with while he tended to the cut on your cheek.
Besides, you were too exhausted to care.
“Fine.”
Azriel gave you a small, unsure smile—grateful, almost. He disappeared to the bathroom, and when he returned, he sat with a wet rag in hand.
You tried to hold on to your anger, to avoid his eyes, but your resolve began to falter the moment his shadows began to twist around your arms. They moved languidly, curling up your wrists and brushing your fingers as you played with your hands in your lap. You focused on them instead of him— on their quiet presence, the personality in them that so few ever noticed. You’d missed the way they felt like him.
Azriel began unpacking the kit—clean cloths, antiseptic. The smell made your nose scrunch. You took in the bruising on his face—on his cheek, a split near his eyebrow, even on his lip. Strange, strategically unplaced.
“What happened to you?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
“Cassian happened.”
And there it was— the third official. You wanted to probe for more details, were even tempted to make a joke out of his current appearance, but your irritation held you back. You stayed silent as he cleaned the wound, as he dried it. When he soaked another cloth with antiseptic, he looked at you.
“I owe you a big, proper apology.”
You didn’t look at him, even as his words pulled at you. “Yeah.”
He paused— like he was thinking, like he was ashamed— and took a deep breath before he said, “Many, actually.”
You didn’t respond. You just nodded, watching him from the corner of your eye. When the cloth touched your cheek, you winced. He grimaced, eyebrows furrowing in apology.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
Another pause.
“You were right,” he said, his focus staying on your cheek. “And I should have listened to you.”
This time, the pull of his voice was strong enough to draw your attention. As he leaned closer to begin cleaning the cut, you studied his face—the sharp line of his jaw, the crease in his brow as he worked with precision.
“I’m always right,” you muttered, and the words had more mirth than you’d expected. You supposed that was natural with Azriel, an instinct of sorts. Even when you were unhappy with him. “You’re going to have to be specific.”
Something softened in his expression—just for a second. But you saw it. You could’ve sworn you saw the faintest hint of a smile tug at his lips, heard a soft breath of amusement. His molten eyes met yours briefly.
“You were right about Selene.”
Your chest tightened. You didn’t know why, but his gaze burned. You couldn’t hold it for long and looked back down at your hands, letting the shadows weave between your fingers. You wondered what information Az knew— wondered who told him. If it was Mor who had talked to Cassian, if it was Cassian who then, in turn, had given Azriel the whole story. Had they fought beforehand? What for?
“I broke up with her,” Azriel added. “When I heard about what happened.”
You looked up, but Az’s gaze was no longer on you. “You did?”
He nodded. You tracked the bob in his throat as he swallowed.
“There’s no coming back from what she did.”
Azriel set the cloth aside, carefully wiping away the excess antiseptic. He seemed unnervingly calm for the situation—for the invasion of privacy from someone he’d been intimate with. You’d expected something more. Anger like you’d seen with Eris, confrontation like he’d shown Lucien. But, instead, he was gentle. Maybe it should’ve bothered you, that he seemed so unphased at your current state. It didn’t. If anything, you were grateful. You would’ve been too tired to deal with anything else.
You studied him closely. This side of him—tender, unguarded—wasn’t a side he let many see.
Your thoughts wandered back to Selene. It made sense, in a pathetic, strange way, why she might have done what she did. If she’d seen this side of him, this kindness, this care... how could she not have wanted to protect it? How could she not have gone to extremes to keep it?
You thought about it for a moment. Came to the realization that the love Azriel offered was probably worthy of madness.
“Because she spied on you?”
It was a stupid question. But the urge to ask had persisted, so you voiced it anyway. Azriel stilled, his hand pausing mid-motion. Slowly, he turned to look at you.
“No,” he said, his voice softer. “Because she hurt you.”
His words landed with a force that sent your thoughts spiraling.
“Although,” Azriel added quickly, “The spying was definitely a dealbreaker.”
He was making a joke, you realized. Or a small attempt at one. And somehow, it settled something restless in your chest.
“She didn’t mean to,” you heard yourself say before you could stop it.
The moment the words left your mouth, you cursed yourself. What the hell were you doing? You had no obligation. No reason. It was counterproductive, if anything. Rhys was bringing her in. You had every right to trash her, right here, to Azriel himself. To tell him over and over that you told him so.
But you didn’t. Maybe it was because she’d mattered to him—enough for him to trust her despite the flaws that had undone her. Even if that truth made your chest ache, you wanted him to make his decision with all the facts.
Your care for Azriel wasn’t something led by your pride.
“Selene didn’t mean to hurt me,” you said again, more certain this time. “It was an accident.”
His eyes softened as he observed you. You swallowed and shrugged. “Runa was the one who actually did.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Azriel said. “You were in that situation because of Selene.”
A beat.
“Because of me.”
The air between you thickened. You tried to focus on anything else, anything but the way your chest tightened, the way your heart thudded faster than it should. But you couldn’t. Your eyes stayed locked with his.
You thought about the past week, how something had shifted between you. The distance that had grown, how long it had taken him to reach out. Azriel was someone who didn’t apologize easily. You knew that. But it hurt in ways you didn’t expect because you’d always thought you were different. That your friendship, your bond, was worth the discomfort.
You thought he’d make it right. That he wouldn't have let it fester for as long as he did, wouldn’t have felt comfortable leaving you simmering in your hurt.
“Az?”
The name escaped your lips unguarded, and his face softened at the sound of it. His wings shifted too, just slightly, like tension bleeding out. You hadn’t said his name like that—without anger, without bitterness—for days.
“Yeah?”
“Why didn’t you actually apologize earlier?”
Azriel’s jaw tightened, and his gaze flicked down, as if the answer was there, somewhere in the floor. “I—I didn’t know how.”
You let out a breath—annoyance, defeat, something too messy to untangle. “It’s actually really easy,” you muttered. “You just open your mouth and say the words ‘I’m sorry for being a dick.’”
There was a soft shuffle as Azriel leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. He tilted his head, trying to meet your averted gaze.
“Y/n,” he said softly. “I’m sorry for being a dick.”
You let the words settle for a moment before sitting up straighter. Met his eyes once more. You raised a brow, unimpressed. “A bit late, don’t you think?”
Azriel didn’t move, his eyes meeting yours steadily. He was closer now—close enough that you could almost feel his presence like a tangible, heavy thing. His shadows stirred, curling around your fingers, then shifting toward his hand. They tangled between you both, like they were tying you together, threading through the space that separated you.
“It is,” Azriel said. He looked down the second his words hit the open air. It reminded you of repentance, like a sinner confessing to a priestess. His hands rubbed together before he clasped them into a fist, looking up again.
Even then, his thumbs kept moving, brushing over each other in a way that gave him away. He was nervous.
“I messed up,” he said. “I knew I did the minute I repeated what Selene told me. But I’d messed up so badly that I felt like an apology needed to be big enough to make up for it. I couldn’t think of anything.” He took a shallow breath. “I—I was embarrassed.”
You frowned. For Azriel, who stood in front of you, unwavering in the face of so many enemies, embarrassment seemed almost foreign.
“Embarrassed?”
“Yes.” His voice was quiet as he admitted it.
“What could you possibly have to be embarrassed about?”
Azriel’s face shifted, his eyes looking almost vulnerable, wide open, like you could see everything. Even his shadows slowed to a faint crawl. They seemed to be waiting for something. You weren’t sure what.
“That you were right. I was changing. For her. And I did it on my own.”
“What?” You barely breathed out, confused. “Why?”
“I just…” He hesitated, his eyes lowering. “I thought it might be for the better. That maybe this relationship, maybe Selene, could mold me into something else, something more…” He trailed off.
“More what?”
“Something—someone, more easy to love.”
Your breath faltered, and for a second, everything froze— like the sheer sadness in his voice was enough to freeze time. And then you were flooded with emotions, each different from the one that came before. Confusion. Anger. Pity. Heartbreak. You felt a deep, hollow ache at the idea that he truly believed he needed to change to be loved.
For the first time, you weren’t sure what the right thing to say was. If there was one at all. All you could do, in the most genuine tone you could muster, was say, “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Azriel’s gaze faltered, his expression shifting as though he wasn’t quite sure how to process your reaction. You glanced at his hands, pushing the rush of emotions back, then met his eyes again.
“You should never feel like you need to change. Not like that.”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything, but his eyes softened, and you found yourself focusing on the crease between his brows. It made him look so tender. So young.
Finally, he spoke again. “I was having a bad day that night you came to talk to me. I didn’t realize how I’d hurt you. I thought I just pissed you off, that you were angry.”
“Well, you did piss me off,” you said, your anger bubbling up once more. His expression faltered slightly at that, but you continued, “I’m still angry. You were dismissive. You made me feel selfish, like I didn’t have the right to care about you.”
The words caught in your throat, threatening to stick, but you pushed them out. You’d spent centuries enduring criticism from males in Prythian politics—males who dismissed your input no matter how educated or experienced you were. You knew how to let their opinions roll off your back, not to let them settle. But you never thought Azriel would be the one to hurt you. Make you feel silly. Stupid. Small.
Azriel’s jaw tightened, and his eyes darted away as if he was trying to find the right words. “It was all so stupid. I can’t believe I entertained her ideas—that I let my desire to be needed make me accuse you of having ulterior motives when you were just being a good friend.”
A good friend.
That was exactly what you were trying to be—and yet, the word hurt you. It made you want to wince like you had when Azriel pressed that rag to your cut. You thought back, unwanted, to Selene’s words, and your chest tightened even more.
Was it possible for the room to be losing air? Maybe that would explain the stupid decisions you’d been making. The thoughts you could feel in the back of your mind. A lack of oxygen to your brain.
“So why did you believe her?” you asked quietly. Your voice sounded more tired now.
“I don’t know,” he admitted after a long pause. “It doesn’t change what I did. It was cruel. It belittled you. And I’m sorry.”
You stared at him, at the set of his shoulders, the faint downturn of his mouth. He was sincere—you could feel it in every word, in the way his eyes stayed fixed on you, like nothing else existed in the room. You didn’t think you’d ever had someone apologize like this before, so open and raw.
And yet, something inside you still simmered. The anger hadn’t disappeared. Not yet.
“Thank you,” you murmured, “For apologizing.”
Azriel didn’t move. He kept looking at you, really looking at you, and you felt pinned beneath the weight of his gaze. His eyes had more green than Cassian’s. It wasn’t something you usually noticed—how the colors shifted in the light, how clear and startling they seemed up close. Now, though, you couldn’t seem to stop noticing, like every detail of him was suddenly magnified.
You wanted to stay angry. You deserved to. He’d hurt you, and that kind of hurt didn’t just disappear because he finally decided to show up and say the right things. But then his gaze held yours a little too long, his voice a little too raw, and that tightrope you’d built for yourself began to fray. A sharp sting of guilt came, and you couldn’t shake it—couldn’t shake the growing realization that maybe you didn’t want to be angry at him. Maybe it wasn’t even anger anymore.
You cleared your throat as Azriel shifted his attention back to the kit, his shadows curling and shifting behind him. He grabbed a few butterfly bandages, his voice quiet when he spoke.
“You’re better to me than I deserve,” he said, almost to himself. “I think I convinced myself that it was a matter of time until the ball dropped—until you realized I wasn’t worth this friendship. I thought I’d finally reached that point. I almost just laid down and accepted it.”
You frowned at his words.
Azriel always carried that shadow of self-loathing like a second skin, like he couldn’t believe anyone could see him as more than his darkest thoughts. As much as you wanted to heal him, to assure him that none of it was true, you knew better. It hurt to know that, after everything, he still didn’t believe it. Because, the truth was, Azriel wasn’t hard to love. It wasn’t hard to support him, to be his friend. He had his moments, as anyone did, but he was always there. Which, you supposed, is why the way he treated you hurt in such a deep, unique way.
The thought that he’d believed, deep down, that your friendship—your loyalty—could be so easily withdrawn, made something inside you ache. Made you sad. Angry.
“I take back what I said earlier,” you murmured. “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Azriel’s lips twitched as he searched your face for any hint of a joke. His shadows perched on the apex of his wings, watching you both. Then, when his lips curled, just slightly, they began to move once more.
“I have my moments,” Azriel said, a half-smile playing at the corner of his lips. He glanced at you, checking if it landed. “Maybe one too many head injuries is getting to me.”
“Maybe,” you said, the hint of a smile brushing your lips. “In that case, we should keep an eye on Cassian.”
Azriel’s breath escaped in a quiet, almost relieved laugh. He carefully removed the butterfly bandages from their small packs, the silence settling around you once more. But the air felt heavy, like there was something unspoken hanging between you. Like you needed to say something to rid yourself of the pressure in your chest.
“You can’t just lay down and accept it, Az,” you said, your voice firm. His eyes snapped to yours. “That’s not what friendship is. Not ours.”
Azriel nodded, his expression softening. “I know. I’ll do better.”
You smiled faintly, nodding back. Watching as he turned his attention back to the bandages on your cheek, you took a slow breath. His scent washed over you as he leaned in, familiar and warm. For a moment, you almost let yourself close your eyes, just to breathe him in further, to let his scent linger. Had it always been like this? Or had Selene’s words made you overanalyze everything?
“I was shocked when Cassian told me what happened. I can’t believe that while I was busy kicking myself for not doing anything, you were trying to talk to Selene. Trying to be kind. Do you realize how crazy that is?”
His words weren’t disbelief—they were awe. As if he couldn’t comprehend why you’d chosen the harder path, the path of peace. You could barely believe it yourself, sitting with a scratched-up face and a mind full of unwanted revelations. But in the end, it had been simple.
You’d done it for Azriel.
You’d found sympathy for her because of Azriel. You’d set aside your anger, your pettiness, because you valued your relationship with Azriel more. Even after everything, after the way he’d treated you, you still believed in him. Believed in his ability to know what he wanted.
“Your happiness was worth it,” you said finally. “I didn’t want to be the one to stand in the way of it. To make things hard.”
Azriel stopped at that, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made you feel exposed in a way you’d never felt before with him. You shrugged it off, trying to play it cool, and added with a dry chuckle, “Also, I figured if I did the noble thing, I’d get to hold it over you for a few centuries.”
Azriel laughed—a genuine, rumbling sound. His shadows fluttered around him. “Yeah, well, you can. More than a few centuries, actually, because you came out with some battle scars.”
You almost spoke again, but the breath left your lungs as you felt his fingers gently press the butterfly bandages to your skin. It was almost funny to think about how angry you’d been—rightfully so. But now, with the feel of his hands on you, it all began to ease. A specific sense of healing, like the betrayal you’d felt—at least in part—was being mended. That Azriel tending to you now, with the soft touch he so rarely granted, proved that he didn’t mean to hurt you. That he did care. And maybe you could give him a little grace for being a flawed male.
When Azriel turned back to the kit, you touched your cheek, feeling the cut deeper than you expected. You hadn’t realized how long it was. Mor’s earlier reaction made more sense now.
Azriel glanced at the wound, then back at you, brow furrowing. “Is it okay?”
You nodded slowly, a soft breath escaping as you winced slightly. “Yeah, just tender. Thank you.”
He nodded in acknowledgment and moved to place the last bandage. And then, almost too quietly, he murmured, “I’m sorry I hurt you. I really am.”
“I know.” You hesitated before adding, “But you’re going to have to make it up to me. You know that, right? This wasn’t enough.”
Azriel steadied his gaze on you, leaning back to face you fully. Suddenly, you weren’t sure if anyone had ever looked at you properly. Not like this. Not as he said, “I will. I promise. In ways that are better than some baked goods.”
“Well… I wouldn’t mind some croissants. They looked good.”
Azriel chuckled. “Oh really?”
Soft tendrils of his shadows weaved around you as you nodded, biting back a smile at the tone of his voice. Something so lively. So Azriel. Although you were used to them, you resisted the urge to shiver as his shadows threaded through the ends of your hair.
“That’s odd,” he said. “I seem to recall them looking untouched. Some even squished.”
The memory of how you’d grabbed the pastry in frustration, squeezing it in your hand, brought a small smirk to your face. You shrugged a little. “I was pissed. I couldn’t give in.”
“In that case, I’ll buy out the whole bakery.”
You rolled your eyes, but the hint of a smile was still there. It was probably obvious to Azriel. “The Spymaster supporting local businesses by single-handedly buying out a local bakery. How noble.”
He smiled at that, his expression lighter now—boyish, amused. But his words were sincere. “Whatever you need me to do. I’ll do it.”
“And if I told you to swim naked in the Sidra at night, when it’s cold and snowy?”
“I’d ask Rhysand to make an order for all the children to stay inside.”
You laughed at the thought, and the atmosphere shifted. For the first time in a while, it felt like the world had stopped turning its back on you. The anger, the grudge you’d been cradling like a newborn babe, didn’t feel so heavy now.
Azriel stood, folding the bandages and packing away the medical supplies, and you found yourself watching him without meaning to once more. You couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly… beautiful he was. There was something in the angle of his jaw, the way the light caught his features that made your breath suddenly catch. He was always handsome, of course, but this was different.
A sudden wave of curiosity bubbled up inside you. Before you could second-guess yourself, you spoke. You’d never noticed the sharpness of his eyes, the intensity in them, the way his wings twitched when his shadows curled against them.
“Can I ask you something?”
He paused, looking down at you with that soft gaze. “Always.”
“Why did you want to change into someone more loveable? Why stay with Selene?”
Azriel’s eyes flickered away, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I… I think I was jealous.”
“Jealous?”
Azriel nodded. Something sad washed through him, made him blink, made his wings fall an inch closer to the ground. “Everyone around us is finding love. They’re starting new lives.”
Something sharp jabbed at you, a bitter feeling you didn’t quite understand. Was there something wrong with you for not feeling the same need to fall in love?
“I’m not,” you said.
The expression that took over Azriel’s face was one you couldn’t describe, but there was a new kind of weariness in it. His lips parted as though to say something else, but instead, he simply shook his head with a small, wistful smile. “It’s only a matter of time, Y/n.”
You blinked. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re you. You’re amazing. It’s only a matter of time until you fall for one of your many suitors.”
You furrowed your brow, a bitter taste now settling on your tongue. You didn’t respond— didn’t know how to.
Azriel’s eyes darkened for a brief moment, his jaw tightening, but then his face softened. He exhaled slowly. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than before. “I didn’t think I could handle being alone when you moved on, too.”
The way he said it, the weight of it, made something ache inside you, like a deep hollow was opening up in your chest. You swallowed hard, wishing for something—anything—to ease the growing pressure behind your ribcage.
You wanted him to tell you more, to say something that would make sense of all this. But you didn’t know how to ask for that, didn’t even know what you wanted him to say.
“Because you don’t want to be the last one standing?”
The silence that followed was almost suffocating. Azriel’s shadows seemed to quiet around you both.
Then, he gave you a half-smile—sad, lopsided, but somehow more real than anything he’d shown you in a long time. Not for months. Not since he began dating Selene.
“Something like that.”
Before you could dwell on his words, on why they made you feel sad, disappointed even, Azriel finished packing up the kit and turned toward you.
“All done,” he said.
You blinked, pulled out of your thoughts, and nodded. “Oh. Cool. Thank you.”
You looked down at your hands, your fingers brushing over the growing bruises on your knuckles. Your hair fell forward, partially hiding your face, and before you could move it out of the way, one of Azriel’s shadows darted forward, tugging at the strand. You glanced up as he gently called the shadow back with a subtle motion.
“So... how do I look?”
Azriel's eyes flicked over you, the corner of his mouth quirking up as he reached forward, his hand brushing that same strand of hair from your face.
“Tough,” he said, slowly moving the strand back. “I think the bandages really bring out your eyes.”
And even though he’d done it a million times before, as Azriel tucked your hair behind your ear, something inside you cracked right open.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
authors note:
tending to wounds scene!!! tending to wounds scene!! mor has both bracelets??!? az and selene are done?!?! he's being weirdly calm abt the whole thing?!?! reader is THINKINNN...
now begins the fun time of reader wanting to let az grovel (bc he has entered his groveling era) but also overthinking everything and wanting him to just....go away. also fun time of reader having to prove to everyone that despite things she may...or may not... feel, her intentions with Az were neverr driven jealousy hehe
so fun!!! i have some fun ideas guys. thank yall for reading <3 i wonder if you can guess what might happen.... there are a few hints
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@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered
@feyretopia @ninthcircleofprythian @azrielrot @justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli
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this
this was absolutely stunning
the way you've written really brings out the weight of this moment between them, i could truly feel all of it
im obsessed w u
Blessed mistakes | part 1 Azriel x reader
prologue
A/N—I wasn't even going to continue this series, but thank you all for the love I get on my fics. I literally love you all so much. Let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list. Summary- After over 5 centuries of waiting Azriel hasn't found his mate, given up all hope of any chance of finding her he decides to start pursuing Elain, not seeing what was in front of him all along.
Part One: Silent Distance
The days had become quieter, colder. Azriel had hardly noticed the shift at first. There had been no sharp, clear break, no moment of realization that something between him and Y/N had changed. It was more like the subtle dimming of light, a slow fading that he couldn't quite place, and by the time he realized the distance, it felt too late to fix.
He was busy. Always busy. Missions, meetings, responsibilities—his life had become a blur of endless duties, all of which he threw himself into with a fervor that bordered on obsession. Every waking moment was occupied with something—someone. His brothers, his work, and, in the rare quiet moments, the heavy weight of his own thoughts.
But through all of that, there had been Y/N. Always there. Always steady. Always understanding. She had been his anchor, his confidante. She always knew when to stay silent, when to speak, when to pull him out of his head and into the present. He had always relied on her in ways he hadn’t even fully understood.
It wasn’t that Azriel didn’t care. He did. More than he could admit, especially to himself. But there were things he couldn’t change—things like his duties and his... impossible feelings. Feelings for someone who would never see him the way he saw her. And that someone was always there, too, always lingering just outside of his reach. It was easier, in some ways, to focus on the work, to throw himself into the mission, to avoid the vulnerability of his own emotions.
And so, he did.
Y/N had stopped coming around as often. She was still there, in the background, but it was clear she wasn’t the same. She didn’t linger after meetings anymore. She didn’t tease him, didn’t joke like she used to. Her presence, once a constant comfort, had become a quiet thing—distant, even when she was standing right next to him. She seemed to slip away, a little more each day, but Azriel didn’t notice, not at first.
It wasn’t until he found himself in the war room late one evening, alone with his thoughts, that he felt it. The absence. The silence in the air that was too thick, too suffocating. He looked up from the maps strewn across the table, expecting to see Y/N by the door or leaning against the wall, ready to offer some lighthearted comment about how the plan was absurd. But she wasn’t there.
He frowned, a small pang of unease flaring in his chest. He hadn’t seen her much lately, had barely spoken to her in the last few days. Busy, he reminded himself. He was busy, after all. But it didn’t sit right.
Azriel left the war room in search of her, making his way down the familiar corridors of the House of Wind. He passed Mor’s room first, saw the flicker of light under the door, and for a moment, the idea of knocking—of spending time with her—felt... comforting. But he didn’t. He couldn’t focus on that right now.
Finally, he found her. Y/N was sitting alone in the garden, her back to him, staring out at the moonlit horizon. She looked so small, like a silhouette against the night. It struck him, in that moment, how much he missed her presence. How long had it been since they’d shared a quiet evening like this, just the two of them? How long had it been since she’d smiled like she meant it?
"Y/N?" His voice was tentative, unsure, as though he wasn’t sure if he should disturb the quiet of the night.
She turned slightly, just enough for him to see her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she blinked quickly, brushing it off. "I didn’t hear you come in," she said, her voice flat.
He frowned, taking a few steps toward her. "Are you alright?"
"I’m fine," she said quickly, her smile tight and forced. It didn’t reach her eyes. "Just needed some space."
Azriel hesitated, his instincts telling him that something was wrong. He knelt down beside her, his eyes searching her face. "Y/N..." He trailed off, unsure of how to push through the wall she’d built between them. "What’s going on?"
She met his gaze, her lips pressed together in a thin line. The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick, before she finally spoke, her voice low. "I’m not sure I belong here anymore, Az."
His chest tightened at her words, but he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t find the words. She wasn’t the one to pull away, not like this. Not so... cold.
"You’re still my friend, Y/N," he finally said, his voice low, almost too soft.
She nodded, her expression unreadable. "I know. But that’s the thing, Az. I’m just... a friend." The words hung in the air between them like a curse.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The weight of the unspoken truth crashed over him. Y/N had always been more than a friend to him, but he had never been able to show her that. She had never been anything more than a shadow behind the love he couldn’t admit, a shadow he had taken for granted.
"I’ve been thinking," she continued, her voice trembling just slightly, but her gaze remained steady. "I need to leave for a while. I volunteered for diplomatic work—there’s a mission to the Autumn Court. I’ll be gone for some time."
Azriel blinked, surprised, and instinctively reached out for her arm. "What? No, Y/N. You don’t have to go. You don’t need to leave."
But her eyes were already averted, a distance between them that he couldn’t cross. "I think I do, Az. I think I need to get away from here. From you."
Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. She didn’t wait for him to respond, didn’t wait for him to make things right, because she knew that things couldn’t be fixed. Not anymore.
"I’ll be gone in a few days," she said quietly, standing up, brushing the dirt off her clothes. "I hope you’ll be... alright."
Azriel watched her walk away, his heart sinking lower with each step she took. She didn’t look back, didn’t wait for him to say anything else. And as she disappeared into the darkness of the hall, Azriel finally felt it. The sting of something lost. The realization that he had been too blind to see it, too focused on his own distractions to notice what had been right in front of him all along. taglist- @anarchiii @er1023 @clementine111002 @sunnyspycat
